Adaptor's
Note:
I adore novelizations of movies--it's like being able to hold the
movie in your hands. So I was more than disappointed when there were
no novelizations published after Titanic
became one of the most popular movies ever. Then I bought a
book that included James Cameron's magnificent shooting script.
used for casting, rehearsals and other production preparations (along
with a lot of gorgeous pictures!). Reading it, I could see how it
could become a novelization, told from Rose's point of view, so I
decided to do one myself and send parts of it to the publisher,
hoping they would see how a novelization would work. Because I
was hoping Mr. Cameron himself would write the novelization
(especially after I had seen how well he had written the script), I
did a lot of copying directly out of the book, so much of this isn't
truly my work, just the adaptation from script to Rose's point of
view. I hope it's still okay to post it here. Please note
that this shooting script was later modified during the actual
filming, with much of it cut out for timing purposes or to change
certain characters, but I've discovered that I like many of the
deleted scenes and have kept them in this. On the other hand, since
I'm doing it all from Rose's point of view, other scenes, scenes
she would never know about, I've left out. I hope this helps
bring you back to
Titanic—Rose's
Story
A
novelization of the script
Written by James Cameron
Adapted by
Esmeralda
Based on "Titanic:
James Cameron's Illustrated Screenplay"
My name is Rose Calvert. Two years ago I started my second century of life. In my long life, I have done many things. I have been married and widowed. I have raised children, watched them raise my grandchildren, and now watch them raise my great-grandchildren. But I have also acted in silent pictures. I have flown a plane. I have ridden a horse in the surf. But all of these things I might have never done had it not been for one man, one man whom I think of and thank every day of my so-long life. I had not spoken of him in over 80 years, keeping him close to my own heart, but last year something happened that changed my mind.
It was the summer of 2005 and I was sitting in my glassed-in studio that was attached to the living room of my small house in Ojai, California, throwing a pot on my potter's wheel. The liquid red clay covered my hands…hands that might be gnarled and age-spotted, but were still surprisingly strong and supple.
My forty-year-old granddaughter, Elizabeth Calvert, who I call Lizzie, was in the kitchen, opening a can of dog food for my Pomeranian, Freddy. I will always be grateful to Lizzie for taking care of me for the last ten-twenty years so that I can continue to live in my own home—no nursing homes for this old lady! As the can opener buzzed, I could barely hear the small television set sitting on counter, so it was simply background noise, until a certain word caught my attention.
It was one of those news programs and the announcer was saying, "Treasure-hunter Brock Lovett is best known for finding Spanish gold in sunken galleons in the Caribbean. Now he is using deep submergence technology to work 2 ½ miles down at another famous wreck…the Titanic."
Hearing that name, I turned off my wheel and began wiping the clay from my hands with a rag as I listened more carefully. The announcer was saying, "He is with us live via satellite from a Russian research ship in the middle of the Atlantic. Hello, Brock?"
And for the first time, I heard the voice of Brock Lovett, treasure hunter: "Yes, hi, Tracy. You know, Titanic is not just a shipwreck, Titanic is the shipwreck. It's the Mount Everest of shipwrecks. I've planned this expedition for three years, and we're out here recovering some amazing things…things that will have enormous historical and educational value."
Hearing this, I rose from my stool, took my cane and slowly began walking towards the kitchen. As I walked, the announcer's voice sounded skeptical. "But it's no secret that education is not your main purpose. You're a treasure hunter. Your expedition is at the center of a storm of controversy over salvage rights and even ethics. Many are calling you a grave robber."
Entering the kitchen, I told Lizzie, "Turn that up, dear," and after she did, I could clearly hear the sneer in Mr. Lovett's voice. "Nobody called the recovery of the artifacts from King Tut's tomb grave robbing. I have museum-trained experts here, making sure this stuff is preserved and catalogued properly. Look at this drawing, which was found today, a piece of paper that's been underwater for 84 years…and my team was able to preserve it intact. Should this have remained unseen at the bottom of the ocean for eternity, when we can see it and enjoy it now?"
