In Bruges by Martin MeDonagh1. BER, BROGES seREEES - wrour Various shots of the empty, cobble-stoned, other worldly streets of Bruges, Belgium: Tt'e winter, anda freezing fog Covers everything? the Gothic churches, ‘the narrow canals, their odd Little bridges. We could be in any pericd of the last five hundred years. We happen to be in the present day. BAY apanke over allthis. Bar (¥.0.) Atter I killed then I dropped the gun in the Thames, washed the Fesidue off my hands in the bathroom of a Burger king, and walked hone to avait ingtructions. shortly thereafter the instructions came through - "Gat the fuck out of London, you dumb fucking cunts. Get to Bruges". I didn't even know where Bruges fucking was. FADE 0 BLACK. Rar (V.0.) Tee in Belgiut. OPENING CREDITS. 2. BX, BLACK SCREEN - DAY SOUND ONLY of two men walking, a train in the backsround. Rar Bruges is a shithole. xem Bruges {s not a shithole. mr Bruges ig a shithole. Rey, we've only just got off the fucking train. Could we reserve judgement on Bruges ustil we've seen ‘the fucking place? may 1 kugy it’s gonna be a shithole. 3. ERP, BRUGES S7REETS - DAY KEN and RAY walking through the pretty Christmas-tide streets from Minnevater Park to the Burg; past quaint chocolate shops, past horse and carts, past canal boats, past tourists taking photos of all these.SHOOTING SCRIPT - IN BRUGES - 29/12/2006 2 KEN, pop-up map in hand, is enjoying the novelty of the piace, wnuen irritates the sulky RAY no-end. By the end of The walk we have passed most of Bruges picturesque places, one of which could be described as a shithole. may shithole. BET. HOTEL CANALSIDE - DAY They arrive at their pretty canalside hotel, KEN looking it Looks quite nice. RAY just looks at him. 5. INP, HOPEL LOBBY - DAY A enall (five room) family-run place; a breakfast room off ‘the lobby, a narrow set of carpeted stairs to the first (and only) floor, and a saall front desk that nobody's at» KEN ings the bell. Great service. (quietly) cheers» focking... upy oF T will snack yours, in your fates fucking... head. mar Yeah? You and whose army? Your man's? xx ‘Are you twelve years fucking old? WORIE, the pretty, heavily pregnant receptionist /ommer of ‘about’ thirty, appears behind the desk, obviously having heard. Oh, heddo... par No, i'm nob twelve years tucking old. BAY site, in a mood.