“Monkees Marooned” Script

EXT. STREET

PETER:
Isn’t he cute?

SHELDON:
Psst! Psst! Hey, kid. Over here. Hey, kid. Come here. Wanna see some real good pictures?

PETER:
Oh. Hey, yeah. I’d love to. I haven’t seen a good picture since Carnival in Costa Rica with Dick Haymes and Vera-Ellen.

SHELDON:
Not that kinda picture, dumb dumb. This kind.

PETER:
Oh, hey.

SHELDON:
Terrific, huh?

PETER:
Boy, I’ll say. These are really something.

SHELDON:
The little one is my wife’s from a previous marriage.

PETER:
You certainly have a very nice family.

SHELDON:
Glad you like ’em. Psst! Kid, come here.

PETER:
Huh?

SHELDON:
Wanna make a neat buy?

PETER:
Well, it depends on the buy.

SHELDON:
The entire city of San Diego. I’m gonna let you have a good deal on it.

PETER:
Well, gee, I don’t know Mr. uh—

SHELDON:
Leonard. Leonard Sheldon’s the name, and big business is the game.

PETER:
Parcheesi’s my game.

SHELDON:
Wanna buy a map of Blackbeard’s treasure?

PETER:
Gee, I don’t have any money.

SHELDON:
I’ll swap you for the guitar.

PETER:
Oh, no. No. This guitar cost me a hundred and eight dollars.

SHELDON:
Oh. Psst! Psst! Hey, kid. Come on over here. Psst! Psst! Over here, over here.

PETER:
Where is this place?

SHELDON:
Only a stone’s throw off the coast.

PETER:
Gee, on the map, it looks like miles.

SHELDON:
So I got a good arm. Listen, kid, I once almost pitched for Brooklyn.

PETER:
Really? Do you still pitch?

SHELDON:
Well, in a manner of speaking, you might say I do. How about it, kid?

PETER:
Yeah, I don’t know.

SHELDON:
Would a guy who once almost pitched for Brooklyn steer you wrong?

PETER:
No, I guess not.

SHELDON:
Now you’re thinking. Atta boy.

PETER:
Thank you, mister.

SHELDON:
Enjoy it. Take care. Bye.

PETER:
Wow, a real treasure map.

SHELDON:
Hey, buddy. Wanna buy a guitar?

MIKE:
Huh? No. No, I-I don’t.

“(Theme From) The Monkees”

EXT. LAKE

MIKE:
Buried treasure. That’s sorta out of hand, Pete.

DAVY:
Next thing you know, you’ll be buying San Diego.

PETER:
I turned San Diego down.

MICKY:
A treasure map. That’s one of the dumbest things you’ve ever done, Pete.

PETER:
That’s not fair, Micky.

DAVY:
Uh, that’s not true, Micky; he’s done dumber things than that, I know.

PETER:
Thanks, man.

MIKE:
Alright. Ain’t no use in crying over spilled milk.

DAVY:
And a stitch in time saves nine.

MIKE:
A stitch in time—

MICKY:
And a watched pot never boils.

MIKE:
A watched pot never—

PETER:
Hey, quit it. You guys are always picking on Mike.

MIKE:
Yeah, thanks a lot, Pete. Okay, I guess we might as well go.

MICKY:
Yeah, let’s go.

DAVY:
Let’s go.

PETER:
Where are we going?

MIKE:
Well, we’re gonna go find this furshlugginer treasure.

PETER:
Ah!

MICKY:
On a treasure hunt! Yay!

PETER:
Treasure hunt! Yeah! Yeah!

EXT. LAKE

DAVY:
If we hurry, men, we can destroy the British at Trenton.

MICKY:
Uh, Davy, you are British.

MIKE:
Yeah.

DAVY:
Oh, yeah. I forgot.

MIKE:
Uh, Davy, there’s too much stuff in the boat.

DAVY:
Nonsense! Balderdash! We have to be prepared!

MIKE:
Balder—

MICKY:
There really is.