As he spoke, I was standing right next to the television set, staring at the screen, which showed an old, old pencil drawing still in excellent condition except for its partially-disintegrated edges. The drawing showed a beautiful young woman, beautifully rendered. In her late teens or early twenties, she was nude, though posed with a kind of casual modesty. She was on an Empire divan, in a pool of light that seemed to radiate outward from her eyes. Scrawled in the lower right hand corner is the date: April 14, 1912.
The girl was not totally nude. At her throat was a diamond necklace with one large stone hanging in the center.
Staring at that drawing I had to say the only thing I could think: "I'll be goddamned."
That program was the beginning of my journey. When I told Lizzie what I wanted to do, she was certain that I had finally lost my faculties, but since she loves me, she humored me. She telephoned the local television station, which transferred her to the network. When they found out what I wanted and why, they connected me with the Russian research ship, and a Mr. Bobby Buell, who represented the partners who were bankrolling the expedition.
When I told him what I wanted, he told me to "hang on", then I could hear him running, Soon I could hear his feet running back and his voice saying, "You gotta speak up; she's kinda old," and I smiled before I heard the same brash, impatient voice I had heard on the television set. "This is Brock Lovett. What can I do for you, Mrs…."
"Calvert," I introduced myself. "Rose Calvert."
"Mrs. Calvert?"
With a smile in my voice, I asked, "I was just wondering if you had found The Heart of the Ocean yet."
The same smile was in Mr. Buell's voice. "I told you, you wanted to take this call."
"All right. You have my attention, Rose," and I smiled, having verified that my guess as to where he had found that drawing and why it interested him. "Can you tell me who the woman in the picture is?"
"Oh, yes. The woman is I."
Less than a week later, I was inside of a large helicopter, holding Freddie in my lap, Lizzie sitting next to me. We watched as the Keldysh, the Russian research ship, came into view. I knew that I would have to prove myself to the people on that ship if I were to fulfill my purpose. I was certain that they thought I was a liar, a nutcase, someone just looking for attention. I felt certain that they would have researched my story.
I had told them that my name was once Rose DeWitt Bukater, but their records would show that Rose DeWitt Bukater had died on Titanic at the age of seventeen.
If they had taken the time to trace Rose Calvert back to the twenties, they would know that I was working as an actress in Los Angeles, which certainly would have raised their suspicions, especially because my name was not Rose Bukater but Rose Dawson. Had they continued to trace Rose Dawson, they would know that I married Joseph Calvert, moved to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and had my two children. They would also know that I was now a widow living in Ojai.
All of this is quite true. There was just one thing missing from that "biography". Everyone who knew about The Heart of the Ocean was now dead. But I knew.
Soon we were landing on the helipad on the Keldysh. Three men awaited us, awaited me. One appeared to be in his late forties, deeply tanned, wearing a number of chains holding chunks of gold that covered his gray chest hairs. I was certain that this was Brock Lovett. A second man was huge and wide-bodied with scruffy hair and beard. I believe the word Lizzie used to describe him was "grungy". The third man was short and slim with dark hair and unlike the others, looked like a businessman. Mr. Lovett looked eager; the second man looked skeptical; the third man looked worried. Knowing that they had not found The Heart of the Ocean and certain that that was the true reason for the expedition, I was certain that the third man was Mr. Buell, worried because the expedition was over budget.
No sooner was the helicopter on the pad than Mr. Lovett opened the door. It was amusing to watch their faces as the helicopter pilot handed out our ten suitcases—I do not travel light. Then I was lowered down in my wheelchair, clutching Freddie, before Lizzie jumped out. Even as she introduced us, and Mr. Lovett introduced himself, Mr. Buell, and the grungy man, Mr. Lewis Bodine, the pilot handed out one more item. As Mr. Buell led Lizzie and me towards our stateroom, Mr. Lovett found himself holding my goldfish bowl full of fish.
