The Ice Beneath Us
The dead weight of him was a shock, a fifty-year betrayal of remembered strength, pulling her down toward the ice.
Introduction
This adaptation of "The Ice Beneath Us" serves as a practical exercise in narrative translation, exploring how to transform the internal, psychological horror of a prose story into the observable, action-oriented language of a screenplay. By deconstructing the original text and rebuilding it within the strict constraints of cinematic formatting, this project offers a clear and engaging example of how different media tell stories, providing valuable insights for anyone interested in writing, filmmaking, or enhancing their digital and media literacy.
The Script
EXT. CABIN PORCH - DAY
A brutal ice storm. WIND HOWLS, scouring the landscape.
Every surface is sheathed in a clear, thin lacquer of ice. The wooden porch boards SCREAM under the boots of PAULINE (70s), her face raw from the cold, her body a study in grim determination.
She hauls the dead weight of her husband, DANNY (70s), a once-solid man now a sack of cold stones. His feet scrape and stumble on the ice.
Pauline’s gloved hand clamps the frozen brass doorknob. She twists, shoves her shoulder into the door. It resists, frozen shut.
A SOB of frustration catches in her throat. She puts her entire weight into it.
With a GROAN of tortured wood, the door gives way. They stumble inside in a tangle of limbs and frozen fabric.
INT. CABIN LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
The sudden, cloying warmth of the room hits them. A fire CRACKLES in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows.
Danny collapses onto a hooked rug, folding into a sodden heap. His breath comes in shallow, white puffs.
Pauline SLAMS the door shut, the sound a flat, final CRACK. She leans against it, her own breath ragged. She looks down at him.
His face is a waxy, bluish white. His eyes are open, staring at the pine-paneled ceiling, seeing nothing.
<center>PAULINE</center>
(a croak)
What were you doing?
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink.
Pauline kneels beside him, her knees CRACKING. She fumbles with the zipper on his ice-shelled coat, the metal tab burning her fingers. She has to use her teeth to pull it down.
She works mechanically, pulling off his boots, his coat, his shirt. Each item is stiff with frozen water. She piles them into a dark, steaming mound.
He remains utterly still. No shivering. Nothing.
She gets a thick wool blanket from a chest and wraps it around his bare torso. She cups his face. His skin is like stone.
<center>PAULINE</center>
Danny. Danny, look at me.
His eyes shift, a slow, grudging movement. They focus on her, but there’s no recognition. Just empty pools reflecting the firelight.
<center>DANNY</center>
(a dry rustle)
The ice... it’s not thick enough.
Pauline recoils, the words landing like a physical blow.
INT. CABIN LIVING ROOM - THE NEXT DAY
A subtle lessening of the dark. The world outside is gray and white, a landscape erased by ice. The wind is a low, mournful MOAN.
The only sounds are the TICKING of a grandfather clock and the HISS of embers.
Danny sits in a worn leather armchair, staring into the flames. He’s dressed, but the wool blanket is still draped over his shoulders.
Pauline stands in the kitchen doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. She moves toward him, her steps deliberate.
She holds a mug out to him.
<center>PAULINE</center>
Here.
He doesn’t look up. She places the mug on a small table beside him. The ceramic CLINKS loudly against the wood.
<center>PAULINE</center>
Danny?
Nothing. His silence is a wall.
LATER
A rhythmic, grating noise pulls Pauline from the kitchen.
SCRAPE. Pause. SCRAPE.
She peers into the living room. Danny has a small wooden box on his lap. His ice fishing kit.
He holds a long-shanked hook in one hand, a whetstone in the other. He sharpens it with slow, methodical movements.
SCRAPE. Pause. SCRAPE.
The firelight GLINTS off the sharpened point. A wicked little spark.
<center>PAULINE</center>
What are you doing?
He doesn’t stop.
<center>DANNY</center>
(low, raspy)
The ice will be thick enough soon. Need to be ready.
<center>PAULINE</center>
Ready for what? You haven’t fished in years...
Her voice trails off. He places the sharpened hook on a cloth and picks up another.
The SCRAPING begins again.
