Outdoor café. Night. Trees. Spindly metal chairs. Patricia at a table, smoking cigarettes. Before moving to Paris, Patricia didn’t smoke. She was an actress in America. Her name was Jean. Now her life is a film: modern, free, la nouvelle vague. She coughs, signals a waiter. “Un café.” Paris is just what she imagined. Streetlamps, clattering cups, black and white frame shots, jazz. Jean had studied la nouvelle vague for acting tips; now she resembles the heroes in those films: cool, noncommittal, cruising without conscience through the present tense. Black slacks, striped boat-neck blouse. Back home, she despised inequality, had fought for social justice; here she oozes bourgeois leisure. Close-up as Patricia knocks over a water glass, laughs. Slow camera pull-back as wind lifts the café awning.
*
Michel leans against a lamppost. Tweed sport coat, crooked front tooth, jawline strong enough to strike a match against. Michel learned his moves from American gangster films, even mimics Humphrey Bogart in the way he lights his cigarette. Imperturbable, obviously amoral.
Michel’s a petty criminal, a car thief. Sunglasses, jaunty cap. Just yesterday he stole a car in Marseilles, shot the motorcycle cop who pulled him over, threw the gun in the weeds, sprinted through the empty fields.
Now he’s back in Paris. He needs to find Patricia quick. Does she love me? Michel wonders. Yes or no? Also, where can I get another gun?
Michel’s a petty criminal, a car thief. Sunglasses, jaunty cap. Just yesterday he stole a car in Marseilles, shot the motorcycle cop who pulled him over, threw the gun in the weeds, sprinted through the empty fields.
Now he’s back in Paris. He needs to find Patricia quick. Does she love me? Michel wonders. Yes or no? Also, where can I get another gun?
*
Flashback. Los Angeles International Airport, morning of Jean’s flight to Paris. Jean calls Eldridge from a payphone, tells him she’s giving up the struggle. In a voice edged with contempt, Eldridge says, “Must be nice,” and hangs up. Guilt rakes Jean’s nerves. She knows she’s a turncoat, a sellout. At the same time, she’s relieved to put Eldridge and the revolution—the guns, the police—behind her. She wants a less complicated life, one in which she isn’t being watched. She moves through the terminal as if in slow motion. Already her step is lighter, less encumbered.
Onboard the plane, symphonic pop trickles from the overhead speakers. A woman in the next seat introduces herself, asks Jean’s name. “Patricia,” she says, and when asked “Why Paris,” Patricia says, “Business,” though nothing could be further from the truth. Her acting days are over, and won’t, she reminds herself, be missed. Never again will she play the starlet, the ingénue, the sophisticated double agent nobody suspects. The goal now is to simply be herself, a plan that, to Patricia, feels especially French.
Onboard the plane, symphonic pop trickles from the overhead speakers. A woman in the next seat introduces herself, asks Jean’s name. “Patricia,” she says, and when asked “Why Paris,” Patricia says, “Business,” though nothing could be further from the truth. Her acting days are over, and won’t, she reminds herself, be missed. Never again will she play the starlet, the ingénue, the sophisticated double agent nobody suspects. The goal now is to simply be herself, a plan that, to Patricia, feels especially French.
*
Payphone, Paris side street. Michel tries to call Patricia. Nothing. He drops by the Hotel du Suede; the concierge shrugs. More calls. He needs to collect on a loan, cover his tracks. Michel buys a newspaper, flips its pages for a mention of his crime, sees a full-page photo of the murdered cop with the headline: Cop Killer Identified. Michel taps the newspaper with the back of his hand as if to say, Voila! He dons sunglasses, passes kiosks, boulangeries, a poster for a movie called Live Dangerously Until the End!
*
Jean was known in Hollywood for her innocent look, her skill with emotionally fragile characters. Critics raved about her performance as a sexually vulnerable woman who descends into madness, but her manager, agent, and last two directors said activism was interfering with her work. Later they suggested she quit acting for a while, go elsewhere, wait for the stir to die down. “Call me when you’re done with causes,” her agent said.
