Paul Haggis

People on the street corners, they looked at this picture and they took hope. Don't ask me why, I think it's a crappy picture, myself. You can't even see your faces! But it said we can win this war, are winning this war, we just need you to dig a little deeper. They want to give us that money. No, they want to give it to you.

Aw, that's it, that's beautiful. Yeah, that's beautiful. Yeah, why tell me? I'm only the guy that has to explain it to a hundred and fifty million Americans. Who is in the goddamn picture? Are any of you guys in the goddamn picture?

Six guys raising a flag over Iwo Jima. Victory is ours. You're three of them, right?

Well, what'd you do, raise a goddamn flag every time you stopped for lunch?

You know what they're calling this bond drive? The Mighty Seventh. They might've called it the "We're Flat Fucking Broke And Can't Even Afford Bullets So We're Begging For Your Pennies" bond drive, but it didn't have quite the ring. They could've called it that, though, because the last four bond drives came up so short we just printed money instead. Ask any smart boy on Wall Street, he'll tell you our dollar is next to worthless, we've borrowed so much. And nobody is lending any more. Ships aren't being built, tanks aren't being built, machine guns, bazookas, hand grenades, zip. You think this is a farce? You want to go back to your buddies? Well stuff some rocks in your pockets before you get on the plane, because that's all we got left to throw at the Japanese. And don't be surprised if your plane doesn't make it off the runway, because the fuel dumps are empty. And our good friends, the Arabs, are only taking bullion. If we don't raise $14 billion, and that's million with a "B," this war is over by the end of the month. We make a deal with the Japanese, we give whatever they want and we come home, because you've seen them fight, and they sure as shit ain't giving up. $14 billion! The last three drives didn't make that much all together.

Hey, it took a lot of talented folks a long time to make that thing. Just wait till tonight when it's lit properly and there's thousands of cheering people in the stands, it's gonna look a lot better. So, stadium lights come down, spotlight comes up, you get your cue, you charge up this thing with the flag, you plant it at the top. You smile, you wave, you know the drill.

Hey, that's showbiz. And try to stand how you stood the first time you planted it. Just, you know, pretend the other three guys are with you.

That's what we're calling the mothers of the dead flag-raisers. You present each mother with a flag, they say a few words, people will shit money. It'll be so moving.

Fucking black people, huh?

I mean, I know all the sociological reasons why, per capita eight times more black men are incarcerated than white men... Schools are a disgrace, lack of opportunity, bias in the judicial system, all that stuff... But still... but still, it's... it's gotta get to you, I mean, on a gut level, as a black man. They just can't keep their hands out of the cookie jar.

Actually, we were thinking of you until we saw that. It's your brothers file. Twenty something years old and already three felonys. Three Strikes Law, the kid's going away for life for stealing a car. Christ, that's a shitty law. There's a warrant in there. But still, he had every opportunity you had. Fucking black people, huh?

What are you? The fucking Defender of All Things White? We're talking about a white that shot three black men and you're arguing with me, that maybe we're not being "fair" to him? You know, what? Maybe you're right. Maybe you're right. Maybe Lewis did provoke this. Maybe he got exactly what was coming to him. Or, maybe, stoned or not, being a black man in the valley was enough to get him killed. There was no one there to see who shot first, so there is no way way to know. Which means, we could get this wrong. Maybe that's what happened with your brother. Maybe we got it wrong. Maybe Lewis isn't the only one who deserves the benefit of the doubt. You're the one closest to all this. You need to tell us. What does your gut tell you?

The D.A's squad loses its lead investigator next month. Rick is quite adamant that his replacement be a person of color. It's a high profile position, and he wants to send the right message to the community.

Internal affairs says Conklin has two suspicious shootings on his record both black men, both times he was cleared because he cited self defense. Detective Lewis makes black man number three do you know any reason we should investigate further?

So it wasn't Lewis's car he might not have even known the money was in it.

we have attorneys for this slain police officer camping in our offices. We have his mother and half a dozen men of "the cloth" who swear that Lewis was one of the twelve apostles of Christ. We have two black city council men and a Congresswoman who called on the hour every hour demanding what the district attorney intends to do about this and you want the DA to walk into that press room and tell them all that the situation is "complicated"? Who knows about the money?

There's only two people in this room

I guess I don't see a problem here as it wasn't Lewis's fault the money isn't evidence of any wrongdoing and even if it was we aren't going to prosecute a dead man which means the money Internal Affairs is holding can't even be considered evidence.

It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.

Mom, I can't talk to you right now, okay? I'm having sex with a white woman.

Oh, shit. Come on. I would have said you were Mexican, but I don't think it would have pissed her off as much.

OK, I was raised badly. Why don't you take your clothes off, get back into bed, and teach me a lesson?