MIKE:
—there’s too much stuff in the boat.

MICKY:
Too much.

PETER:
Davy, don’t put the—

DAVY:
Launch the ship! Taking too much stuff. That’s silly. Nonsense. Launch the ship!

MIKE:
Oh.

MICKY:
Alright, babe.

DAVY:
Launch the ship, I say. Ha ha! Launch the ship. Launch the ship. Launch the ship. Launch the ship.

MIKE:
Totally nuts.

DAVY:
You’re right. There was too much stuff in there.

DAVY:
Yes, uh, was too much stuff in the boat, wasn’t there, Davy?

PETER:
Yes, David. That’s true, Davy.

MIKE:
Gee, I thought it would hold it fine.

DAVY:
You were right. Ah!

EXT. BEACH

MIKE:
Alright. Okay.

MICKY:
I don’t like it; it’s too quiet. I don’t like it; it’s too noisy!

PETER:
Hey, look! A footprint.

MICKY:
This island’s supposed to be deserted. Let’s get out of here!

MIKE:
Wait a—i-it’s too late to turn back now.

DAVY:
Well, what time is it?

MIKE:
Huh? Well, it’s, uh, ten after twelve.

MICKY:
You’re right. It’s too late to turn back.

PETER:
The map says we go north.

MICKY:
North?

MIKE:
Well, let’s see. North. According to my calculations, is right due that way.

DAVY:
Okay, we go this way.

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

THURSDAY:
Hee hee. Hee hee. Who writes that stuff?

EXT. JUNGLE

MIKE:
North, huh? I hope this is north.

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

PSHAW:
Attack! Attack! Sound the alarm!

THURSDAY:
Right, Major Pshaw. The alarm.

PSHAW:
Battle stations! They’re attacking my island!

THURSDAY:
Grab my spear!

PSHAW:
I’ll get them! Come on, Thursday! Let’s get them. Where’s my gun?

THURSDAY:
My shield!

PSHAW:
We’ll get those pirates! I know we’ll get—

EXT. JUNGLE

PETER:
Michael! Michael! Did you hear that?

MIKE:
What?

PETER:
Did you hear that?

MIKE:
What? Did I hear what?

PETER:
Michael—

MIKE:
Did I hear what? What?

PETER:
—it was a rifle shot!

MIKE:
A r—

PETER:
A rifle shot!

MIKE:
Oh—

PETER:
A rifle shot!

MIKE:
—yeah, I heard that. I heard that.

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

PSHAW:
Let’s go! Come on, Thursday!

EXT. JUNGLE

MICKY:
Hey, you know, that was a rifle shot. That means that somebody’s on this island trying to kill us.

DAVY:
No, that wasn’t a rifle shot, man. That—this is a deserted island.

MICKY:
Yeah.

DAVY:
It was probably a car backfiring or something.

MICKY:
Right.

EXT. JUNGLE

PSHAW:
If I catch those blaggards, I’ll kill ’em! I’ll show ’em! I didn’t spend ten years on this bloody island looking for buried treasure to have some interloper steal it on me.

THURSDAY:
Has it been ten years, sir?

PSHAW:
Yes, ten years. And the only good day was that Tuesday I hired you, Thursday. Yes, you’re a magnificent man Friday, Thursday. You’ve made every day a Sunday, Thursday.

EXT. JUNGLE

MIKE:
♪♪♪

PETER:
Ouch!

MIKE:
Ah! Boy, I’ll tell you what. These insects really bug me. Ha ha ha ha.

DAVY:
Hey, man, they’re all around us. They’re all over.

PETER:
I’m gonna be eaten alive.

MICKY:
Hold it, guys. I’ve saved the day. Insect spray. Isn’t that beautiful?

PETER:
Marvelous.

MICKY:
Oh, that smells nice too.

MIKE:
What insect spray is that?

MICKY:
It attracts insects. Heh.

DAVY:
Oh!

PETER:
Attracts in-insects.

MICKY:
What’s that?

MIKE:
Oh, a piece of thing here.

