kyle patrick johnson: drama

Logline: In a totalitarian near-future, a brainwashed former peace activist must regain his memories and identity in order to discover who is manipulating him.

August 8, 2010

The Sense of Being Watched

How much plot can be condensed into one page? Can one have a full story, with beginning, middle, and end? That's the challenge in this super-short script parable.

July 3, 2010

This art-film script is intended to be a subjective read. It is a character study of two people in an undisclosed location for an undisclosed reason. Hints are given towards the "official" backstory and future events, but the reader's own preferences and imagination are allowed to inform the wider events.

June 11, 2010

Self-Portrait of a Quiet Eye

"Collateral damage". That's the term that's used in wars and battles for the accidental victims caught in the crossfire. Every well-intentioned domestic war has its own form of collateral damage, as well. This artsy, avant-garde script briefly explores one such potential casualty of America's latest domestic campaign.

May 2, 2010

Research & Development

After you research a new project, how do you develop as a person? After all, what is the point of research if not to enrich yourself?

February 1, 2010

Ordinary Time

In a world of non-stop holidays, what is the impact of a ho-hum day?

January 5, 2010

5/35

A slice of family life as seen through the eyes of a child and her dolls.

November 13, 2009

Double Lock

It seems that most of my short inspirations these days are coming directly from deadlines and calls for scripts. I've been busily at work on a feature for some time now, so it's actually quite relaxing to be called away to scribble down a tidbit as a short script.

This script was devised in a semi-black mood. Enjoy.

September 19, 2009

Takers Toll

Logline: "When a sports fanatic suspects his girlfriend and an agoraphobic apartment manager of stealing expensive memorabilia, jealousies and selfishness take their toll."

I wrote this story at the request of a young San Francisco filmmaker. He requested something intense, emotional, and ultimately touching. I put my own emphasis on intense. Enjoy.

Note: Adult language.

July 19, 2009

After The End

Logline: "A gorgeous heiress and an Australian lifeguard make a rash, storybook decision at the altar. But cultural, family, and personality differences are comically magnified during day-to-day marriage."

This is a simple premise, but one I haven't seen before. The climax of every romantic comedy involves an all-inclusive wedding, where everyone finds their someone, smiles abound, and all is chocolate and sunshine.

The End.

Or is it? In my opinion, real life (and real comedy, therefore) begins after the wedding, with the minute interactions and irritating details of actually living with a committed spouse.