Now Patricia strolls through outer arrondissements. Piano, frantic saxophone. The city rolls by, picturesque. She climbs the steps of Montmartre, ignoring several beggars, visits a restaurant, eats biftek, salade, escargot, smokes, coughs, drinks several cups of coffee. Later, on the cobblestone streets near the Hotel du Suede, her stomach nervous, jumpy, Patricia can’t shake the feeling that she’s being followed.
Now Patricia strolls through outer arrondissements. Piano, frantic saxophone. The city rolls by, picturesque. She climbs the steps of Montmartre, ignoring several beggars, visits a restaurant, eats biftek, salade, escargot, smokes, coughs, drinks several cups of coffee. Later, on the cobblestone streets near the Hotel du Suede, her stomach nervous, jumpy, Patricia can’t shake the feeling that she’s being followed.
*
FBI agents can be flown privately, but Kovacs prefers to ride coach, blend in, keep a low profile.
He boards in New York. A salesman-type in the next seat asks why France?
“That’s classified,” Kovacs tells him, but says it involves strategically neutralizing undesirables.
Kovacs chews the olive from his martini, breaks the seal on COINTELPRO’s file, flips pages, makes checkmarks. Name: Jean Seberg. Code name: Patricia Franchini. Former occupation: Film actress. Long-term ties to human rights organizations and the NAACP. Romantic ties to left-leaning activists, artists, revolutionaries. Deep ties—and this Kovacs knows is key—to the Black Panther Party, including rented cars, a gun stash, 100,000 in cash donations, and Eldridge Cleaver reportedly (and COINTELPRO put quotes around this phrase) “a personal friend.” At this, Kovacs registers disgust, reinforcing his belief in his job, his abiding moral duty. He studies Patricia-Jean’s publicity shots. White. Pretty. Pixie haircut. Wholesome. American. Now she lives in France. Why? In the margin of his folder, Kovacs scribbles a note in red pen: Communist?
He boards in New York. A salesman-type in the next seat asks why France?
“That’s classified,” Kovacs tells him, but says it involves strategically neutralizing undesirables.
Kovacs chews the olive from his martini, breaks the seal on COINTELPRO’s file, flips pages, makes checkmarks. Name: Jean Seberg. Code name: Patricia Franchini. Former occupation: Film actress. Long-term ties to human rights organizations and the NAACP. Romantic ties to left-leaning activists, artists, revolutionaries. Deep ties—and this Kovacs knows is key—to the Black Panther Party, including rented cars, a gun stash, 100,000 in cash donations, and Eldridge Cleaver reportedly (and COINTELPRO put quotes around this phrase) “a personal friend.” At this, Kovacs registers disgust, reinforcing his belief in his job, his abiding moral duty. He studies Patricia-Jean’s publicity shots. White. Pretty. Pixie haircut. Wholesome. American. Now she lives in France. Why? In the margin of his folder, Kovacs scribbles a note in red pen: Communist?
*
Tracking shots of the city. Latin Quarter. Notre Dame. Champs Elysees. Congestion of car horns, shouts. From afar, Michel sees Patricia stroll the avenue; her walk is carefree, breezy. Beside her now, in sunglasses, he matches her steps.
“Your walk is so American,” Michel says.
“Can’t you leave me alone?” she says.
Through cigarette smoke Michel is cool, reflective.
“I can’t. I love you. Do you love me?”
Once, when she was Jean, Patricia longed to fall in love with a moral man, a leader, someone, like Eldridge, willing to sacrifice himself for others. She feels certain, however, that Michel is not this kind of man.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I can’t decide.”
“Come to Rome with me,” he says.
Patricia says nothing. Birds circle the busy boulevard.
“Take me to your room,” says Michel.
Cut to shots of traffic. White clouds in the sky.
“Your walk is so American,” Michel says.
“Can’t you leave me alone?” she says.
Through cigarette smoke Michel is cool, reflective.
“I can’t. I love you. Do you love me?”
Once, when she was Jean, Patricia longed to fall in love with a moral man, a leader, someone, like Eldridge, willing to sacrifice himself for others. She feels certain, however, that Michel is not this kind of man.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I can’t decide.”
“Come to Rome with me,” he says.
Patricia says nothing. Birds circle the busy boulevard.
“Take me to your room,” says Michel.
Cut to shots of traffic. White clouds in the sky.