MICKY:
A piece of a rope ??? in the middle of the jungle.

PETER:
No, it’s a ??? vine.

PSHAW:
Pick up!

MICKY:
It’s going up. The hook. ??? I think we’re being trapped. Ah!

PSHAW:
This is more fun than a net full of monkeys.

MICKY:
Ah! It’s very far down there. What is holding us up here?

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

PSHAW:
What are you doing on my island?

PETER:
Well, we came to find buried—

MICKY:
A picnic! We came here to bury our picnic. We were just gonna bury it under an ant hill. Uh heh.

DAVY:
A picnic.

PSHAW:
Well, you’ll never leave this island alive. My practice is to shoot all trespassers.

MIKE:
Practice m-makes perfect.

DAVY:
As a fellow Englishman, c-can you give us a break? Can you, can you give us a head start or something, please?

THURSDAY:
White man speak with straight tongue.

MIKE:
Oh, I like his attitude.

DAVY:
I like him too. I like—nice man.

MIKE:
I like that man a lot.

DAVY:
Nice, very nice, yes.

MIKE:
Him, I dig.

THURSDAY:
Thank you.

PSHAW:
Very well.

DAVY:
Why don’t you be it?

MIKE:
Oh!

DAVY:
That’s it. That’s it.

MIKE:
That’s it.

DAVY:
You’re it.

PSHAW:
What a jolly good idea. I’ll be it. I’ll give you all a head start. I’m it!

MICKY:
Great, great! He’s it.

PSHAW:
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty…

MICKY:
No ??? counting by fives!

PETER:
This sounds like a fun game. I’m gonna go hide behind the chair; he’ll never find me.

MICKY:
No, Peter. No, not behind the chair. He’s playing for keepsies.

PETER:
Can I be on his side?

EXT. JUNGLE

PETER:
That’s good for Davy.

MIKE:
Let’s see.

DAVY:
Ooh!

MIKE:
Come on, guys. We’ll go this way. Hey-hey-hey, guys? Hey, Davy?

DAVY:
What?

MIKE:
Mick?

MICKY:
What?

MIKE:
What are you, what are you g—what are you doing?

MICKY:
Hiding behind you.

MIKE:
What—hiding behind me?

PETER:
Yeah.

MIKE:
If he finds me, that means he finds you.

DAVY:
Oh, we’d better hide him.

MICKY:
Right, we’d better hide Mike.

PETER:
Hide Mike. Hide Mike.

THURSDAY:
Who writes that stuff?

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

PSHAW:
Ready or not, here I come! Thursday, which way did they go?

THURSDAY:
I couldn’t tell you that, sir; it wouldn’t be sporting.

PSHAW:
You’re right. It wouldn’t be sporting to tell me, but it’s alright to point.

EXT. BEACH

MICKY:
The boat!

DAVY, MICKY, MIKE, PETER:
It’s gone!

PETER:
It’s not under here.

MIKE:
Let’s swim for it.

DAVY:
No, man; we’ll drown.

MICKY:
Well, let’s drown for it.

DAVY:
No, Micky!

MIKE:
No, no, no, wait. Uh, we’re trapped.

MICKY:
We’re trapped.

PETER:
I—I--it was my—I didn’t—I’m sorry.

MIKE:
Well, hey, bu—Pete. Don’t, uh, don’t cry. It’s, uh, no—crying won’t get you anywhere.

MICKY:
I don’t know; look what it did for Barbara Stanwyck.

DAVY:
Ah!

MICKY:
Ah!

EXT. JUNGLE

MIKE:
What—oh, hello. We’re The, we’re The Monkees. Doctor-doctor Livingstone, I presume?

SCHWARTZKOV:
No, Doctor Schwartzkov is the name. Uh, here’s my card. Yeah. I work on the island. I specialize in jungle fever, malaria, cold, rash, baby deliveries, appendectomies, and sometimes, I grow orchids on the side. What do you say, boys? My office is always here. Come on by any time. I got the bag and the whole thing if you want to come by.