Later, Lizzie was unpacking our things in the small utilitarian room that would serve as our stateroom while I was placing a number of framed photographs on the bureau, arranging them carefully next to the fishbowl when the door opened and Mr. Lovett and Mr. Bodine looked in.
"Stateroom all right?" Mr. Lovett asked.
I turned to smile at him. "Yes. Very nice. Have you met my granddaughter, Lizzie? She takes care of me."
Lizzie also smiled. "Yes. We met just a few minutes ago, Grandma. Remember? Up on deck?"
I softly hit my forehead, "Oh, yes," and the look Mr. Bodine gave Mr. Lovett told me that he was certain that I was senile. I would enjoy proving him wrong. I finished arranging my photographs, then turned to smile at them. "There, that's nice. I have to have my pictures when I travel. And Freddie, of course." At the sound of his name, my dog barked. "Isn't that right, sweetie?"
"Would you like anything?" Mr. Lovett asked, obviously thinking of food or drink.
But I wanted something else. "Yes. I should like to see my drawing."
Soon we were on their laboratory deck in their preservation area and I was staring at the drawing in its tray of water, confronting myself across a span of 84 years. The drawing swayed and rippled in the water, almost as if alive.
Suddenly I could see a hand, holding a Conte crayon, deftly creating a shoulder and the shape of her hair with two efficient lines. Then I could see his eyes, just visible over the top of a sketching pad, looking at me--soft eyes, but fearlessly direct.
I smiled remembering.
Mr. Lovett was more interested in something else. He showed me a period black-and-white photograph of a diamond necklace on a black velvet jeweler's display stand. The diamond necklace had a complex setting with a massive central stone that was almost heart-shaped. As he spoke, awe filled his voice, awe and greed. "Louis XVI wore a fabulous stone, called the Blue Diamond of the Crown, which disappeared in 1792, about the time that old Louie lost everything from the neck up. The theory goes that the crown diamond was chopped, too—re-cut into a heart-like shape—and it became Le Coeur de la Mer: The Heart of the Ocean. Today it would be worth more than The Hope Diamond."
I shuddered. "It was a dreadful, heavy thing." Pointing at the drawing, I added, "I only wore it this once."
"You actually believe this is you, Grandma?" Lizzie asked, surprised.
"Oh, it is I, dear. Was I not a dish?" and they all had to laugh.
All but Mr. Brock, that is. Even as they laughed, he continued, "I tracked it down through the insurance record…an old claim that was settled under terms of absolute secrecy. Do you know who the claimant was, Rose?"
I smiled. "Someone named Hockley, I should imagine."
Mr. Lovett's eyes glowed as if I had just told him that I was a leprechaun about to lead him to my pot of gold. And perhaps I was. "That's right. Nathan Hockley, Pittsburgh steel tycoon. For a diamond necklace his son Caledon Hockley bought in France for his fiancée…you…a week before he sailed. And the claim was filed right after the sinking. So the diamond had to have gone down with the ship. See that date?" he asked Lizzie.
"April 14, 1912," she read.
"If your grandma is who she says she is," Mr. Bodine's skeptical voice added, "she was wearing the diamond the day Titanic sank.
Maybe Mr. Bodine did not believe me, but Mr. Lovett most certainly did. He turned to look at me hungrily. "And that makes you my new best friend. I will happily compensate you for anything you can tell us that will lead to its recovery."
I shook my head. "I do not want your money, Mr. Lovett. I know how hard it is for people who care greatly for money to give some away."
"You don't want anything?" and Mr. Bodine's voice was even more skeptical.
"You may give me my drawing, if anything I tell you is of value."
Mr. Lovett grinned wolfishly. "Deal." Then he pushed my wheelchair over to a worktable, saying, "Over here are a few things we recovered from your stateroom."