*
Flashback to Eldridge and Jean. Canopy bed in the center of his living room. Hardwood floors, Japanese rugs. Eldridge: manicured goatee, tired eyes, cigarette clipped between thumb and forefinger.
“The democratic experiment in America isn’t working,” he tells her. “It never worked. It worked in name only. People love the concept of equality. They bow down and worship it, sing songs about it, have parades, but the instant they see a person in need they kick him in the guts.”
Eldridge lies backward on the bed, feet hooked in the headboard. Jean eats cookies from a plate on her stomach.
“It’s criminal,” she agrees.
Eldridge takes off his beret, sighs, looks at her. His voice is thick with patience.
“There are four reasons you’ll never lack opportunity,” he says. “One, you have money. Two, you’re white. Three, you’re a woman. And four, you’re beautiful.”
He pauses, smokes.
“This isn’t your fight,” says Eldridge. “It’s your hobby.”
Jean looks around the room, worried this is absolutely true.
“How can I help?” she asks.
Eldridge sits up.
“Get a gun,” he says.
“The democratic experiment in America isn’t working,” he tells her. “It never worked. It worked in name only. People love the concept of equality. They bow down and worship it, sing songs about it, have parades, but the instant they see a person in need they kick him in the guts.”
Eldridge lies backward on the bed, feet hooked in the headboard. Jean eats cookies from a plate on her stomach.
“It’s criminal,” she agrees.
Eldridge takes off his beret, sighs, looks at her. His voice is thick with patience.
“There are four reasons you’ll never lack opportunity,” he says. “One, you have money. Two, you’re white. Three, you’re a woman. And four, you’re beautiful.”
He pauses, smokes.
“This isn’t your fight,” says Eldridge. “It’s your hobby.”
Jean looks around the room, worried this is absolutely true.
“How can I help?” she asks.
Eldridge sits up.
“Get a gun,” he says.
*
Hotel du Suede. Patricia and Michel finish making love. Patricia cries, hugs the pillow. She thought an affair with a Frenchman might bring her closer to existential freedom, to lessening the weight. Gazing at Michel’s rugged profile, distant expression, ever-burning cigarette, Patricia feels an angst she recognizes as distinctly bourgeois, privileged, French.
“Look at me,” says Michel.
Close-up as Patricia speaks into her pillow. “I’m very independent, you know.”
Shots of the armoire, water bowl, empty hanger, coat hook. Michel, shirtless in the tousled sheets, admires his own abs.
“You want to make love again?” Michel asks.
Patricia knows there should be a sex scene here, but she’s tired of men calling the shots.
“I have a headache,” she says. “And I’m not very interested in sex right now.”
“Is that an American thing?” Michel asks, flexing his abs. “Because not being interested in sex is very abnormal in France.”
Once Michel told Patricia she was too idealistic. Another time he said women had no sense of reality, and he once called her a coward. Patricia expected these comments from Michel, but thought, for some reason, she’d find them more charming.
“Look at me,” says Michel.
Close-up as Patricia speaks into her pillow. “I’m very independent, you know.”
Shots of the armoire, water bowl, empty hanger, coat hook. Michel, shirtless in the tousled sheets, admires his own abs.
“You want to make love again?” Michel asks.
Patricia knows there should be a sex scene here, but she’s tired of men calling the shots.
“I have a headache,” she says. “And I’m not very interested in sex right now.”
“Is that an American thing?” Michel asks, flexing his abs. “Because not being interested in sex is very abnormal in France.”
Once Michel told Patricia she was too idealistic. Another time he said women had no sense of reality, and he once called her a coward. Patricia expected these comments from Michel, but thought, for some reason, she’d find them more charming.
*
Kovacs on a ledge outside the Hotel du Suede. Pot belly, shoulder holster, moustache, fedora. Through the open window he slips into Patricia-Jean’s room, removes his shoes, steps from bed to nightstand, hiding tiny microphones in the wainscoting. In his shirt pocket: miniature scissors, coils of micro-wire, transparent non-reflecting tape-strips.
Back in his hotel room, Kovacs reviews directives from his last dispatch. “Gather info to defame, discredit, harass and intimidate suspect. Cross-contact FBI Legat, Paris Embassy. Copy files to Secret Service, CIA, Military Intelligence. Back-up monitoring if suspect leaves France. Avoid any identification with the Bureau.”