THURSDAY:
Who writes that stuff?

EXT. JUNGLE

PSHAW:
Did you happen to see four young men in the area?

SNAKE (V.O.):
Yes.

PSHAW:
Which way did they go?

SNAKE (V.O.):
That’s the way.

PSHAW:
Oh, excellent. Let’s go get ’em, Thursday!

THURSDAY:
Dirty snake in the grass.

EXT. JUNGLE

DAVY:
Oh, sugar.

MIKE:
Woo!

PETER:
Is it hot.

MICKY:
Really—

DAVY:
Phew.

MICKY:
—kinda bad.

MIKE:
I think, my good compatriots, that the time has come to split up.

PETER:
What?

DAVY:
Oh, no, man.

PETER:
No, man! What about the…

DAVY, MICKY, PETER:
Bl-lu-lum.

MICKY:
♪ Here we come ♪

DAVY:
??? Monkees, hey hey.

PETER:
Yeah, man. ???

MICKY:
♪ Hey, hey, we’re The Monkees ♪

MIKE:
Wait a minute, wait a minute, please. Uh, I mean that we should split up so that the major, uh, in his quest for our hides, doesn’t—

PETER:
Oh, you mean split up together here?

MIKE:
Yeah.

MICKY:
Yeah.

MIKE:
That’s right.

DAVY:
You’re right.

PETER:
Because of the—

MIKE:
We may have a better chance of surviving.

DAVY:
Goodbye.

PETER:
Yeah, okay. Uh, goodbye, guys, I’ll, um—

KIMBA:
Roar!

DAVY:
Ah!

MICKY:
Ah!

KIMBA:
Ahhhhh! Ooh.

MIKE:
Uh… yah!

KIMBA:
Ahhhhh! [coughs]

MICKY:
What’s the matter with him?

KIMBA:
Ooga mooga booga.

MIKE:
Oh!

MICKY:
Say something, say something. Anything.

MIKE:
We come in peace.

DAVY:
Yeah, peace.

MIKE:
Peace, baby.

KIMBA:
Maka waka toga booga.

MICKY:
What strange tongue does this native speak in?

PETER:
I understand that.

MIKE:
You—

MICKY:
You understand it?

MIKE:
What do you mean, you understand it?

PETER:
Would you repeat that?

KIMBA:
Kretch.

PETER:
He says that he’s the original Kimba of the jungle and that when the movie company ran out of money here on location, uh, in nineteen sixteen, they left him here behind to rot.

MIKE:
All he said was—

DAVY:
What happened to the chick that played his wife?

PETER:
She ran off with a casting director who promised her a big career.

MICKY:
What about the little kid that played the-the kid?

PETER:
He’s alive and well in Argentina.

MIKE:
You mean, you got all that from… All he said was “kretch”.

PETER:
Well, it’s not the word; it’s the way he said it.

DAVY:
Does he speak English?

KIMBA:
It been long time since I speak in my native tongue.

PETER:
No.

MIKE:
Ow!

MICKY:
What’s that? That’s-that’s the sound of guns.

KIMBA:
You come with Kimba. Kimba know jungle like palm of hand.

MIKE:
W-well, where do we go from here?

KIMBA:
Follow long line to callous. Turn right and go all the way down to wrist, back to finger.

MIKE:
He’s really some kind of a nut, a screwball.

DAVY:
Let’s go, then. Let’s go—

MICKY:
You can’t use your hand, Davy; it’s in meters, man.

DAVY:
Oh.

EXT. JUNGLE

PSHAW:
Louder, Thursday, louder! It’ll weaken them psychologically.

THURSDAY:
Or give ’em a terrible headache.

EXT. JUNGLE

KIMBA:
Stop.

MICKY:
Uh! What’s the, what’s the matter?

KIMBA:
Quicksand. Dangerous.

MICKY:
How do you know?

KIMBA:
I’m stuck.

MIKE:
Oh. Uh, we’ll help you, Kimba, baby.

MICKY:
Careful.