AFTER THE END by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com Registered with: Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Registration #1369229 2. FADE IN: EXT. BEACH - DAY Hazy hot noon on a wide California beach. Beached bodies of HOUSEWIVES and SWIMSUIT MODELS dot the landscape, barely a grain of sand visible. Not a male in sight. Trim female ATHLETES play beach volleyball. BABES wearing nothing but bikinis and sunglasses lounge in puddles of tanning oil. Flashing bleached-teeth smiles, exotic BEAUTIES splash in the shallows, giggling and bouncing. Enough female flesh to freeze any man’s harddrive. Even the maintenance man is a MAINTENANCE WOMAN, perfect curves, aims a paint sprayer at a restroom facility, changes it from white to dark blue in the most sensual manner. Perched on top of a lifeguard’s tower, head in his hands, looking glum and love-wasted, is LIAM RYAN (20s), a shirtless, firm-muscled Australian, a Playgirl’s dream. White sunscreen plastered on his nose, plastic green-billed visor. A SUPERMODEL (20s) slinks up to his tower, leans against it, both hands up in her hair. An exotic accent, a breathy tone. SUPERMODEL Uh, lifeguard. Yoo-hoo. I wonder if you’d show me your breaststroke. LIAM (monotone) Swimming classes are six to eight every morning except Sunday. Supermodel huffs, stalks towards the water. Liam looks at the sky, mind not on his work. Supermodel stumbles into the surf, flails. Pretends that she can’t swim. Of course she can. SUPERMODEL Help me! Help, lifeguard. Beauties in the shallows roll their eyes at her. BUZZZZ! BUZZZZ! A cell phone vibrates in Liam’s pocket. He pulls it out, automatic, taps the screen. Looks down. 3. Text message: “Liam please come. How can I start without U.” A new light shines in Liam’s eyes. He draws himself up, stands tall on the tower. He hits his chest with a forearm, jumps off the tower like a graceful cat, alights on the sand below. He runs across the beach, slight puffs of water spray from beneath his bare feet. The sun shines through his green visor, illuminates his too-white nose, his eyes fixed on some distant object. Housewives and Athletes dodge his train-like forward motion. LIAM (whispers) I’m coming, Lissy. I’m coming. Liam sprints away from the water, towards a road beyond. He cuts in between Maintenance Woman and her building. He’s sprayed with dark blue paint, all over his naked torso. It’s as if he doesn’t even notice. Supermodel founders in deep waves far out to sea. She’s really in trouble this time. Goes down for the third time. SUPERMODEL (mouth full of water) Hep... Over here... Liam keeps running. A Housewife, far from the surf under a red beach umbrella, poises a piled-high hotdog, onions, ketchup, on the precipice of her mouth. Ready to bite... Liam runs smack into Housewife, falls on top of her. She squeals in delight. He pops right back up onto his hands and knees, onions and ketchup smeared across his blue chest. He nods an apology to the wrigglingly happy Housewife. LIAM Not my intention, ma’am. Housewife pouts. Liam stands. His head goes right through an outer loop in the red umbrella. 4. He strains to start running again, held back by the umbrella around his neck. The umbrella pole, sunk deep into the sand, bends to its limit. The umbrella snaps off its pole, vaults Liam forward. EXT. BUSY STREETS - DAY Traffic is snarled, mid-day jams. DRIVERS hang out of car windows, trapped in stalled vehicles, desperate for cool air. Liam runs in between the cars, eyes still fixed on some unknown purpose. The red umbrella flutters behind, cape-like. Drivers look at him like he’s crazy. Liam veers to the right, heads down a new street. His eyes are still on the sky: he doesn’t see the orange cones. Splat. He falls flat on his face in undried concrete. CONSTRUCTION WORKERS gape at their ruined job. Liam pushes himself up, his whole front gooped in gray gunk. He scrapes the wet concrete off his body, splattering it over the perfectly smoothed surface. The green visor remains stuck in place in the concrete. Construction Workers clench their fists. Liam clears most of the concrete from his chest, reveals the smeared ketchup. Construction Workers take a step back. One crosses himself. CONSTRUCTION WORKER #1 Dear God, we killed him. Liam, still oblivious to his surroundings, clomps off through a whole road of wet concrete, ruins it all. Construction Workers cheer. CONSTRUCTION WORKER #1 He’s a zombie. He doesn’t stop! A cement truck, two small orange triangle signs on its rear bumper, backs up toward the work zone, beeps. Liam, still unheeding, walks smack into the back of it. Liam staggers backwards from the blow. Construction Workers hold their breath. 