Kovacs gets into bed with a cup of hot chocolate. He starts tallying the men Patricia-Jean’s probably slept with but stops when he feels himself becoming aroused.
Back in his hotel room, Kovacs reviews directives from his last dispatch. “Gather info to defame, discredit, harass and intimidate suspect. Cross-contact FBI Legat, Paris Embassy. Copy files to Secret Service, CIA, Military Intelligence. Back-up monitoring if suspect leaves France. Avoid any identification with the Bureau.”
Kovacs gets into bed with a cup of hot chocolate. He starts tallying the men Patricia-Jean’s probably slept with but stops when he feels himself becoming aroused.
*
Jardin de Tullieries—late afternoon. Patricia and Michel on a park bench, eating ice cream. Michel smokes, cigarette framed in the C of his hand. The park is filled with cops, lovers, kids on skates. In the French films Patricia studied, the women were detached, self-possessed, moved freely, fell in love. She assumed this would happen to her but realizes now the notion is naïf. On the park bench, legs crossed, she feels awkward, conspicuous, watched. She slides her hands in the pockets of her white slacks.
“I’m undecided,” she tells Michel.
“About what?”
Close-up on Michel rubbing a thumb across his lips. To no one in particular he says, “I always fall in love with the wrong kind of woman. I want a woman who will save me, but I get the woman who needs saving.”
Close-up on Patricia as she frowns, looks away.
“I’m undecided,” she tells Michel.
“About what?”
Close-up on Michel rubbing a thumb across his lips. To no one in particular he says, “I always fall in love with the wrong kind of woman. I want a woman who will save me, but I get the woman who needs saving.”
Close-up on Patricia as she frowns, looks away.
*
Patricia’s hotel room—Tracking shot. Closet ransacked, dresser drawers removed. On the windowsill, envelopes torn open, turned inside out.
*
Outdoor café. Montmartre. Patricia and an unidentified American friend whose features are in shadow. It’s raining. Scene flickers on a backdrop of saturated darks. Tabacs, cinemas.
Patricia and her friend ask and answer questions. The friend says, “Why are you so unhappy?”
“Because I am,” Patricia says.
“Do you miss America?”
“No. Americans might be nice to you for years before you find out they actually hate your guts.”
“Is it any different here?” says the friend.
Patricia orders a carafe of wine. The friends drink and get sleepy.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to know the future?” says the friend.
“No,” Patricia says.
They order coffee.
“I think I might be pregnant,” says Patricia, and when her friend says nothing, Patricia repeats the word, “Pregnant,” adding, “If I could dig a hole to hide in, I would.”
The friend tells a story about a woman who got an abortion, then died. “I would hate for something like that to happen to you,” says the friend.
As a working actress, Jean never played a mother, but once, in a film written by a man she thought she loved, she played a married woman whose husband has her shot.
“Ciao,” Patricia says to her friend, and walks away. In the background: bare trees, gray sky, taxis, birds.
Patricia and her friend ask and answer questions. The friend says, “Why are you so unhappy?”
“Because I am,” Patricia says.
“Do you miss America?”
“No. Americans might be nice to you for years before you find out they actually hate your guts.”
“Is it any different here?” says the friend.
Patricia orders a carafe of wine. The friends drink and get sleepy.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to know the future?” says the friend.
“No,” Patricia says.
They order coffee.
“I think I might be pregnant,” says Patricia, and when her friend says nothing, Patricia repeats the word, “Pregnant,” adding, “If I could dig a hole to hide in, I would.”
The friend tells a story about a woman who got an abortion, then died. “I would hate for something like that to happen to you,” says the friend.
As a working actress, Jean never played a mother, but once, in a film written by a man she thought she loved, she played a married woman whose husband has her shot.
“Ciao,” Patricia says to her friend, and walks away. In the background: bare trees, gray sky, taxis, birds.