DAVY:
Oh, good.

MIKE:
Kimba, you gotta understand. We’re in a lot of trouble. If we don’t get off this island, Major Pshaw’s gonna kill us.

KIMBA:
Kimba call jungle friends. Apes, lions, elephants. They help us. Ahhhhh! [coughs] Ahhhhh!

DAVY:
What’s that, man?

MICKY:
Are you sure you know what you’re doing?

KIMBA:
I tried.

DAVY:
What? What? I already have a cat.

MIKE:
Uh, duh, uh, buh—

EXT. JUNGLE

PSHAW:
If you’re within the sound of my voice, let me warn you that your time is almost up, and if you’re not within the sound of my voice, th—then what the blazes am I shouting about?

EXT. JUNGLE

MICKY:
Wait!

MIKE:
What?

MICKY:
Our footprints!

MIKE:
What?

MICKY:
Great Scott, that means we’re lost! We’ve been going around in circles!

DAVY:
Oh, Micky, Micky. It’s a small set, man.

MIKE:
Yeah, don’t you remember like—

DAVY:
We have to use the same place, you know, different bushes, trees.

MIKE:
—like The Lone Ranger and the big rock, you remember?

DAVY:
Oh, that always used to come up, didn’t it, man?

MIKE:
Yeah.

DAVY:
I always wondered about that.

PETER:
That certainly sets my mind at ease.

DAVY:
Sets my mind at ease.

KIMBA:
No longer safe on land. Use vines. We swing. Ahhhhh!

MIKE:
D—uh, don’t do that.

KIMBA:
Ahhhhh!

MICKY:
Did he fall?

MIKE:
Yeah.

PETER:
Yes, he fell.

MIKE:
Not a tree thing, all over, he just… wham!

KIMBA:
No, man. I guess my swinging days are over.

EXT. JUNGLE

PSHAW:
Sly little devils, aren’t they?

THURSDAY:
That’s right, sir.

PSHAW:
I’m having a difficult time catching them too. I want their heads before sundown! Ooh!

THURSDAY:
Let’s separate, sir.

PSHAW:
Jolly good idea. Last one to catch the blighters is a rotten egg. Come along, this way.

EXT. JUNGLE

MICKY:
♪ Somewhere in the south pacific ♪

DAVY:
Boy, I’m so thirsty, I could—huh! Hey. Hey. Hey, didn’t I see you in a Stewart Granger movie? Ah! Ee!

THURSDAY:
Relax, men. I’ve defected.

PETER:
I’d see a doctor about that.

MIKE:
Tha-that’s not, that’s not what de-defect means.

PETER:
Yes, it is.

DAVY:
You mean, you left Major Puh-shaw?

MIKE:
Pshaw.

THURSDAY:
That’s right, baby.

MICKY:
How can we believe you?

THURSDAY:
I’ve got the weapon.

MICKY:
I believe you.

PETER:
I believe him.

MICKY:
I believe him. I believe him.

DAVY:
Yeah, we believe you. ???

MICKY:
Do you believe him? I-I really believe you, baby.

THURSDAY:
They believe me.

MIKE:
That’s all well and good, but how do we get off the island?

THURSDAY:
I know where he hid your boat. As soon as he goes to sleep, we can escape.

DAVY:
Uh, well, where do we hide in the meantime?

THURSDAY:
There’s only one safe place.

MICKY:
Where’s that?

THURSDAY:
Well, I can’t tell you now; that’s in the next scene.

MICKY:
Uh.

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

PETER:
I don’t think it’s too safe here in Major Puh-shaw—

MIKE:
Pshaw.

PETER:
—Pshaw’s hut.

THURSDAY:
Au contraire, Peter.

MIKE:
Au con…

THURSDAY:
I figure this is the one place that Major Pshaw wouldn’t look.

PSHAW:
Here again, you turncoats! Ha ha ha! Back, you blaggards! I thought that you would think that I would think that you wouldn’t come here. So you did. Therefore, so did I. Heh heh. This is the end. The die is cast.

