"For God's sake, Professor.

"One of the most publicized events in Elvis's life is the incident in which he shot the picture tube of a television set. Form without substance. Even in his drug-demented stupor, he knew that television was his enemy, just as television is the enemy, the manipulator and destroyer of the American people and proper values. In Elvis's name – "

" _ shot the lens on the television camera being used for the remote broadcast of the Today show, shot and killed the remote segment's producer, shot several students whom he'd brought to the interview as representative of the other students in his course, went to the English department office and shot his chairman, went to the university administration building and shot his dean, went to his former home and shot his estranged wife along with a friend, Peter Robinson, who was visiting her, and finally went to a downtown record store where he clutched an armful of Elvis CDs, put his pistol to his head, shouted 'Where's the booth? Never been so happy! Long live rock and roll!' and blew his brains out. A note in his sequined suit coat pocket said simply, 'All shook up.' Officials continue to investigate one of the worst mass murders to take place at an American university. This has been an NBC News update."

Due to its live coverage of what have been called the Elvis murders, the Today show last week received its highest ratings in two years. A TV movie has been announced.

Later in this book, you'll read about the negative side of the film and television industry. In contrast, the background to the script for "Habitat" was my most positive "Hollywood" experience. I put "Hollywood" in quotes because the company that produced this script was in fact located in New York City, just down the street from the flatiron Building. The company's name was Laurel Entertainment. Its two main executives were Richard Rubenstein and Mitchell Galin, and their two main products (apart from occasional films such as Stephen King's Creepshow) were the fantasy and horror TV programs, Tales from the Darkside and Monsters. During the late 1980s, fans of Twilight Zone type stories made these half-hour series popular on late-night syndicated TV. Periodically, Richard and Mitchell asked me to write a script for Monsters, but I had trouble complying because I couldn't imagine a story that would fit the show's strictly controlled budgetary requirement of very few characters and sets. Meanwhile, they'd hired me to do a screen adaptation of Michael Palmer's medical thriller, The Sisterhood. As so often happens in the film business, the project never got further than the development stage, but in the process, Richard and Mitchell showed me remarkable courtesy. I'd been on the road for several weeks, promoting a new novel. When I returned home, exhausted, I received a call from them, suggesting various dates when we could get together to discuss revisions on the script. The way this normally works, the writer (being low in the food chain) goes to the producers. Always. But when Richard and Mitchell realized how tired I was, they immediately proposed that they would fly to Iowa City (where I then lived) to have the script discussions at my home, find they actually did. I can't tell you how floored I was and how impressed I was by these two gentlemen as we sat on my back porch, tweaking the script. In 1989,1 finally had an idea that I thought would work for the limited budget of Monsters. If a few characters were good, a solitary character would be better, I decided. To my surprise, the script was in production two months after I submitted it. The actress Lili Taylor (Six Feet Under) portrayed Jamie Neal.

Habitat

FADE IN:

INT. CONTROL ROOM – DAY

We open with a large vivid image of a moonscape: barren weathered mountains, waterless river beds, forbidding crevasses and canyons, rocky, gray, and dismal. We might be fooled for a moment but quickly realize that this is not the real thing, instead a huge mural. We hear a persistent electronic BEEP. As we PAN DOWN from the image of the bleak terrain, we see a model of a lunar habitat, domed, with arched corridors that lead to other buildings. The model is on a metal table. Along with the mural, it gives us the impression we're in a complex on the moon.

Lingering on the model of the habitat, we hear a further sound. It's out of place, surprising, A GUITAR BEING TUNED, and abruptly the guitar begins STRUMMING. A WOMAN'S LILTING VOICE begins singing a folk song about oceans and forests and how the earth and the sky belong to you and me.

We PAN AWAY from the habitat and discover that we're in a control room with electronic consoles and glowing lights on monitors. The BEEP we first heard is like a metronome that supplies the beat for the guitar and the woman's song.

We TRACK PAST the consoles and STOP on the SINGER. A woman, late twenties, wearing jeans and a Lakers sweatshirt, her hair in a ponytail. She's lithe and lovely, leaning back on a metal chair with her bare feet on a counter next to a console. Her name is JAMIE NEAL. She reminds us of a cheerleader grown up to be a graduate student in a college dorm.

Her eyes are closed. In a world of her own, she continues strumming, singing, her voice muted, tinged with melancholy. "Yes, the earth and the sky belong to us all."

Midway through a poignant line about a fertile majestic land, she hesitates, her strum becoming irregular. Her voice drops. Relentless, the electronic BEEP persists.

Jamie sighs, lowers the guitar, opens her eyes, and scans the control room.

Perhaps she expected the song to transport her magically to the glorious landscapes she sang about. If so, the spell didn't work. Despondent, she sets the guitar next to a monitor, rises sadly from the chair, and approaches the mural of the moon. The barren mountains and canyons look even more forbidding. She studies the model of the habitat, then squints toward the electronic equipment around her, tense, as if she's in prison.

With a sigh, she raises her head, musters her thoughts, and starts talking. But as we've seen, there's no one else in the room. The initial effect is puzzling, disorienting.

JAMIE

I don't know if I'm supposed to say this… I mean, for all I know, this isn't what you want to hear…if you're listening.

The electronic BEEP continues. She cocks her head, frowning.

JAMIE

I wish you'd turn that…

(she gestures in frustration)

noise off. You can't imagine how…

(she gestures again)

annoying it is.

(she exhales)

If you're listening.

She pivots from the model and approaches a computer.

JAMIE

But of course you're listening. You hear every breath I take. My heartbeat. The alpha waves in my brain. The sounds I make when I need to relieve my…

(she hugs her chest, embarrassed)

Do I snore?

(her eyes become bitter)

I had a fiancee once. Good old what's-his-name. He wanted a corporate wife. Translation: he wanted me to be obedient. To conform. Wear the right clothes. Say the right things. Advance his career. He said I was too independent. I always suspected he broke the engagement

(chuckles)

because I snored. Even asleep, I had to conform. I couldn't ever let my guard down.

(stares at the ceiling)

So do I? Snore?

All we hear is the BEEP.

JAMIE

Come on!