*
Flashback montage. Jean en route to meetings in Oakland, 45th and MLK, Bobby Seale’s apartment, the bakery, the courtyard of Merritt College. Days she isn’t on set she designs newsletters, health care programs, free breakfasts for school kids. To Jean, these scenes feel concrete, credible; in them she has as sense of purpose. She tightens security, runs drills, helps organize the Party into an armed patrol, yet never carries a gun herself. It’s not in her nature, she says. Eldridge, who hasn’t slept or trimmed his goatee, says time is running out, that everyone must play his or her part. “The clock is saying tock when it should be saying tick,” says Eldridge.
*
Michel picks up Patricia’s camera and starts moving through the room. He gets her in the viewfinder, frames her face, clicks. “Right there,” he says.
From her acting days, Patricia knows that an open, receptive look lets men project any fantasy they want. But never again will she tilt her head, speak softly, bat her lashes, or offer the face of corruptible innocence. Her Sphinx-like eyes betray nothing.
“Like that, baby.”
Michel goes for a close-up. Patricia lies down. She doesn't feel well. She’s bloated, queasy, craves strange food. There’s a knock. Michel hides in the closet as Patricia opens the door. It’s the French police.
“You know this man?” they ask. They show Patricia a photo of Michel.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” she says. A fresh wave of nausea passes over her. The police leave.
From her acting days, Patricia knows that an open, receptive look lets men project any fantasy they want. But never again will she tilt her head, speak softly, bat her lashes, or offer the face of corruptible innocence. Her Sphinx-like eyes betray nothing.
“Like that, baby.”
Michel goes for a close-up. Patricia lies down. She doesn't feel well. She’s bloated, queasy, craves strange food. There’s a knock. Michel hides in the closet as Patricia opens the door. It’s the French police.
“You know this man?” they ask. They show Patricia a photo of Michel.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” she says. A fresh wave of nausea passes over her. The police leave.
*
Outdoor café. Kovacs eating a croissant, miniature camera hidden in his tie clip. Kovacs shoots Patricia-Jean drinking coffee at a café across the street. Her whereabouts over the next days will be dutifully observed, typed up in reports for the Deputy Attorney General, the Attorney General, and the Domestic Affairs Chief. J Edgar Hoover will oversee this chain of debriefings and in time personally update the President on COINTELPRO re: Patricia-Jean. Hoover himself made Kovacs promise to “take care of that bitch.” Kovacs envisions salutes, backslaps, medals for distinguished service. He chews his croissant with deep satisfaction.
*
In bed, Jean and Eldridge have a staring contest. Eldridge says, “I’ll stare at you until you stop staring at me.” At first their expressions are neutral, tough to read. Jean caves first, grinning; Eldridge caresses her cheek until she looks at him again. Jean relishes the tenderness of the moment, the realness of it, but Eldridge says, “You don’t really see me, do you? You don’t love me. You love the cause. You think people want a real-life hero? They don’t. I can tell you for a fact they do not.”
Eldridge gets off the bed, puts on a clean dress shirt.
Jean watches, distraught.
“You can’t be part of the solution and part of the problem,” Eldridge says.
Eldridge gets off the bed, puts on a clean dress shirt.
Jean watches, distraught.
“You can’t be part of the solution and part of the problem,” Eldridge says.
*
“Why don’t you ever smile anymore?” Michel wants to know. He’s in bed, sheet wrapped around him.
“I never smiled much to begin with,” Patricia says.
“I’m going to count to eight, and if you haven’t smiled I’ll strangle you,” he says.
Michel puts his hands around her throat, starts counting. When he gets to seven, Patricia grins. Jump cut close-up as her grin fades. She’s been here before, is sick of playing along. She puts a hand to her stomach.
Other boyfriends wanted to give her a baby. A football player in college, film directors, Eldridge. She wasn’t ready then or now. How could she protect a child? Care for it? What would it eat? Biftek? Crepes? A mother should settle down, stay the course with conviction. Better, she thinks, to stay mobile.
Michel wants to go to America, says only there can he be truly free. Patricia tells him he’s seen too many American films; he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“Come to Rome with me then,” says Michel, circling her ankle with his thumb and forefinger. “Let’s be liberated together.”
Patricia goes to the bathroom to throw up.
“I never smiled much to begin with,” Patricia says.
“I’m going to count to eight, and if you haven’t smiled I’ll strangle you,” he says.
