White House

Explodes on the screen with flaming passion, top--level intrigue, spine--tingling suspense, forbidden love and lots of big names

Now!!!

Longer than "Hotel"!!!

More expensive than "Airport"!!!

Actually, the approach is not exactly new. Not too many years ago, Sinclair Lewis used it. He would select a subject (medicine, business, evangelism, etc.), research it thoroughly, develop an interesting protagonist and then weave him through the work in an acid etching that laid bare the foibles and hypocrisy of a facet of American life (Arrowsmith, Dodsworth, Elmer Gantry, etc.).

Of late, another novelist, Arthur Hailey, has been more or less traveling a similar route. He, too, believes in choosing an intriguing subject, exploring it from varied angles and then setting the dramatic wheels in motion. Of course, here the similarities end. For, as someone once said (I believe it was I): Hailey is to Sinclair Lewis as Jacqueline Susann is to, say, D. H. Lawrence.

But if Hailey's characters are more fantasy than flesh, and if his stories are less Nobel and more caramel, the fact remains that Hotel and Airport are two enormously successful works. What's more, the motionpicture version of Airport alone will probably outgross all of the film adaptations of Sinclair Lewis' novels combined.

I have no idea what Hailey is writing now nor what he might have in mind for his next masterwork. But I think he's missing a good bet if he doesn't direct all his vast energies and skills to what could possibly be the hottest and most salable subject in the country today. I'm referring, of course, to the Big House on the Hill, the nation's First Residence, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

I can see Hailey's fecund mind at work right now gathering the fascinating pieces. There's the President, his wife and the rest of his immediate family, the sundry secretaries, Secret Servicemen and so on. Give them all varied problems with which we can identify, sprinkle liberally with a healthy supply of crises, toss them all in a big pot, start the thing boiling, then pluck them all out dripping wet for one tense, dramatic scene that makes for the grand denouement, and, voilà : White House!

Open on the Presidential limousine entering the front gates of the White House. Crowds are milling about to catch a glimpse of the car's occupants. Cut To inside the sumptuous, bulletproof vehicle. Surrounded by a clutch of grim Secret Servicemen are President Mason Dixon (Van Heflin) and his wife, Peg (Eva Marie Saint). They are both waving and smiling at the crowd. Pull Back. Long Shot of the limousine going up the driveway.

Cut to the master bedroom in the living quarters of the house. Saint is seated at a vanity table, in front of a mirror, brushing her hair. Heflin, in a robe, is going over some papers at his desk.

Saint: Mason?

Heflin (preoccupied): Um? What is it?

Saint: When was the last time we. ...

Heflin (without looking up): The last time we what?

Saint: You know. ...

Heflin (looking up): Oh ... that.

Saint (sighing): Yes, that.

Heflin (upset): Damn it, Peg, stop that kind of talk. You sound like those perverts on the Smut Commission. It's disgusting.

Saint: I'm sorry, darling. But when was the last time?

Heflin: How the hell do I know? I'm a busy man. (Considers) Was it the night I signed the Tidelands oil bill?

Saint: The only thing you gave me that night was an autographed pen. I now have 241 of them.

Heflin: Damn it, Peg, must this sick conversation continue?

Saint: Jill told me that she and Nero do it at least twice a week.

Heflin: That clod. It's a wonder he doesn't fracture his skull every time he does it.

Saint: That's a fine way to talk about the Vice-President of the United States.

Heflin: Only until my second term, dear. Can't we drop this whole thing?

Saint (consumed with self-pity): You don't care about me.

Heflin: That's a lie. I need you very much.

Saint: Prove it.

Heflin: Well ... (thinking) for one thing, I'm ... I'm planning to send you to Turkey to help the earthquake victims.

Saint: What earthquake?

Heflin (angry): Who the hell knows? There's always a goddamn earthquake in Turkey!

Saint: Go ahead, shout at me. I'm nothing in your eyes.

Heflin: Peg, for crying out loud!

Saint (breaking down): I'm sick of being a First Lady. I want to be a First Woman! Did it ever occur to you that I'm a living, breathing being? That I have normal drives and desires? Haven't you ever read Peyton Place? Oh, Mason, what's to become of us? Where is the magic, the fire? Whatever became of those wild, crazy nights when we used to walk barefoot through the rain in front of the FBI building? (She looks at him with shiny, moist eyes) Oh, can't you see what I'm trying to say, you big dope? I love you. I need you. I want you.