5. Liam, after a moment to think about it, decides he’s all right. Keeps walking. Construction Workers cheer. CONSTRUCTION WORKER #1 That woulda been some liability. Back to work, boys. One of the orange signs is missing from the cement truck. EXT. CHURCH - DAY Liam bounds up the church steps. Pushes the two massive front doors open, one with each hand, head bowed with the effort. The doors give way with an ear-rending thud. Liam shakes his hair from his face. INT. CHURCH - DAY Hundreds of rows of pews, packed with well-dressed GUESTS. A wedding. Up front, a tableau of MINISTER, BRIDE, and GROOM. Everyone twists around to look at the intruder. Liam is a sight: blue painted body, red umbrella hangs down his back, gray specks of dried concrete adhere an upside-down orange triangle to his chest. He’s Superman. Bride’s jaw drops. Not a sound in the church. Liam sails up the aisle. Guests turn their heads as he passes, lend him a regal air, like a ship’s wake. The altar is set high above the congregation. Liam takes the steps one at a time, pitter, patter, pitter, patter, thrusts his knees high, pumps his arms. Bride, Groom, and Minister: still frozen in place. Liam gets to the top. Arms on hips, he catches his breath. A great big smile for Bride -- she is LISSY BANKHEAD (20s), her attitude and wedding gown scream “inherited wealth”, her bleached teeth peek out between perfectly pouty lips. 6. A great big smile for Groom -- he is YOUNGBLOOD RIBB (20s), prodigy in the toothpick business, could have gone pro in tennis if he’d chosen, successful in life and love. A great big smile for Minister -- not reciprocated. MINISTER If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. LISSY What are you doing here? LIAM I wasn’t going to come to your wedding, Lissy, ’cause I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome. Youngblood rolls his eyes. LIAM But then I got your... ‘n’ I knew that... oh, Lissy. Liam sweeps Lissy into his arms, crushes her into his chest. My dress! LISSY Ruined. Blue paint and ketchup on white lace and silk. LIAM You’re everything that’s holy ‘n’ bonza on this whole world, ‘n’, believe me, babe, I’ve seen most of it. ‘N’ here it is in my arms. YOUNGBLOOD (at a loss) Um, that is my fiancee, there, um, please, could you... LIAM Say you’ll be mine, ta. Lissy looks into his crystal-clear eyes. LISSY I love your accent. They kiss. Long, deep, and slow. Liam’s blue arms work up and down Lissy’s dress, smearing it beyond hope of repair. 7. MINISTER You have to kiss a few frogs before you find a prince. YOUNGBLOOD I am right here, Lissy. THORNE BANKHEAD (60s), Lissy’s father, a great mane of white hair set off by several impossible shades of tanned, Botoxed skin. In the front pew, he pounds the wood with a fist. THORNE That’s inappropriate, Lissy. Thorne’s arm is draped over the shoulders of a live BARBIE DOLL (18), her proportions preposterous. Lissy and Liam come up for air. They dive back in, sensual overload of a kiss, definitely not public material, much less an altar display. BILL RIBB (50s) and DEBBIE RIBB (50s), in their own front pew, googly-eyed. They look exactly like twins: same outfits, same side-swept haircut, same open mouths, bulging orbits. Youngblood looks to them, asks for advice with his eyes. Bill and Debbie, in unison, swing their eyes to him, mouths gulp like fish. No help. YOUNGBLOOD Lissy, um, I do not understand what is happening, I mean, I understand it in the birds and bees sense, but not in the you’s and me’s sense. I think you need to step back, think this through very carefully, because we are in the middle of our wedding. In the vows, right, Lissy? (beat) The “step back” part is important. Youngblood taps Liam’s shoulder. Lissy and Liam break their liplock. MINISTER Better to have and not need than to need and not have. YOUNGBLOOD Think about your