Michel puts his hands around her throat, starts counting. When he gets to seven, Patricia grins. Jump cut close-up as her grin fades. She’s been here before, is sick of playing along. She puts a hand to her stomach.
Other boyfriends wanted to give her a baby. A football player in college, film directors, Eldridge. She wasn’t ready then or now. How could she protect a child? Care for it? What would it eat? Biftek? Crepes? A mother should settle down, stay the course with conviction. Better, she thinks, to stay mobile.
Michel wants to go to America, says only there can he be truly free. Patricia tells him he’s seen too many American films; he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“Come to Rome with me then,” says Michel, circling her ankle with his thumb and forefinger. “Let’s be liberated together.”
Patricia goes to the bathroom to throw up.
*
Kovacs listens to the wiretap on headphones, locates his subject in binoculars, tracks her through the window where she sprawls on the bed in her underwear. She’s talking to a man. Kovacs has seen him several times now. He’s white, wears hats and sunglasses indoors. The Agency reports that he’s French, a petty criminal, sought by French police, no connection to the underground back home, a nobody. But when Michel says, “Come to Rome with me,” Kovacs calls the U.S. Embassy in Rome, just in case. Then he sits at the window, feet up, dress shoes tapping the sill. He imagines twisting Patricia-Jean’s arm behind her back, telling her she’ll get what she deserves.
*
In his desk at headquarters, Eldridge taps a revolver against his teeth. Jean sits on the couch, taking notes.
“There’s one way out of this,” he says, “and that’s the escalation of armed resistance into urban guerilla warfare. Huey and I disagree…”
He trails off, staring out the window. On a note pad, Jean jots ideas for the newsletter. Cop cars line the driveway. Police prowl the lawn, sort through garbage, peer through windows. Raising his revolver to eye level, Eldridge lines Jean’s face along the front sight.
“Bang,” he says.
“There’s one way out of this,” he says, “and that’s the escalation of armed resistance into urban guerilla warfare. Huey and I disagree…”
He trails off, staring out the window. On a note pad, Jean jots ideas for the newsletter. Cop cars line the driveway. Police prowl the lawn, sort through garbage, peer through windows. Raising his revolver to eye level, Eldridge lines Jean’s face along the front sight.
“Bang,” he says.
*
Patricia blots her wet face with a towel.
“Michel, I’m pregnant.”
Michel by the window, squinting.
“What?”
“You heard what I said.”
“By me?”
“I think so.”
Michel lights a cigarette, paces, exhales.
“You should have been more careful!” he yells.
There’s a knock at the door.
“The police!” Patricia whispers.
Michel hides in the closet. Patricia answers the door, affecting a Sphinx-like look, but it’s only the hotel maid.
“Michel, I’m pregnant.”
Michel by the window, squinting.
“What?”
“You heard what I said.”
“By me?”
“I think so.”
Michel lights a cigarette, paces, exhales.
“You should have been more careful!” he yells.
There’s a knock at the door.
“The police!” Patricia whispers.
Michel hides in the closet. Patricia answers the door, affecting a Sphinx-like look, but it’s only the hotel maid.
*
Daytime exterior. Champs Elysees, a motorcade. Parisians throng the street. Patricia strolls, goes to a movie alone. She’s followed by a French detective, hired by Paris police, who knows of her connection to Michel. Kovacs, seated at an outdoor café across the street, watches while polishing off a salade nicoise. Kovacs thinks the man following Patricia-Jean is an American operative, a collaborator from the leftist underground. In the dark theater, Patricia makes her way to an aisle, sits, watches the film. It’s a gangster film, made in America. The projector rattles. A particle-filled beam of light floats between projection booth and screen. The French detective sits two rows behind Patricia. Kovacs follows the detective into the theater, sits two rows behind him. Sensing that she’s being watched, Patricia stands. Images from the projector bathe her white blouse. The French detective stands up. Kovacs stands up. Patricia hurries to the Ladies Room, climbs the toilet, shimmies through a trellis window into the street. Just then Michel screeches around the corner in a stolen car, gestures for Patricia to get in.
“Taking from the haves and giving to the have-nots,” Michel says, gesturing to the car’s plush interior.
Patricia sighs, hesitates, gets in. The car squeals off.