He goes over to her and puts his hands on her shoulders; then he bends and kisses her lovingly on the neck.

Heflin: Peg ... I. ...

Saint (pulling away): Mason, please. I've got a headache.

Cut to Saint's private office, early the following morning. With her is her secretary, Fran Phillips (Anne Jackson), who is sorting papers.

Jackson: Will that be all the letters for this morning, ma'am?

Saint: I think so, Fran. I'm going to see about breakfast. (She starts to leave, then pauses) Fran, how long have you been with me now?

Jackson: About five years, ma'am.

Saint: I don't know what I'd do without you.

Jackson: Thank you, ma'am.

Saint smiles and leaves the room. Jackson walks over to the door and locks it. She goes to the phone and, looking about furtively, dials a number.

Jackson (in a low voice): Lyle? How are things in New York? Good. Listen, I should have chapter 12 for you by the end of the week. What? No, just one of their usual dull nights. (Imitating their voices) "When was the last time we did it?" "When the Hindenburg exploded." You know. ... But I do have a great new anecdote for you. The dirty old Bavarian ambassador was here last night with his so-called niece. After two drinks, he dragged her into the Blue Room behind the Ceylonese fern and she--

Cut to Heflin opening the door of the master bedroom and stepping into the corridor. Seated outside the door is Warrant Officer Henry Carew (Dean Martin). On his lap is a slim portfolio.

Heflin: Good morning, Henry. Did the newspapers come yet?

Martin: Not yet, Mr. President.

Heflin (lightly referring to the portfolio on Martin's lap): How does it feel to have the whole world in your hands?

Martin: Rather awesome, sir. (Hiccups) 'Scuse me.

Heflin: It's hard to believe that those codes you're holding could plunge the entire world into a thermonuclear war. You have an important--and large--responsibility, Henry.

Martin: It sure is, sir.

Heflin: How long have you been here now, Henry?

Martin: About 40 seconds, sir. I just sat down before you came out.

Heflin: No, Henry, I mean how long have you worked here?

Martin: About two years, sir.

Heflin: I don't know what I'd do without you.

Martin: Thank you, Mr. President.

Heflin goes back into the bedroom and closes the door. Martin surreptitiously reaches into a pocket and removes a small flask. He looks about quickly, takes a fast swig, then jams the flask back into his pocket. His eyes roll slightly and he sways a bit in his chair. He hiccups again and then, with a great effort, straightens himself up.

Cut to the hallway outside the dining room, a few minutes later. As Heflin approaches the room, Secret Serviceman Steve Baker (Clint Eastwood) is coming from another room. He appears to be upset.

Heflin: Hello, Steve. You seem troubled this morning.

Eastwood (obviously covering up): Er, no, Mr. President, everything is fine.

Heflin (sotto voce): Steve, I notice you haven't been seeing much of Trixie lately.

Eastwood (a bit embarrassed): No, sir, your daughter and I haven't, er, dated for a few weeks now.

Heflin (fearfully): She's not going with. ...

Eastwood (nodding solemnly): I'm afraid she is, sir.

Heflin sighs. Then, with heavy steps, he goes into the dining room. Another Secret Serviceman (John Forsythe) comes up to Eastwood.

Forsythe (ominously): Did you ... tell him?

Eastwood: That we think there's a homicidal maniac loose somewhere in the White House? No, I didn't want to worry him.

Cut to the dining-room table, where the First Family is about to start breakfast. Seated around the table are Heflin, Saint, their older daughter, June (Connie Stevens), and June's husband, Daniel (Pat Boone). There is one empty chair at the table.

Heflin (worried): Where's Trixie?

Saint: She'll be right down. We might as well start without her.

Heflin: Peg, I understand that Trixie is going with--

Saint (abruptly changing the subject by turning to Stevens): June, where did you and Danny go last night?

Stevens: to a really sharp rock-'n'-roll concert, Mother.

Saint: "First Mother," dear.

Stevens: I'm sorry. First Mother.

Boone: The concert was keen. First the Mormon Tabernacle Choir paid a special tribute to the work of Paul Anka. Then Wayne Newton sang I Left My Heart in Laos. I nearly cried.

Heflin: I don't understand that farout music.

Stevens: Golly, then Jim Nabors came out in this wild black two-button suit and sang his latest hit, Can't Get No Higher. I almost wet my--

Saint: That's nice, dear. I'm sorry we missed it.

