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STEPPENWOLF -- THE COMPLETE SCREENPLAY OF THE CULT CLASSIC FEATURING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI, AND CARLA ROMANELLI |
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Written and Directed by Fred Haines, featuring Max Von Sydow, Dominique Sanda, and Pierre Clementi
Steppenwolf -- Illustrated Screenplay &
Screencap Gallery of
the Cult Classic Featuring Max Von Sydow, Dominique Sanda, and Pierre
Clementi, Written and
Directed by Fred Hainen (High Res) [Transcribed by Tara Carreon, American Buddha Online Librarian] Peter J. Sprague Max von Sydow STEPPENWOLF Pierre Clementi Unit Manager: Lajos von Baghy Assistant Directors: Continuity: Nada Pinter Camera Assistants: Velija Sakota Secretaries: Rena Buhl Sound Editor: Ian Crafford Re-recording Mixer: Bill Rowe Art Director: Leo Karen Animation Design: Jaroslav Bradac Music composed and conducted by: George
Gruntz Editor: Irving Lerner Director of Photography: Tom Pinter Associate Producer and Production Supervisor: Thilo Theilen Executive Producer: Peter J. Sprague Produced by: Melvin Fishman and Richard Herland Written and directed by: Fred Haines For Madmen Only! HARRY: The day went by, just as days go by. I killed it in accordance with my primitive and withdrawn way of life. I worked for an hour or two, I had pains, took some opium, and lay in a hot bath for two hours. Was glad when the pains consented to disappear. All in all, it wasn't exactly a day of rapture. Perhaps the time has come to follow the example of Adalbert Stifter. A fatal accident while shaving. The pain stops. I am content. Contentment that fills me with loathing. In desperation I escape into other regions, if possible, on the road to pleasure, or if that cannot be, on the road to pain.
[Car horn blaring]
[Woman laughing]
[Glass shattering]
[Woman laughing]
A wild longing seethes in me to smash and burn, to destroy, pull down idols, seduce little girls, dynamite the established order, who cares what?
Magic Theater
For Madmen Only
FRANZ: Herr Haller! Are you all right?
HARRY: Oh, yes, yes. I'm sorry if I startled you. I didn't hear you coming up. My thoughts were wool gathering.
FRANZ: Are you sure you're all right? May I help you upstairs?
HARRY: No, no, no, there's no need. Sit down a moment, if you can spare the time.
FRANZ: It is not my custom to sit on the stairs at other people's doors.
HARRY: Yes, quite so. Now you've embarrassed me. Let me explain. I've taken quite a fancy to this little vestibule, polished, scoured, glittering, like your aunt's below. I always have to take a deep breath when I go by. It reeks of peace and tranquility.
I've always sought places like this to live. You see, I need it, don't you see?
FRANZ: But you are ill.
HARRY: Nonsense. I'm only a shabby old Steppenwolf creeping up the stairs of other people's houses. Pains I have sometimes, as elderly people do.
FRANZ: "Elderly" is a little bit exaggerated. You can't be 50 yet.
HARRY: No, you're right, more's the pity. But not long to wait, either.
***
HARRY: Wait, you, hey. Let me see your sign. What is this evening entertainment? Where is it?
AZTEC: Not for everybody.
entertainment -
HARRY: Now, what do you have here? I want to buy something from you.
Tractate on the Steppenwolf
There once was a man called Harry, who went on two legs, wore clothes, and was a human being. Nevertheless he really was a wolf of the steppes. In his childhood he was wild and disobedient and disorderly. And those who brought him up declared a war of extinction against the beast in him.
[Whimpering]
And precisely this had given him the idea that he really was a beast with only a thin veneer of the human.
[Playing tunelessly]
If Harry had a beautiful thought or felt a fine and noble emotion, the wolf laughed with bitter scorn.
[Mocking laughter]
He knew well enough what suited him.