Shrunken in my chair, I could just barely see over the tabletop, staring at the fifty or so objects laid out on the worktable. Some were valuable, others mundane. With a trembling hand, I lifted a tortoise shell hand mirror, inlaid with mother of pearl. I caressed it wonderingly. "This was mine. How extraordinary! It looks the same as the last time I saw it." I turned the mirror over and looked at my ancient face in the cracked glass and shuddered. "The reflection has changed a bit."
Then I picked up an ornate art-nouveau hair comb—a jade butterfly taking flight on its ebony handle. As I handled that comb, I could remember taking it out of my hair, letting my hair down. A rush of other images and emotions that had lain dormant for eight decades swamped me.
Seeing it, Mr. Lovett asked, "Are you ready to go back to Titanic?"
They led Lizzie and me to their imaging shack, a darkened room lined with television monitors. Each one showed a different image of the wreck. "Live from twelve thousand feet," laughed Mr. Bodine.
"These are coming from our two submersibles," Mr. Lovett explained.
I stared at one that showed the bow, memories overwhelming me. That bow, that railing, once so shiny and new. That is where I first felt as if I were flying. I could feel the wind in my face; feel the strength of his arms around my waist and the gentleness of his lips on my cheek. Now here was that same bow--that same railing--covered with sea urchins and an overgrowth of "rusticles" that draped them like mutated Spanish moss.
"The bow's stuck in the bottom like an ax, from the impact," Mr. Bodine explained. "Here...I can run a simulation we worked up on this monitor here." Lizzie turned my chair, so I could see the screen of Mr. Bodine's computer. As we waited for the file to open, he kept talking. "We've put together the world's largest database on Titanic. Okay, here..."
"Lewis," Mr. Lovett interrupted. "Rose might not want to see this."
"No, no. It is fine. I am curious."
So Mr. Bodine started a graphic on the screen, which paralleled his rapid-fire narration. "She hits the berg on the starboard side, and it sort of bumps along...punching holes like a Morse code...dit, dit, dit, down the side. Now she's flooding in the forward compartment...and the water spills over the tops of the bulkhead, going aft. As the bow is going down, her stern is coming up...slow at first...and then faster and faster until it's lifting all that weight, maybe twenty or thirty thousand tons...so SKRTT! It splits! Right down to the keel, which acts like a big hinge. Now the bow swings down and the stern falls back level...but the weight of the bow pulls the stern up vertical, and then the bow section detaches, heading for the bottom. The stern bobs like a cork, floods, and goes under about 2:30 AM. Two hours and forty minutes after the collision.
"The bow pulls out of its dive and planes away, almost a half a mile, before it hits bottom, going maybe 12 miles an hour. KABOOM! The stern implodes as it sinks from the pressure and rips apart from the force of the current as it falls, landing like a big pile of junk." He turned to grin at me. "Pretty cool?"
My own voice just as cool, I replied, "Thank you for that fine forensic analysis, Mr. Bodine. Of course, the experience of it was somewhat different."
"Will you share it with us?" asked Mr. Lovett.
"Yes," I replied. "After you share what you have seen with me," and he nodded then began playing the film they shot the day they found my drawing.
Out of the darkness, like a ghostly apparition, the bow of a ship appeared. Its knife-edge prow was coming straight at us, seeming to plow the bottom sediment like ocean waves. It towered above the sea floor, standing just as it landed 84 years ago.
I could hear Mr. Lovett's voice coming from the player. "Seeing her coming out of the darkness like a ghost ship still gets to me every time. To see the sad ruin of the great ship sitting here where she landed at 2:30 in the morning of April 15th, 1912, after her long fall from the world above," and although Mr. Lovett's voice sounded sarcastic, Titanic was getting to me, all over again.