“Taking from the haves and giving to the have-nots,” Michel says, gesturing to the car’s plush interior.
Patricia sighs, hesitates, gets in. The car squeals off.
*
Back in his hotel, Kovacs licks bits of chocolate from a piece of wax paper. Patricia-Jean’s pregnancy is on his mind. The father might be Michel, but who’s to say it isn’t Cleaver, or some other outside agitator? That would coincide with the moral choices she’s made lately, says Kovacs to himself, choices that frankly make him sick. She’s a traitor—worse, in some ways, than her co-conspirators—and needs to be neutralized. Already Kovacs knows his weapon will be Informational Terrorism. He dispatches a telegram to Washington with his latest news. The cable’s first line: “Black Panther Baby.”
*
Patricia and Michel spend the night in an apartment owned by Michel’s friend, hiding. In the morning, Patricia takes a walk, moving as if in slow motion, thinking of Michel. Her old self, Jean, ally to those who stood for something, feels distant, ghostly. Michel, as far as Patricia knows, stands for nothing.
Long shot: Patricia walking briskly down the street. She finds a café with a phone, orders coffee, gathers the nerve to call the French police. As an actress, she had always believed in the principle of sacrifice. In her first film she played Joan of Arc.
“The man you’re looking for?” she says. “The motorcycle cop killer? I know his whereabouts...”
She gives the police the address, hangs up, leaves.
Patricia returns to the apartment. Michel is lounging shirtless. Out of guilt, confusion, uncertainty, she tells him what she’s done.
Michel stands. At first he’s furious, wants to strangle her, but then, almost immediately, he’s resigned, as though he knew this would happen.
“Just like a woman,” says Michel.
For Michel being double-crossed by a dame seems especially American, something that might happen to Bogey in a film. Michel thought for a moment he might be the hero of this scene, but he’s tired now, and prison seems as good a place to rest as any.
He dons his hat, lights a cigarette.
“Okay,” says Michel, “ciao.”
Sirens. Voices outside.
Long shot: Patricia walking briskly down the street. She finds a café with a phone, orders coffee, gathers the nerve to call the French police. As an actress, she had always believed in the principle of sacrifice. In her first film she played Joan of Arc.
“The man you’re looking for?” she says. “The motorcycle cop killer? I know his whereabouts...”
She gives the police the address, hangs up, leaves.
Patricia returns to the apartment. Michel is lounging shirtless. Out of guilt, confusion, uncertainty, she tells him what she’s done.
Michel stands. At first he’s furious, wants to strangle her, but then, almost immediately, he’s resigned, as though he knew this would happen.
“Just like a woman,” says Michel.
For Michel being double-crossed by a dame seems especially American, something that might happen to Bogey in a film. Michel thought for a moment he might be the hero of this scene, but he’s tired now, and prison seems as good a place to rest as any.
He dons his hat, lights a cigarette.
“Okay,” says Michel, “ciao.”
Sirens. Voices outside.
*
Eldridge breaks up with Jean at a Panthers’ demonstration. Downtown Oakland, overcast day. In the foreground: Black leather jackets, sunglasses, berets. Loaded rifles rest on shoulders. Cop cars line the perimeter of the park. Eldridge and Jean sit beside each other on the grass.
“We won’t tolerate indecision,” Eldridge says. “This is the way it has to be.” He makes checkmarks on a clipboard, his voice deadpan. “The time has come to say to everyone in the system, ‘Stick ‘em up, motherfucker. This is a hold-up.’”
“We won’t tolerate indecision,” Eldridge says. “This is the way it has to be.” He makes checkmarks on a clipboard, his voice deadpan. “The time has come to say to everyone in the system, ‘Stick ‘em up, motherfucker. This is a hold-up.’”
*
Michel exits the hotel. French police are there already, guns drawn.
“Freeze!”
A shot rings out.
Cigarette still clutched between his lips, Michel enacts a slow, dramatic weave down the street, lurching, leaning on cars, the bullet in his back. Pedestrians barely notice. Michel collapses in the crosswalk. Patricia runs to his side, her expression showing guilt, remorse, as though she herself had pulled the trigger. Patricia hates this scene, yet she is, on some level, relieved that action has finally been taken.