Cut to another part of the house. Eastwood, Forsythe and other Secret Servicemen are running about with drawn guns, rushing in and out of rooms.

Cut Back to the dining room.

Saint (to Stevens): How do you feel, dear?

Stevens: Fine, First Mother, considering I'm in my third month.

Saint: Third? I thought it was your second.

Stevens: No, the baby was conceived after the Christmas party at--

Heflin: Cut out that kind of talk!

Saint (turning to Boone): What are you kids doing today, Danny?

Boone: Gosh, I don't know, First Mom. Probably just hang around.

Heflin (slamming his grapefruit spoon onto the table): For pity's sake, Danny, you've been hanging around for three years now. Isn't it about time you got a job or joined the Young Americans for Freedom or something?

Boone: But you know I can't be President until I'm 35. I figured I'd just hang around until then. I mean, I'm already 24.

Saint: I have an idea, Mason. Why don't you make him a postmaster?

Heflin (angrily tearing off a piece of breakfast roll): Aren't the mails slow enough already?

Saint: My, you are in a bad mood today!

Boone: I love it when I get picture postcards from faraway places with strange-sounding names.

Heflin: How old did you say you were?

Cut to the corridor outside the master bedroom. Eastwood is clutching Martin by the lapels.

Eastwood: My God, we're up to our necks trying to find a nut who's loose in the house and now this. Tell me, man, how could you possibly lose it?

Martin: I dunno, Steve. Probably by misplacing it. I think it was on my lap a few minutes ago. Something was, anyway.

Eastwood: Good Lord, the codes that could plunge the entire world into a thermonuclear war. (He suddenly releases Martin) Hank, have you been drinking again?

Martin: Nowhere near as much as I'd like to.

Eastwood: You swore you'd stop. Oh, you goddamn idiot.

Martin (half sullen, half kidding): You know damn well why I drink.

Eastwood: Where's your Sen Sen, at least?

Martin: Up yours--I lost that, too. (Offering flask to Eastwood) C'mon, have a slug. You worry too damn much, don't know how to relax. A bunch of stupid codes! (Shrugs) Big damn deal.

Cut to the dining room. Trixie (Jane Fonda) walks in, exchanges perfunctory greetings with the others and sits down.

Fonda: What's going on in this house? Secret Servicemen are running all over the place, shouting and waving their guns.

Saint (to Heflin): Do you know anything about it, dear?

Heflin (more interested in his daughter): Trixie, there's something we must discuss right away.

Fonda: I know exactly what it is, Dad, and the answer is yes--I've been seeing Leroy Jefferson, your chauffeur.

(continued on page 209)White House(continued from page 122)

Saint gives an involuntary start and Heflin slaps his forehead in dismay.

Heflin: Oh, my God! There goes my Southern strategy.

Saint (hopefully): Mason, stop worrying. It's just a ... a phase. She'll outgrow it.

Heflin: Oh, yeah? Look at that Rusk kid.

Fonda: Dad, I refuse to talk about it anymore.

Heflin: I don't want to interfere in your life, but why ... why a person of the colored persuasion?

Fonda: For God's sake, Daddy, nobody uses that expression anymore, not even Billy Graham.

Heflin: What happened between you and Steve Baker?

Fonda: Nothing. I still see him.

Heflin: Will you do me one favor?

Fonda: What's that?

Heflin: Before you consider anything ... (groping for a word) ... serious ... with this what's-his-name, would you at least think about Steve? For my sake?

Fonda (sighing): All right, Dad, I promise.

Heflin (patting her hand): That's my girl. I like Steve. He's a good man.

Cut to the corridor outside the master bedroom. Eastwood is pacing the floor while Martin stands by helplessly.

Eastwood: Think, man, where did you have it last?

Martin: I told you, Steve, it was on my lap.

Eastwood: Then how the hell could you possibly lose it?

Martin (breaking down): I'm sorry. (He looks at Eastwood with tears in his eyes) You hate me, Steve, don't you? You despise me!

Eastwood (softening): No, Hank, I don't hate you. (He takes Martin's hand and squeezes it. The two exchange meaningful glances.)

Cut to the First Lady's office. Jackson is on the phone.