INT. CABIN HALLWAY - DAY
Pauline stands over an old rotary phone on a hall table. She lifts the heavy receiver, puts it to her ear.
Dead, flat silence. No dial tone.
<center>PAULINE</center>
(louder than intended)
The phone’s out.
From the living room, the SCRAPING continues, unabated.
Pauline jiggles the cradle. Nothing. She walks back to the living room doorway.
<center>PAULINE</center>
Danny, the phone is dead.
He finally looks up. A flicker of the man she knows, then it’s gone.
<center>DANNY</center>
I unplugged it.
<center>PAULINE</center>
You what?
<center>DANNY</center>
From the jack. Behind the table. All that crackling on the line... gives me a headache.
He looks back down at his work.
<center>PAULINE</center>
But... I wanted to call Carol.
<center>DANNY</center>
Carol’s fine. Just leave it.
It’s a command. Pauline’s heart begins to HAMMER. She walks back to the phone, kneels, her joints protesting. She feels behind the heavy oak table.
Her fingers find the dangling cord.
She pushes the plastic plug back into the wall jack. It CLICKS into place like a gunshot.
She stands, lifts the receiver. Presses it to her ear.
The same dead silence.
Her face hardens. He unplugged it first. He made sure.
INT. CABIN - LATER
Pauline goes to the coat closet by the door. She reaches for her heavy blue parka. Her hand meets empty air.
She frowns, searches the closet. It’s gone.
<center>PAULINE</center>
Danny, have you seen my parka?
He turns his head slowly from his chair by the fire.
<center>DANNY</center>
Your blue one?
<center>PAULINE</center>
Yes. It’s not in the closet.
<center>DANNY</center>
I moved it.
<center>PAULINE</center>
Where?
<center>DANNY</center>
Porch.
Pauline walks to the interior door that leads to the enclosed, unheated front porch. She opens it.
A wave of frigid air washes over her.
There it is. Folded neatly on top of the firewood box. An offering.
She steps out onto the cold concrete. The door swings shut behind her. She touches the parka. The nylon shell is stiff, brittle with cold.
She picks it up. It’s a useless, frozen block.
She looks back through the glass of the door. Danny sits in his chair, a dark, silent shape against the flames. He isn’t looking, but she feels his eyes on her.
She walks back into the living room, clutching the frozen coat. She drops it on the floor between them. It lands with a heavy, stiff THUD.
<center>PAULINE</center>
My coat.
<center>DANNY</center>
Cold out there.
His gaze drifts to the window, to the white expanse of the lake.
<center>PAULINE</center>
Why was it there, Danny?
He sighs, a long, weary sound.
<center>DANNY</center>
Things get moved. Things change.
He finally turns and looks at her. His eyes are clear, lucid, and utterly cold.
<center>DANNY</center>
You look at that ice. Looks solid. Safe. But underneath... it’s just water. Cold. Moving. You can’t trust it. One step, you think you’re safe. The next...
He gives a small, final shrug.
<center>PAULINE</center>
(a whisper)
What are you planning, Danny?
He gives her a small, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
<center>DANNY</center>
Things have to be set right. You can’t leave things to chance.
He stands, the blanket falling from his shoulders. He walks past her into the kitchen. The sound of the TAP RUNNING.
Pauline sinks into her chair, her legs giving out. Her gaze is fixed on the frozen coat on the floor.
INT. CABIN BEDROOM - NIGHT
Pauline lies rigid in bed, feigning sleep. Danny’s breathing is slow and steady beside her.
A soft CLICK. The bedroom door latch.
Pauline squeezes her eyes shut. The mattress shifts as he gets out of bed. His footsteps are nearly silent.
She opens her eyes a crack. His silhouette moves to the closet. He dresses in the dark, pulling on heavy outdoor gear.
He slips out of the room, pulling the door almost closed.
EXT. LAKE - PRE-DAWN
The world is silent, muffled by a new layer of snow. The sky is a bruised purple.
Pauline, wearing only a thin spring jacket, follows a set of tracks leading from the house down to the lake.
She hides among the snow-laden pines at the shore.
Danny is fifty yards out. A dark figure on the vast, frozen expanse. He walks a few steps, stops.
He raises a long metal ice spud and SLAMS it down.