[Wolves howling]
But when Harry behaved as a wolf, the human part of him lay in ambush, called him "brute" and "beast," and spoiled all pleasure in his simple and healthy and wild wolf's being. It cannot be denied that he was generally very unhappy. And he could make others unhappy, too. For he always brought his own dual and divided nature into the destinies of others.
[Explosion]
[Gulping]
Nevertheless, he was secretly and persistently attracted to the bourgeois world, dressed respectably, had money in the bank, and supported poor relations. He was capable of loving the political criminal or intellectual seducer. But as for theft, murder, or rape, he would not have known how to deplore them otherwise than in a thoroughly bourgeois manner.
Now, what we call the bourgeoisie as a principle of human existence is nothing less than a search for balance. It is in the middle of the road that the bourgeois seeks to walk. Always ready to compromise between right and wrong, good and evil. He will never surrender to the martyrdom of the spirit or to the martyrdom of the flesh. The vital force of the bourgeoisie resides in its outsiders. Artists and intellectuals like Harry who develop far beyond the level possible to the bourgeois ...
[Snarling]
The outsider has two souls, two beings: God and the Devil in him, and these men for whom life has no repose, live in their rare moments of happiness with such strength and indescribable beauty, the spray of their momentary ecstasy is flung so high over the wide sea of suffering that the light of it touches others with its enchantment. But only the strongest of them force their way through the atmosphere of the bourgeois world to reach the cosmic.
There never was a man with a deeper and more passionate craving for independence than Harry. He never sold himself for money or an easy life, or to women or to those in power, and had thrown away a hundred times his advantage in happiness in order to safeguard his liberty.
But in the midst of his freedom, Harry suddenly realized that his freedom was a death, and that he stood alone. Finally, at the age of 47 or thereabouts, a happy but not harmless idea came to him from which he often derived some amusement. He appointed his 50th birthday as the day on which he might take leave of this world. Let happen to him what might. He could bear any suffering saying to his pain, "Only wait two years and I am your master."
[Wolf howls]
[Clock chiming]
And with this, he cherished the thought of the morning of his 50th birthday.
HARRY: Suicide, unhappy Steppenwolf, will not serve your purpose. All this is well known to you. You are aware of the wisdom of the immortals. You are aware of the magic theater of the self. That mirror in which you have such a bitter need to look, but from which you shrink in such deathly fear.
[Church bells tolling]
HARRY: No show tonight? Well, I only meant, at the theater.
AZTEC: Try the Black Eagle my friend, if it's a show you want.
HARRY: I'm sorry. I'm afraid I mistook you for ... I'm sorry.
[All laughing hysterically]
[Sighing]
[People laughing]
HILDEGARD: My dear Herr Haller. You've been here all of this time without once coming to see us.
HARRY: Not at all, I arrived only a few days ago.
HILDEGARD: I'm so sorry to hear that.
HARRY: And I ... I've been ...
HEFTE: Ah, here you are, mon cher. I've just been reading about this despicable namesake of yours, this Haller.
HARRY: Who's that? A writer?
HEFTE: Dear me, no, a scribbler, a wretched scribbler.
HARRY: Uh-huh.
HEFTE: A publicist, a rotten patriot and a sneak. Here, just look for yourself. It's even spelled the same way, isn't it?
HARRY: Rather.
HEFTE: He seems to feel that we were responsible for the war. Imagine.
[Clock chimes]
HEFTE: Oh.
HILDEGARD: Shall we go in, please?
HEFTE: Yes.
[Clock ticking]
[Ticking intensifies]
HARRY: A funny thing happened to me today.
[All laughing]
HEFTE: Really?
HARRY: Yes. Just after we parted at the library, by the way. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. Well, I was climbing the last steps up towards Martinsgasse. When suddenly a little procession came rattling by. A funeral procession.
HILDEGARD: [Exclaiming] Oh, my dear.
HEFTE: Come, come, come! Seigneur;.
HARRY: No. I only mean ... I'm sorry.
HEFTE: I am praying for a hero to be born among us. Miraculous births not excluded. To filter the minutest detail, the contours of the very archetype within us, apocalypse is our only hope.