actions, Lissy. This is so rash. 8. LISSY I haven’t been rash my entire life! Lissy flings out her arms in ecstasy. YOUNGBLOOD It could cost you a lifetime of happiness. Think it over. I will give you two a moment. LIAM I don’t need a moment. Do you need a moment? Nope. LISSY Liam swings an arm, a wild uppercut, smashes his fist into Youngblood’s chin. Youngblood somersaults backwards, lands on his stomach, out for the count. LIAM I’ve always wanted to do that. LISSY But why? He’s a nice guy. LIAM He had you, darling. He brought my life down around my ears with every glance he glanced you over the cereal, every hand he handed you in the theater, every check he checked you in the shopping mall. Oh, Liam. LISSY MONA BANKHEAD (50s), devoid of any talent except falling in love with rich men, runs from her pew on four-inch stiletto heels. She kneels at Youngblood’s side, taps his chin. LIAM Minister, we’re ready. Let’s finish those vows. MINISTER No shoes, no shirt, no service. LISSY Just this once. 9. MINISTER Time is what keeps everything from happening at once. Liam kneels on Youngblood’s other side. Strips Youngblood’s tuxedo jacket off. MONA But he’ll need that later! LIAM I need it now, Mona. Can you help with his shoes? Mona hesitates. LIAM Haven’t you always wondered what he looks like... underneath? Mona pulls off Youngblood’s wingtips. Liam throws on the jacket and shoes. A more remarkable sight. Arms around Lissy, cheek to cheek, Liam nods to Minister. MINISTER Do you, Alyssa Bankhead, take... take... take... MONA God bless you. MINISTER What is your name, Mr. Blue? Liam Ryan. LIAM MINISTER And your last name? Ryan. LIAM MINISTER Do you, Alyssa Bankhead, take Liam Ryan Ryan to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better and for worse... 10. THORNE Lissy, don’t do this! You’re supposed to marry Youngblood Ribb! This man is not the right one! MINISTER ...till death you part? THORNE If you do this, you’ll be breaking the merger, too, and I’ll cut you off without a penny! I do. LISSY Guests gasp as one. Oh, the courage! Lissy turns around, a brave jut of the chin. LISSY Love is more important to me than your mergers and all the money in the world. Guests applaud, cheer, kiss each other, swoon. THORNE Then you can kiss the reception hall goodbye, too, sweetheart. Thorne and Barbie Doll walk out, down the center aisle, derided by Guests on every side. LIAM Who needs money when we’ve got love? LISSY (whisper) I already said that, Liam. LIAM (whisper) Then you must be brilliant, ta. Kiss. MINISTER Do you, Liam Ryan Ryan... LIAM Just Liam Ryan. 11. MINISTER ...take Alyssa Bankhead to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, for better and worse, till death do you part? I do. LIAM Madness, cheering, thunderous applause. Bill and Debbie Ribb still stand stock-still, mouths open and close in unison, yoked eyes roll from one atrocity to another. Liam sweeps Lissy into his arms for another giant kiss. MINISTER What therefore God hath joined together, perhaps even against His will, let no man put asunder. (aside) I’d say, “Kiss the bride”, but you’re precocious in that department. (aloud) I present for the first time: Mr. and Mrs. Ryan! Huge organ music. Liam and Lissy skip down the aisle, arm in arm. Rock concert atmosphere. SUPER: “THE END” in flowing calligraphy. FADE TO BLACK. Roll END CREDITS. SERIES OF STILL PHOTOGRAPHS (DURING END CREDITS) Liam and Lissy hold hands, skip through the construction site. Construction Workers doff their caps. Guests follow, a giant crowd, trample through the wet concrete. Liam holds his hands over Lissy’s eyes, guides her to the beach, Guests skip and jump behind them. Liam, Lissy, and the WEDDING PARTY sit on a red and white checked tablecloth spread out on the sand, like a head table. Babes, Beauties, and Housewives mingle with Guests. Liam has taken off the red umbrella. 