THUMP.
A deep, solid sound that echoes in the silence.
He moves again. Slams it down again.
THUMP.
He’s testing. Measuring. Working in a grid. Pauline watches, a hand pressed to her mouth, her breath misting in the razor-sharp air.
THUMP.
INT. CABIN LIVING ROOM - DAY
Weak, watery sunlight streams through the ice-caked windows. The storm has broken.
Danny comes inside, his face flushed. He stops when he sees Pauline by the window. The flat, empty look is gone. He looks like himself. He looks horrified.
<center>DANNY</center>
Pauline. You’re scared.
She just stares, silent.
<center>DANNY</center>
I... I haven’t been myself. This storm... being cooped up...
He slumps into his armchair, burying his face in his hands.
<center>DANNY</center>
(muffled)
It’s Henderson’s snowmobile.
<center>PAULINE</center>
What?
<center>DANNY</center>
(looking up, pleading)
Bill Henderson. His grandson took it too close to the inlet. Went right through. I got this stupid idea in my head... if the ice got thick enough, I could drag it out for him. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He gestures around the room.
<center>DANNY</center>
I didn’t want you going out there, near that spot. It’s not safe. That’s why I moved your coat. And the phone... his wife kept calling, crying... I couldn’t listen anymore. So I unplugged it. It was stupid. All of it. I was just... fixated. I’m sorry, Polly. I never meant to scare you.
Relief washes over Pauline. Her knees buckle; she grips the back of a chair. A hysterical, tear-filled LAUGH bubbles up from her throat.
Danny goes to her, wraps his arms around her. She sobs into his shoulder, clinging to him.
<center>PAULINE</center>
(sobbing)
You are an old fool.
<center>DANNY</center>
I know.
EXT. CABIN - DAY
The world sparkles with ice. The air is clean and cold.
Pauline and Danny walk back toward the house, arms linked. The fear is gone, replaced by a comfortable, worn intimacy.
Pauline leans against the porch railing, taking a deep, cleansing breath. The last of the shadows disperse in the brilliant light.
Her eyes drift along the cabin wall, half-buried in a snowdrift.
She sees it.
A heavy, cast-iron boat anchor.
It leans against the logs, almost hidden. A length of thick, rusted chain is coiled at its base.
It has no purpose here. No place in his story.
Pauline’s smile vanishes. The warmth drains from her face. She stares at the anchor as the cold, absolute certainty returns.
She is still trapped.
What We Can Learn
This screenplay conversion demonstrates the critical process of translating a character's internal emotional state into tangible, observable action. The original prose relies heavily on Pauline's inner monologue to build suspense, describing her growing fear and paranoia. In the script, this must be externalized. Her terror is shown not by what she thinks, but by what she does: her fumbling with the zipper, her recoiling from Danny's words, her desperate check of the phone line, and her silent, horrified observation at the edge of the lake. This adaptation serves as a lesson in the 'show, don't tell' principle, forcing the writer to find physical manifestations for psychological states, which is the fundamental language of cinema.
From a technical and media literacy perspective, this script highlights how formatting is an integral part of cinematic storytelling. The strict four-line rule for action paragraphs breaks down complex sequences into individual visual beats, controlling the pace at which the reader absorbs information. Giving a key object like 'A heavy, cast-iron boat anchor' its own single line on the page uses white space to create emphasis, functioning as a director's 'close-up' without using technical jargon. Understanding these conventions reveals that a screenplay is not just a story, but a technical blueprint designed to guide a production team's creative decisions, from cinematography to sound design.
The adaptation's structure teaches a powerful lesson in narrative misdirection and the impact of a final reveal. The script meticulously builds a case against Danny, aligning the audience with Pauline's terrified perspective. The 'snowmobile' explanation is designed to provide a massive cathartic release, making the audience feel foolish alongside Pauline for suspecting him. The final, silent shot of the anchor weaponizes this relief, yanking it away to deliver a more profound and chilling horror. This demonstrates how a single, well-placed piece of visual information can re-contextualize an entire narrative, forcing a critical re-evaluation of all preceding events and underscoring the theme that the most terrifying truths are the ones hidden in plain sight.