Ah. Well then I guess the big mystery is, who gathered all those remarkably different cultures together and taught them all how to park their cars on their lawns?

So, uh... all I need to do to make this disappear is to frame a potentially innocent man.

It's more complicated than we originally thought. We found three hundred thousand dollars in the trunk of the car Detective Lewis was driving. The car is registered to a Cindy Bradley. We haven't been able to get in touch with because she apparently left town.

You really think you'll be able to make that fly?

We can do this whole dance if you want to but I'm willing to bet when the coroner's report comes back tomorrow it's going to say that Lewis was coked out of his head.

Well, fuck you very much. But thanks for thinking of me.

I swear to you, Mom. I'll find whoever killed him.

Don't say that. Maggie walked through that door with nothing buts guts. No chance in the world of being what she needed to be. It was because of you that she was fighting the championship of the world. You did that. People die everyday, Frankie - mopping floors, washing dishes and you know what their last thought is? I never got my shot. Because of you Maggie got her shot. If she dies today you know what her last thought would be? I think I did all right.

If there's magic in boxing, it's the magic of fighting battles beyond endurance, beyond cracked ribs, ruptured kidneys and detached retinas. It's the magic of risking everything for a dream that nobody sees but you.

Frankie likes to say that boxing is an unnatural act, that everything in boxing is backwards: sometimes the best way to deliver a punch is to step back... But step back too far and you ain't fighting at all.

The body knows what fighters don't: how to protect itself. A neck can only twist so far. Twist it just a hair more and the body says, "Hey, I'll take it from here because you obviously don't know what you're doing… Lie down now, rest, and we'll talk about this when you regain your senses." It's called the knockout mechanism.

Some people say the most important thing a fighter can have is heart. Frankie'd say: show me a fighter who was nothing but heart and I'll show you a man waiting for a beating.

Boxing is about respect. Getting it for yourself, and taking it away from the other guy.

To make a fighter you gotta strip them down to bare wood: you can't just tell 'em to forget everything you know if you gotta make 'em forget even their bones... make 'em so tired they only listen to you, only hear your voice, only do what you say and nothing else... show 'em how to keep their balance and take it away from the other guy... how to generate momentum off their right toe and how to flex your knees when you fire a jab... how to fight backin' up so that the other guy doesn't want to come after you. Then you gotta show 'em all over again. Over and over and over... till they think they're born that way.

She came from southwest Missoura, the hills outside the scratchy-ass Ozark town of Theodosia, set in the cedars and oak trees, somewhere between nowhere and goodbye.

No matter where he is, I thought you should know what kind of man your father really was.

All fighters are pig-headed some way or another: some part of them always thinks they know better than you about something. Truth is: even if they're wrong, even if that one thing is going to be the ruin of them, if you can beat that last bit out of them… they ain't fighters at all.

Boxing is an unnatural act. Cos everything in it is backwards. You wanna move to the left, you don't step left, you push on the right toe. To move right, you use your left toe. Instead of running from the pain - like a sane person would do, you step into it.

Only ever met one man I wouldn't wanna fight. When I met him he was already the best cut man in the business. Started training and managing in the sixties, but never lost his gift.

...but maybe he didn't have anything left in his heart. I just hope he found someplace where he could find a little peace. A place set in the cedars and oak trees. Somewhere between nowhere and goodbye. But that's probably wishful thinking.

I'm 32, Mr. Dunn, and I'm here celebrating the fact that I spent another year scraping dishes and waitressing which is what I've been doing since 13, and according to you, I'll be 37 before I can even throw a decent punch, which I have to admit, after working on this speed bag for a month getting nowhere may be the God's simple truth. Other truth is, my brother's in prison, my sister cheats on welfare by pretending one of her babies is still alive, my daddy's dead, and my momma weighs 312lbs. If I was thinking straight, I'd go back home, find a used trailer, buy a deep fryer and some oreos. Problem is, this the only thing I ever felt good doing. If I'm too old for this, then I got nothing. That enough truth to suit you?

I can't be like this, Frankie. Not after what I've done. I've seen the world. People chanted my name. Well, not my name... some damn name you gave me. But they were chanting for me. I was in magazines. You think I ever dreamed that'd happen? I was born two pounds, one-and-a-half ounces. Daddy used to tell me I'd fight my way into this world, and I'd fight my way out. That's all I wanna do, Frankie. I just don't wanna fight you to do it. I got what I needed. I got it all. Don't let 'em keep taking it away from me. Don't let me lie here 'till I can't hear those people chanting no more.

Momma, you take Mardell and JD and get home 'fore I tell that lawyer there that you were so worried about your welfare you never signed those house papers like you were supposed to. So anytime I feel like it I can sell that house from under your fat, lazy, hillbilly ass. And if you ever come back, that's exactly what I'll do.