HARRY: I see.
HARRY: I hope that Goethe didn't really look like this. This conceited air of nobility, the great man ogling the distinguished company. His venerable pomposity is bad enough, but to portray him like this --
HILDEGARD: Oh, no! My God.
HEFTE: My dear, you're not ill?
HILDEGARD: You'll have to take your coffee alone, gentlemAn. I have to retire.
HEFTE: She was hurt, you know. Goethe is her dearest possession. Nobody takes our cultural heritage more seriously than my Hildegard.
HARRY: I'm sorry.
HEFTE: Even if you were right, you needn't have been so outspoken.
HARRY: Well, it's a vice of mine to speak my mind. As our friend Goethe did too. At least in his better moments. I sincerely beg your wife's pardon and your own. Please tell her I'm a schizophrenic. If you will permit me, I will take my leave.
HEFTE: But ... But your coffee, and our talk. I have so looked forward to our discussion of Mithras and Krishna and the others.
HARRY: Unfortunately, my interest in Krishna has vanished, along with my passion for learned discussions. Further, I have been lying. I have not been in town for a few days only, but for months. However, I am no longer fit for decent society. I'm nearly always in bad temper, afflicted with gout, and usually quite drunk.
HARRY: Lastly, you grievously insulted me earlier. That rotten patriot named, oddly enough, Haller stands before you unregenerate. In fact, it would be better for the world if the few of us who are still capable of thought stood for reason and the love of peace --
HEFTE: Hold it, mon cher --
HARRY: ... instead of driving obsessively toward a new war. Good night.
HARRY: I can't go on. The wolf is howling at my heel. I know what he wants, an end to our suffering. So let this evil day be our last. But I want to live. Run, Harry, run. But where? Away, anywhere. It's all the same in the end.
AZTEC: Go ahead and pick one, sir. It all comes to the same thing in the end, Don't it? That's what I always say. It's all the same in the end.
[Hysterical laughter]
[Train whistle blowing]
[Roosters crowing]
HARRY: Must go home. Try to remain still before despair. Go home. Take up the razor ...
[Wolves howling]
lay it down again. Let cowardice once again triumph over despair. For another hour, another day. No matter how many times I lay the razor down, I shall take it up again and again, until finally ...
[Playing cheerful tune]
[Cabaret music playing]
[Men laughing]
HERMINE: Hello. Don't tell me my nose is shiny again. That's better. Hard night?
HARRY: Where am I?
HERMINE: Where else could you be at this hour?
HARRY: I've no idea.
HERMINE: The Black Eagle.
AZTEC: If it's a show you want ...
[Aztec laughing]
HERMINE: Don't panic. I will look after you. What's the matter with you, anyway? Lost your way home?
HARRY: No ... Yes. I can't go home.
HERMINE: Stay here if you like.
HARRY: What's this?
HERMINE: You could do it here, if you liked. Oh, for heaven's sake, it's only a joke. Get cleaned up a little is all I meant. Look at yourself. You are enough to give a poor girl the willies. At least wipe your glasses. You can't see a thing. Now, what shall we drink? Bourgogne?
HARRY: Where did you get that ... That razor? Do you always fetch a razor along in your bag like that?
HERMINE: Usually.
HARRY: Why?
HERMINE: Oh, look, it's a long, complicated, very twisted story. I'll tell you some day. A friend left it at my place.
HARRY: You've got lots of friends, I suppose.
HERMINE: Yes. Don't you?
HARRY: No.
HERMINE: Oh, my. You are a sad case. I bet it's a long time since you had to obey anyone.
HARRY: Is that what I need?
HERMINE: Obedience is like sex. Nothing like it if you have been without it too long. You'll follow my orders.
HARRY: I will?
HERMINE: Do you have any choice?
HARRY: No.
HERMINE: Good. We're off to a swell start. We have wiped your glasses, had a bite to eat. Let's clean your boots and go dance a shimmy.
