Failed Screenplay – Rom Com
INT. BEDROOM. DAY
A WOMAN sits at her desk staring at a blank document.
I cannot write the screenplay
(looks up and locks eyes with her self in the mirror) and I’ll tell you why!(in the voice of Werner Herzog) Look into the eyes of a chicken and you will see real stupidity- a fiendish stupidity (swivels in chair to address the camera) sometimes I write about me (gestures towards the mirror) sometimes I write about versions of me (yells) HOLLY!
WOMAN runs in, heaving, sits on the bed.
And sometimes I can’t write at all.
WOMAN applies makeup while addressing HOLLY
Have you used my mascara?
Well someone has.
She raises her hand to her mouth and discovers she doesn’t have a hand she has a claw. She slices her lipstick in two. She is very angry now…and covered in lipstick! She tries to wipe the smudges from her cheeks but draws a deep gash across her face. She weeps. She bleeds. She’s dead. She gets up and drags the corpse under the bed.
EXT. BACKYARD. NIGHT
It’s raining. An old fig tree and the moon.
INT. BEDROOM. NIGHT
From the window, a slow pan around the room.
She goes to the bureau and pockets the lipstick, the screenplay, the computer…
Lights a cigarette.
And here comes the music… ‘Clare de Lune’.
EXT. FRONTYARD. NIGHT
She leans on the balustrade and smokes, in a nightie, in the rain.
Failed Screenplay: Thriller
EXT. STREET. DAY.
WOMAN stands on a street corner by a set of lights. She stares catatonically into the stream of traffic while holding a bag of chips.
The camera slowly zooms in on her, cars drive through the shot as it gradually closes in on her face and continues to an extreme close up of her eye, her pupil then…
INT. OFFICE OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS. NIGHT.
A group of men are gathered at a grand mahogany table. They’re all smoking and drinking whisky. A handsome man in a suit takes minutes. They eye the tiny sandwiches at the centre of the table.
A MAN stands up and strolls from the back office of the subconscious through to the living room as the camera tracks with him. The sign on the door reads ‘Conscious’. There’s a WOMAN on the couch, staring out the window at a street corner gnawing on chips. He swirls his tumbler of whisky. She turns to face him, still chewing, a beard of crumbs on her chin. He clears his throat and says:
You’re an entirely different person
to who you were a year ago, and yet entirely the same. This is problem: develop! You’ve run out of toilet paper, you’re uncomfortable with your life, it fits you poorly — like those jeans — get some new ones, you can pretty much see your ass. You should feel embarrassed about this... and a myriad of other things.
He walks to the window and assesses the scene as though valuing a currency: freight trucks, tower blocks, billboards covered in tits and lingerie. He swallows the last of his drink. Condensation from his breath on the window shrinks to reveal her reflection.
EXT. STREET. DAY
I’m by the highway, hyperventilating into a bag of chips.
Failed Screenplay: Horror
EXT. HOUSE. DAY
Credits play over a VERY WIDE SHOT of a sprawling Victorian house. The sun sinks behind the escarpment. Two women stand on a large veranda — mother and daughter.
Their skin has the sheen of sun cream and sweat. They wear floral dresses, wind whips through the folds of material like fields of wheat, the dress curls around the young woman’s belly, revealing she is pregnant. They talk about odd cravings over tea, tilt their chins to the sun and laugh.
Laugh inaudible over cicadas.
INT. LIVING ROOM. NIGHT
The DAUGHTER is watching a movie on TV.
Sound inaudible over cicadas.
DAUGHTER (V.O) Being pregnant means that I become a mother... I will need to look after a baby... I will need to do Kegels... I will have to buy a bassinet, tiny spoons, tiny socks... I will... I taste baby shit and talc at the back of my throat.
She looks down at the damp limb on her belly and the baby kicks, she snaps her hand away from her stomach. The kicks feel measured.
She hears someone knocking, in deliberate, clear lots of three.
A MAN from the movie knocks on the door.