DAVY:
You know, I always wondered what that meant.

PSHAW:
The cast shall die. If you’ve any last words, you better spit ’em out now.

MIKE:
Four score and twenty years ago…

PETER:
Mary, Mary, quite contrary…

DAVY:
The boy stood on the burning deck…

MICKY:
???

KIMBA:
Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques, dormez-vous, dormez-vous…

THURSDAY:
Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me…

PSHAW:
Quiet!

DAVY:
You wouldn’t gun us down in cold blood, would you? It isn’t British.

MIKE:
Oh, good! Good point! Way to go, Davy. Ha ha, ha ha.

PSHAW:
You’re right, but I’m Australian, so the rules don’t count. Heh heh heh.

MIKE:
He’s Australian, and those rules don’t count.

PSHAW:
I might decide to have you A, boiled in polyunsaturated oil. Or B, put bamboo under your fingernails.

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

PETER:
Bamboo cleans my fingernails the very best.

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

PSHAW:
Or C, exposure to the ants.

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

MIKE:
Oh, Aunt Ethel and Aunt Florence and Aunt Edna. Really-really nice to be, uh, be here with all my aunts. Get it? Aunts?

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

PSHAW:
D, give you a severe tongue lashing.

EXT. JUNGLE

MICKY:
Ow! Oh!

PSHAW:
Take that! And that! And take that!

INT. PSHAW’S HUT

PSHAW:
Or E, kill you straight off and carry on looking for the treasure.

PETER:
Did you say treasure?

PSHAW:
Yes, Blackbeard’s treasure. Been looking for it on this island for years.

PETER:
Oh, why don’t you use a map?

PSHAW:
Haven’t got one.

PETER:
You don’t?

PSHAW:
No.

PETER:
Oh, well, I have a map. Here.

DAVY:
Yeah, he’s got one.

MIKE:
Uh, do you think that you should give him that?

PSHAW:
Suffering succotash! The treasure! It’s here! Right under this bloody hut! Come on, you blaggards. Dig for it! Go on! Dig! I say dig! Ah! Dig!

MIKE:
I’m dig, I’m dig, I’m dig.

DAVY:
Sock it to his pig.

PSHAW:
And all the while, I’ve been sitting on it. Oh, the wages of sin.

DAVY:
Eureka! I found it.

PSHAW:
Well, now, pass it over here. I’m warning you. No tricks, you. Put it down! Get back there! The riches of the Spanish Main. Jewels, doubloons, triploons, and it’s mine!

JANE:
Oh!

KIMBA:
Ahhhhh!

JANE:
Honey!

KIMBA:
My leading lady!

JANE:
Honey!

KIMBA:
You came back.

JANE:
I couldn’t live without you, Kimba.

DAVY:
Sad.

MIKE:
I didn’t know it was going to turn into a love story.

PETER:
Sad? That’s not sad.

DAVY:
What is it?

PETER:
It’s very happy. Happy. I could cry.

DAVY:
Look at that.

THURSDAY:
It is very nice.

KIMBA:
We’ll make beautiful pictures together again.

“Daydream Believer”

EXT. STREET

SHELDON:
Psst! Hey kid, over here. Hey you, over here.

PETER:
Yeah?

SHELDON:
Wanna buy the whole city of Liverpool?

PETER:
Hey, don’t you remember me?

SHELDON:
Oh, yeah, now I recall.

PETER:
You’re a crook! You tried to sell me a treasure map, and there wasn’t any treasure. Officer? Officer, that man’s a crook.

POLICEMAN:
Is that so?

PETER:
Yeah, he tried to sell me San Diego, and then he sold me a worthless treasure map, and now he wants to sell me Liverpool.

POLICEMAN:
Did you buy it?

PETER:
No.

POLICEMAN:
Good.

PETER:
Oh, thank you. Heh heh.

POLICEMAN:
Now, would you be interested in a nice deal on Cleveland? These kids these days.

“What Am I Doing Hangin’ ’Round?”