HARRY: Oh, I don't know how to dance. . HERMINE: Oh, how triste.
HARRY: I never learned. Well, you see, I really am hopeless.
HERMINE: Perhaps you better go home and hang yourself after all. Oh, I'm sorry.
[Coughing]
Doesn't anyone look after you? A wife, a sweetheart?
HARRY: I'm divorced. A sweetheart, yes, but she doesn't live here. We don't get along very well anyway.
HERMINE: Well, you are difficult. Nobody can stand you.
HARRY: Just don't scold me. I know I am impossible. I'm hopeless, I'm helpless.
[Singing]
HARRY: What's this?
HERMINE: The world's saddest song, played on the world's smallest violin. You've got a nerve saying you've tasted life to the bottom and found nothing in it. You haven't even tried the easy, fun part yet. All I can say is, I am certainly glad I'm not your maman.
HERMINE: Gee, Harry, I'm sorry. I've got to flee. I have a date.
HARRY: With whom?
HERMINE: Never you mind. A friend.
HARRY: Listen, I thought ... I thought you were going to stay here with me.
HERMINE: Oh, then you should have asked me to.
HARRY: But I am asking you, now.
HERMINE: Too late.
HARRY: All right, tomorrow then.
HERMINE: Uh-huh. Maybe.
HARRY: But wait. Listen. Well, tell me your name at least.
HERMINE: Oh, now you ask. What a dreadful man you are. You'll have to guess it.
HARRY: Margaret? Molly? Madeleine?
HERMINE: That's for next time. Tuesday for dinner at the Old Franciscan.
[Woman speaking in German]
I know, it's probably not elegant enough for you, but I am fond of it. It makes me dream of St. Francis.
HARRY: You're religious?
HERMINE: No. Not really anymore. But you know, when I see one of those stupid, lying silly pictures of St. Francis people have, I really get peeved. But then I think how disappointed St. Francis must be when he looks into my heart and sees the image I have of him. I'm only human anyway, and I try to be merciful. Since you can't go home, sleep here tonight. And take this too. You don't have to use it, you know? Tu comprends? So long then. And enjoy your dreams.
[Man laughing]
AZTEC: His Excellency will see you now.
HARRY: Would you mind just telling Herr Goethe that I'm only a journalist come for an interview? Never mind about the other stuff.
AZTEC: What other stuff?
[Mocking laughter]
GOETHE: You young people.
HARRY: Oh, Herr Goethe. I mean, of course, Your Excellency.
GOETHE: You don't care a fig for us old folks, do you?
HARRY: But we do, Your Excellency. We just think you are a little bit too vain, or pompous, or not forthright enough, that's it.
GOETHE: Will you be so kind as to explain?
HARRY: Well, for example, well, you clearly recognized the utter hopelessness of the human condition.
GOETHE: I did?
HARRY: Yes, but you preached the exact opposite: faith, optimism, the illusion that our spiritual strivings mean something, that they endure.
GOETHE: I imagine you don't much care for Mozart's Magic Flute?
HARRY: How dare you, sir?
GOETHE: It preaches optimism and faith.
HARRY: Yes, but Mozart didn't live to be 82. He sang his divine melodies and died. With no pretensions to the enduring and the orderly and to exalted dignity like yours.
GOETHE: What a stuffy view of Mozart. You should have been a schoolmaster, my dear.
HARRY: That's not fair.
GOETHE: You see his perfected being as a supreme and special gift that cost him nothing. Aren't you forgetting his patience under the last extremes of loneliness, his surrender, his suffering? Now who is thinking bourgeois, honey? Do you know the blackbottom?
HARRY: Certainly not. I never had time.
GOETHE: Oh no wonder you're so grouchy. If you're going to take time seriously. There is no time in eternity. Only a moment, just time for a joke.
[Goethe laughing]
[Man laughing]
***
HERMINE: Orchids. Oh, Harry, you are an idiot.
HARRY: Oh, I'm sorry if you don't like them.
