The Caucus in the Cold

Treason is a lot harder when your fingers are too frozen to hold the lighter.

Introduction

This screenplay adaptation of 'The Caucus in the Cold' serves as a practical exercise in narrative transposition, demonstrating how prose-heavy internal conflict is converted into the visual language of cinema. By stripping away the protagonist's internal monologue regarding his career dissatisfaction and physical misery, the script relies on observable action—fumbling with frozen equipment, the contrast in physical stamina—to exteriorize the character's psychological state. This document highlights the critical role of formatting in pacing, showing how a political drama can pivot instantaneously into a survival thriller through sound design and visual isolation.

The Script

EXT. NORTHERN WILDERNESS - NIGHT

Snow flies horizontally. Not falling, but thrown like gravel from a passing truck.

GORD (44), heavy-set and wrapped in layers that don't seem to help, stumbles. Ice crusts the exposed skin of his face.

Ten paces ahead, STEPHAN (28), fit and annoyingly rhythmic, crunches through the drift in high-end gear. He doesn't look back.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

Keep moving, old man!

I'm fixing my binding!

The WIND SNATCHES the words away. Gord rips a glove off with his teeth.

He fumbles with a frozen plastic clip on his snowshoe. His knuckles turn white instantly.

He jams the glove back on. The clip is still loose. He drags his left foot forward, ignoring the stumble.

EXT. CLEARING - NIGHT

A granite ridge blocks the gale. The air here is dead still.

A green tent shudders in the draft leaking around the rock.

Stephan flicks a butane lighter. SPARK. No flame. SPARK. Nothing.

Put it in your armpit. Warm it up.

Stephan shoves the lighter into his jacket. He is vibrating. Not just cold. Manic.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

I got it.

Not now, Steph.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

Yes, now. No cell service. No bugs. Just us and the freeze.

Stephan pulls a Ziploc bag from his inner pocket. Inside, a black rectangle sits wrapped in a toque.

A portable hard drive.

The voter lists?

<center>STEPHAN</center>

And the donor cross-reference sheet. The real one. Developers mapped to Cayman accounts.

Gord stares at the plastic brick. He pulls a pack of cigarettes. Puts an unlit one in his mouth.

You stole property of the Crown.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

I secured evidence of a felony.

Stephan retrieves the warm lighter. FLAME. He lights a strip of birch bark.

Firelight flickers against the snow. Long shadows jump against the trees.

What's the play? Walk into the RCMP detachment? Lose our pensions?

<center>STEPHAN</center>

This goes away if we go to the cops. We go to Harrison. We tell him the price for it staying lost.

Blackmail.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

Consulting contracts. Private sector. Five years, we cash out.

Harrison eats guys like you for breakfast. He won't pay. He’ll send guys to break your legs.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

He can't touch us if we have copies. Dead man switch.

You don't have a dead man switch. You have a Gmail account and anxiety.

Stephan paces. Snow CRUNCHES loudly under his boots.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

We deserve this! I missed my sister’s wedding for the budget lockup. For what? A sixty-k salary and heartburn?

We leak it. Anonymous drop. The Star or the Globe. We walk away clean.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

I’m not walking away with nothing! It’s worth millions!

It’s worth prison time!

Gord reaches for the drive.

Stephan’s hand shoots out. He grabs Gord’s wrist. A vice grip.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

Don't touch it.

Let go, Steph.

A sound cuts through the air. Distinct. Mechanical.

CLICK-WHIR.

Like a servo motor adjusting focus.

It comes from the ridge above. Thirty feet up.

Gord freezes. Stephan freezes, hand still on Gord’s wrist.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

Did you hear that?

Gord turns his head slowly.

The wind moans, but under it—a RHYTHMIC CRUNCH. Heavy weight compressing snow.

Stephan releases Gord. Scrambles back toward the tent.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

Is that... is that a bear?

Bears are asleep.

Gord picks up a heavy piece of wet birch wood. He holds it like a club.

He stares into the black wall of the forest.

Who's there?

Silence.

SNAP. A dead branch breaks. A heavy boot punches through crust.

Stephan shoves the hard drive into his jacket.

<center>STEPHAN</center>

We have to go.

Quiet.

Gord kills his headlamp.

Absolute darkness slams down. Only the dying embers glow red.

Gord looks up at the ridge.

A SILHOUETTE stands against the faint grey of the sky. Darker than the trees.

Watching.

What We Can Learn

Adapting this narrative requires a rigorous translation of internal monologue into physical action. In the source text, Gord's cynicism is expressed through his thoughts about his age and the 'performative masculinity' of the trip. In the screenplay, these thoughts must be stripped away and replaced with observable behaviors: the struggle with the frozen binding, the heavy breathing, and the unlit cigarette used as a pacifier. This process demonstrates the screenwriting maxim that character is defined by action, not intent; we understand Gord's exhaustion not because he tells us, but because the environment physically punishes him while his younger counterpart thrives.

From a technical literacy perspective, this script highlights how formatting dictates pacing and focus. The use of the 'four-line rule' prevents dense blocks of text, forcing the reader to experience the scene in real-time beats. Furthermore, the isolation of specific visual elements—like the 'CLICK-WHIR' sound effect or the final 'SILHOUETTE'—on their own lines acts as a directorial command without using camera jargon. This technique controls the reader's eye, simulating a close-up or a sudden cut, and proves that white space on a page is as effective a storytelling tool as the dialogue itself.

The adaptation also serves as a study in genre pivoting. The scene begins as a character-driven political drama, with dialogue centered on corruption, pensions, and leverage. However, the introduction of the mechanical sound effect functions as a narrative guillotine, severing the political plot instantly. By refusing to explain the sound in dialogue and instead focusing on the characters' physical reactions—freezing, killing the light, grabbing a weapon—the script shifts the genre from neo-noir to survival horror in a single beat, showing how external stimuli can render complex interpersonal conflicts immediately irrelevant.