Michel mutters, head rolling side to side. Patricia turns to the French policeman, mid 50s, gray hair, gun still in his hand. “What did he say?” she asks.
“He said you make him want to puke,” the French policeman says.
Patricia looks into Michel’s face. It’s composed, indifferent, much as it was in life. Patricia feels like puking too, and leans over, clutching her belly.
“Freeze!”
A shot rings out.
Cigarette still clutched between his lips, Michel enacts a slow, dramatic weave down the street, lurching, leaning on cars, the bullet in his back. Pedestrians barely notice. Michel collapses in the crosswalk. Patricia runs to his side, her expression showing guilt, remorse, as though she herself had pulled the trigger. Patricia hates this scene, yet she is, on some level, relieved that action has finally been taken.
Michel mutters, head rolling side to side. Patricia turns to the French policeman, mid 50s, gray hair, gun still in his hand. “What did he say?” she asks.
“He said you make him want to puke,” the French policeman says.
Patricia looks into Michel’s face. It’s composed, indifferent, much as it was in life. Patricia feels like puking too, and leans over, clutching her belly.
*
A private, unmarked car, arranged by the FBI, takes Kovacs to the airport. Clutching his files, he notes passing imagery from the backseat window. Baroque cathedrals. Art Deco pavilions. Big skies outside the city. Patricia-Jean never returned to the Hotel du Suede. For Kovacs, the COINTELPRO case hangs on beating her to the airport. She might be there already, choosing a destination, checking a bag. Suddenly, there’s an explosive blast. The car shudders violently. A tire’s blown out. Close-up on the blown-out tire.
“Sorry about this, sir,” the driver says. “I’ll have it fixed in no time.”
Kovacs expected better from Intelligence. His own heroism flickers before his eyes, gauzy, transparent, as he steps from the car, wanders into knee-high grass at the roadside. He peers into the distance, sensing, for a nauseous instant, that the universe is amoral. Close-up on Kovacs’s face as a terrible vision appears to him: a mob cresting the hill—feminists, militants, peaceniks, progressives, brown people of every shade, the poor and disenfranchised. Treasonous people who will stop at nothing, do whatever they want, and they’re all carrying guns. Kovacs can’t decide if he should reach for his holster or run for his life.
“Sorry about this, sir,” the driver says. “I’ll have it fixed in no time.”
Kovacs expected better from Intelligence. His own heroism flickers before his eyes, gauzy, transparent, as he steps from the car, wanders into knee-high grass at the roadside. He peers into the distance, sensing, for a nauseous instant, that the universe is amoral. Close-up on Kovacs’s face as a terrible vision appears to him: a mob cresting the hill—feminists, militants, peaceniks, progressives, brown people of every shade, the poor and disenfranchised. Treasonous people who will stop at nothing, do whatever they want, and they’re all carrying guns. Kovacs can’t decide if he should reach for his holster or run for his life.
*
Patricia at the airport, hand on her stomach. Around her, Europeans move with suitcases. Miniskirts. Moustaches. From the terminal’s overhead speakers, frantic saxophone, drums. Patricia stares at the Departures board, blank-faced, evoking questions appropriate to a French ending. Will she make her escape? Rejoin the resistance? Become Jean Seberg once again? Will she raise her child? Or will she lose the baby and, unable to live with her nerves any longer, succumb to the directions of men, never even hearing the footsteps of the police who will find her, eventually, in the back of a Renault, wrapped in a blanket, dead of an overdose at 40?
But that, Patricia knows, is only an aside, one of the French film’s little fantasies.
There is one minute left, time enough for someone to be saved, even if it’s only herself. There will be other films, more meaningful roles—insurgent, mother, diplomat, director, President. Opportunities she is certain she will not squander.
Close-up as Patricia looks around, gets in line for tickets. Slow camera pullback. Tense music. Fade-out. FIN.
But that, Patricia knows, is only an aside, one of the French film’s little fantasies.
There is one minute left, time enough for someone to be saved, even if it’s only herself. There will be other films, more meaningful roles—insurgent, mother, diplomat, director, President. Opportunities she is certain she will not squander.
Close-up as Patricia looks around, gets in line for tickets. Slow camera pullback. Tense music. Fade-out. FIN.