HERMINE: It's not that. I suppose orchids were the only flowers expensive enough. Well, anyway, thank you so very much, but never again, okay? I don't want gifts from you.
HARRY: I'm sorry. I only meant ...
HERMINE: I know what you meant. Listen -- I live on men, true, but I won't live on you. Ever! Don't you look so swell today, now that we've managed to get you down from the gallows.
HARRY: You like it?
HERMINE: Well, it needs a bit of style, a bit of flash you know, but I like it, it's a start. Have you carried out my orders yet?
HARRY: What orders?
HERMINE: You mean you haven't learned the foxtrot yet?
HARRY: I've only had two days!
HERMINE: You could learn it in an hour. The blackbottom too. The tango takes longer, but you don't need it. It's as easy as thinking, and a lot easier to learn.
***
HERMINE: We'll take this one.
HARRY: We could have bought it three hours ago, and four shops back, since it was the first one we looked at.
HERMINE: But then we wouldn't have had the fun of shopping for it.
MAN: Bye, bye.
HARRY: Now you know the entire scandalous truth about me, and I don't even know your name.
HERMINE: But you do. Look.
HARRY: No. Yes. You do remind me of someone. Someone a long time ago. Is it -- No, it's not Rosa Kressler. She had dark hair.
HERMINE: Who was Rosa Kressler?
HARRY: My first love. We were 14. Mind you, she didn't even know about it. I never had the courage to speak to her.
HERMINE: Not a word?
HARRY: No.
HERMINE: Oh, Harry, how sad. She was probably crazy about you.
HARRY: Anyway, not Rosa. Now tell me.
HERMINE: Guess.
HARRY: I can't.
HERMINE: You can.
HARRY: Hermann. Hermann. Hermina.
HERMINE: There, you see. That wasn't so hard, was it?
HARRY: But how did you do that to me?
HERMINE: Mind, don't forget what you promised.
HARRY: What?
HERMINE: You'll obey all of my orders.
HARRY: Yes.
HERMINE: Most of them will be fun, and easy enough. But in the end, as you call it, you will have to fulfill my last wish as well.
HARRY: Yes. What will that be?
HERMINE: Cross your heart and hope to die?
HARRY: Yes.
HERMINE: Do it.
HARRY: Cross my heart and hope to die. Yes, I need you, right now, because I'm desperate. You'll have to throw me into the water before I swim. The water will bring me back to life again.
HERMINE: But I need you too. Not now, later, when you have fallen in love with me. I need you for something very important and very beautiful. It will be my last command.
HARRY: What must I do then?
HERMINE: Kill me.
***
(Harry and Hermina practice dancing)
[Glass shattering]
[Record skipping]
[Hermine chuckling]
HARRY: Well, you can't say I didn't warn you. I'm sorry.
[Hermine laughing]
HERMINE: Who's this?
HARRY: Erica.
HERMINE: Isn't she pretty?
HARRY: Yes. My poor angry love.
HERMINE: And this one?
HARRY: Now it's your turn to guess.
HERMINE: Well, it's Hermann of course. Who was he, anyway?
HARRY: My only friend at the seminary, which we both hated. He only lasted six months there. That's all he could take of math, New Testament, Greek, and ice in the water bowls. We both agreed that they didn't really want to educate anyone there. All they wanted in fact was a lot of obedient corporals and sergeants for the state. Then one day he went over the wall and I didn't see him since.
HERMINE: And?
HARRY: Oh, he worked as an apprentice in a cork factory, and as an assistant in a Tubingen bookstore. He published a promising book of poems and shot himself in the head.
HERMINE: I suppose you admire that.
HARRY: At least he saved himself the pains and horrors of the Great War. Not to mention quite a few others. Yes, I admired him. I adored him. I don't suppose a day has gone by since then that I didn't somehow think of him. You're not going are you?
HERMINE: I must. We'll go dancing at the Balance Hotel tomorrow.
HARRY: Oh, listen. I cannot dance.
HERMINE: Oh, campage.
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