Jackson: Lyle, I told you not to call me here, because you never know when she or that faggot Secret Serviceman might walk in. No, I can't have the chapter before Friday. Lyle, I really have to go. This place is a madhouse now. I can't tell you yet, but, don't worry, I'll get it all down. What's that? No, as far as I know, there's nothing at all going on between the Attorney General's wife and the publisher of The New York Times.

Cut to the dining room. Eastwood and Martin enter as the First Family is just finishing breakfast.

Eastwood: Excuse us for breaking in on you like this, Mr. President.

Heflin: What is it, Steve?

Eastwood: A couple of important things have come up.

Heflin: What important things?

Eastwood: First of all, we're going to have to ask all of you to evacuate the White House immediately.

Martin: Mr. President, I lost it.

Heflin: What the hell is going on here? Evacuate the White House? Lost what?

Offscreen Voice: He lost this.

Eastwood: My God, the maniac!

Cut to the doorway. A young black girl (Diana Sands), in Cuban-type fatigues, is standing there. In one hand is the portfolio. In her other hand is a bomb. Pan Around the room to the ashen faces of the First Family. Hold on Heflin. He is stupefied.

Martin (moving toward Sands and the portfolio): Hey, thanks a lot. Where did you find it?

Sands (threatening him): Hold it, man. Don't nobody move. I got a live bomb here.

Martin jumps back and instinctively throws his arms around Eastwood for protection. The embarrassed Eastwood pushes him away in disgust. Cut to Close-up of Heflin, then Fonda. The move was not lost on either of them.

Heflin (to Sands): What do you want?

Sands: A lot of things, baby. Money, power for the people. ...

Eastwood (moving toward her): Listen, miss, I don't know how you got in here without a ticket, but--

Sands (brandishing the bomb): One more step and you're a dead honkie. (Eastwood freezes) All right, now, everybody out. The President and I got some negotiatin' to do. And if anybody touches that door. ... (She waves the bomb)

All except Heflin begin to file slowly out of the room. Suddenly, Saint runs to Heflin and embraces him.

Saint: Mason, I won't leave you.

Heflin (gently but firmly): You'd better go, Peg. She means business.

Saint runs tearfully from the room. Sands closes the door with her back. She and Heflin look at each other for a brief moment. Then she losses the portfolio and the bomb away, the latter landing harmlessly on the floor, and throws herself into Heflin's arms.

Sands: Oh, Mason, I missed you, baby.

Heflin: Lucinda, what the hell ...?

Sands: How many years have you been in Washington now? Three? Four? God, I thought I'd go out of my mind.

Heflin: You mean you concocted this whole crazy thing just to--

Sands: How else could I get to you? Call? It's impossible to get through to you on the phone. Write a letter? Sheee-it, man.

Heflin: But--

Sands: Just an hour, baby. Then you'll be my hostage on Air Force One. We fly to Cuba. I get off. You go back. You say you talked me out of my demands. You're a big hero and nobody's the wiser. Simple?

Heflin: Lucinda, you'd do all this for just one hour with me?

Sands: Baby, it's worth it.

Heflin (shaking his head): I'm the President. I can't--

Sands: God, baby, don't shoot me down after all this.

Heflin: But don't you see? It'll never work. They'll--

Sands: Nobody'll go near that door. They think I have a real bomb.

Heflin: This is insane.

Sands: So what? Live for an hour!

She kisses him. Then she playfully tickles his stomach. Something awakens within him. He smiles and suddenly he is chasing her around the room.

Heflin (huffing and puffing): God, how I missed you. Those fantastic nights we used to steal together back in New York.

She stops running, reaches into her pocket and takes out the tattered remains of a blanket.

Sands: Mase, look what I have.

Heflin (ecstatic): My ba ... my ba-ba. ... You kept it?

Sands: Of course Mommy kept it.

He takes it from her and presses it to his face.

Heflin: Masie so happy, he wanna cry.

She sits down in a chair and sits him down on her lap.

Sands: You sit down on Mommy's lap, Mommy take off your clothes and Mommy make all bettah. ...

She begins to undress him.

Heflin (pressing the blanket to his face and leaning against her bodice): Mommy moomie nonny noonie neeny. ...

Cut to Close-Up of a vase of begonias in a corner of the room. We see a mechanical device concealed inside, Cut to an nil joining room. Seated at a tape recorder, with earphones on, is Jackson.

Hold on Jackson. Music Up. Superimpose closing cast-credit crawl, Fade to black.