Now we seemed to be diving aft down the starboard side, passed the huge anchor, its chains still laid out in two neat rows, its bronze windlass caps still gleaming, then up and over, the railing, landing on the Boat Deck, next to the ruins of the Officer Quarters. Mr. Lovett's voice continued, "Dive 6. Here we are again on the deck of Titanic, 2 ½ miles down, 3,821 meters. Pressure outside is 3 1/4 tons per square foot. These windows are 9 inches thick, and if they go then it's 'Sayanara' in two micro-seconds." I heard the beginning of Mr. Bodine's guffaw, just before the sound went mute, but the pictures continued, somehow more real without Mr. Lovett's insincere narration.
As I watched the now-silent images on the screen, they began triggering memories. I recognized one of the Wellin davits, still in place. I could almost hear ghostly waltz music, and the faint and echoing sound of an officer's voice, English-accented, calling, "Women and children only." Looking down at the deck, I could almost see screaming faces in a running mob. I could hear people crying, praying. I could feel the pandemonium, the terror.
Now they were sending a remote-operated vehicle, which they had nicknamed "Snoop Dog" even deeper down into the wreck. Through the eye of its camera, we saw more of the wreckage, and more of my memories came flooding back. With "Snoop Dog", I now seem to be descending through an open shaft that once was the beautiful Grand Staircase. I stared at the ruins of the clock, still set at 2:20, and could almost feel him waiting there for me.
Now I seemed to be going down several decks, and I could almost feel my hand on his arm, or hear shots firing behind me. Now I seemed to be entering the First Class Reception Room, moving through the cavernous interior. The remains of the ornate hand-carved woodwork, which gave the ship its elegance, moved through the floodlights, the lines blurred by slow dissolution and descending "rusticle" formations. Stalactites of rust hung down so that at times it looked like a natural grotto then "Snoop Dog" would turn, and the lines of a ghostly undersea mansion could be seen again.
In the sand covering the bottom of the wreck, I saw a broken pair of glasses that I was certain I had seen on an old gentleman's face. I saw the head of a doll, and I remembered the little girl who carried it. Now we seem to be going down a long corridor, and I could see a little boy, who could not have been more than three years old, standing ankle-deep in water, lost, alone, crying, and I could see a wall of water thundering down the corridor, engulfing the child and threatening to engulf me.
That wall did not engulf me, but my memories did. Shaken by the flood of memories and emotions, my eyes welled up, and I put my head down, sobbing quietly.
Lizzie began wheeling my chair toward the door. "I'm taking her to rest."
"No," I protested, because now I knew I had to tell them the full story. I had to make them realize that these people, these emotions, were more important than a hard piece of crystallized carbon, no matter how rare or how beautiful that diamond might be. Only by putting them on that ship, forcing them to share that journey with me, would I even have a chance. I already knew how very much it would hurt me to relive that experience, but I also knew I no longer had a choice.
"Come on, Nana," Lizzie urged, using the name she had called me as a child.
"No!" I cried, more forcefully, and she stepped back. I turned my wheelchair away from the screen and stared at the others, who stared back at me. How could I possibly find the words to make them understand?
Mr. Lovett turned on his recorder and pointed the microphone at me. "Tell us, Rose."
And I realized that it was as simple as that. "It has been 84 years," I began.
"It's okay," he coaxed condescendingly. "Just try to remember. Anything."
I glared at him. "Do you want to hear this or not, Mr. Lovett?"
He nodded, apologetically but still with a trace of condescension, so again I spoke. "It has been 84 years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in. Titanic was called The Ship of Dreams, and she was. She really was."
I glanced again at the pictured hull on the screen behind me, coming from one of the submersibles' cameras, way down below us, and suddenly in my mind's eye, the hull became shiny and new again. I could feel myself become that seventeen-year-old girl portrayed in the drawing. I could feel myself riding in the Renault, Cal on one side of me, my mother on the other, as we stared up at the gleaming white superstructure of Titanic, as she rose mountainously beyond that rail, and above that, the buff-colored funnels that stood against the sky like the pillars of a great temple.
I gathered myself and turned back towards my audience. I started to speak again, knowing that I was about to lead everyone on a journey through time, deep into the expanses of my now-unlocked heart...
To be continued if there's interest...