12. Liam and Lissy kiss, as all present toast them with open bottled waters, splash each other. The Wedding Party use sand to scrub the blue paint off Liam. He winces. Maintenance Woman has an apologetic expression. Lissy rips the orange sign off Liam’s chest. He’s howling. A Babe holds a boombox. First dance. Liam and Lissy sway. Much less formal dance. Everyone’s in on it. Sand flies in all directions. The limbo. Two guys from the Wedding Party hold a Babe horizontal, everyone’s going underneath. Except for Liam and Lissy: they’re making out in an unseen corner. Liam pops a Twinkie into Lissy’s mouth. Everyone’s cheering. Lissy jams a Twinkie all over Liam’s face. Laughter. Lissy licks the Twinkie off Liam’s face. Raucous laughter. Lissy tosses the orange sign backwards over her head. A huge crowd of Babes and Beauties jump for it. Housewife from earlier makes an elaborate presentation, hands the folded umbrella to Liam with a bow. Laughter. Liam and Lissy stand above the beach. Wave at everyone below. Liam and Lissy at the airport, the ticket line. Liam wears decent clothes, Lissy’s changed out of the dress. They kiss. Liam and Lissy at the terminal, the gate. They kiss. Liam and Lissy on the plane. They kiss. Liam and Lissy under a sign: “Cancun, Mexico.” They kiss. Sun’s going down. Liam and Lissy outside a resort hotel. They kiss. Liam and Lissy sit down to dinner at the resort. They kiss. Lissy points to a salad on the menu. The WAITER nods. Liam points to a steak on the menu. The Waiter nods. Lissy glares at Liam, an angry, teeth-clenching look. FREEZE SERIES OF PHOTOGRAPHS End Credits grind to a halt. 13. Music ends abruptly, with a sick-sounding atonal screech. That last photograph comes to life. Waiter backs away. Liam shrugs, a “What’s wrong” look. Lissy’s in a slow boil. She breathes in and out, in and out, controls her temper. She swallows. LISSY You eat meat? CUT TO BLACK. OPENING CREDIT SEQUENCE INT. HOTEL ROOM - CANCUN - NIGHT Lissy, curled in a ball on the bed, eyes wide open, chin trembles, looks ready to burst into tears at any moment. Liam leans against a window sill, looks at the Gulf. No one wants to make the first move. Liam takes small backward steps, a silent shuffle. His calves touch the bed. Lissy watches him. Her pouty lips tighten. Liam lowers his butt, ever so slow, eases down towards the bed. Five inches, four, three, almost sitting down... Mister! LISSY Liam leaps to the window. LISSY Youngblood doesn’t eat meat. LIAM I can hardly be expected to know that. Expected? LISSY 14. LIAM I mean, we’re not going to agree on everything, ta. LISSY Youngblood and I would craft menus together, a month out. He’s big on scheduling. We’d go to the outdoor market, first Saturday of the month, look through the leeks and bok choy. I bet you’ve never even heard of bok choy. LIAM Long as he’s not a country singer. LISSY What have I done? Lissy buries her head under a pillow. LIAM Last I checked, I cracked onto you ‘n’ you cracked onto me. You voted for a life of adventure ‘n’ chucked your boring life’s plans. I thought it was dinky-di. Lissy screams into her pillow. Liam reaches out the window, plucks a geranium from a flower box. Puts it between his teeth. Strikes a pose. LIAM Ugh. This tastes awful. Lissy looks up from under her pillow. Can’t help but laugh. LIAM There. Better. LISSY A stupid flower doesn’t make up for it. So we we’re idiots. LIAM No, I said you were brilliant. LISSY This can’t be happening to me. LIAM To us, babe, to us. 15. Lissy runs to the bathroom. Slams the door. Liam smiles. He jumps onto the bed, stretches out on his back. Draws one leg up in a sexy pose, looks at the bathroom door. He practices a sexy smile, rehearses complimentary lines for when Lissy emerges. LIAM (whisper) You look beaut... Better than I imagined... Ace! That’s spiffy, perfect for the old fella... The sound of crying through the door. Liam’s smile is wiped off. Throws up his hands. LIAM Yeah, that’d be right. THE REMAINDER OF THIS SCREENPLAY IS AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

July 8, 2009

The Dreadnaught Box

Logline: "Revolutionary scientific experiments are condemned as witchcraft in Salem. Conducting her own counter-investigations, an intrepid naturalist unmasks a ruthless conspiracy orchestrating the trials."

I had the extreme pleasure to collaborate with Matthew Groves in the creation of this screenplay. Trapped in the car together on a nine-hour ride, we discussed the bare bones of a story idea of his that revolved around a girl who manufactures advanced technology at the time of the Salem Witch trials. My interest was piqued immediately, and we discussed various aspects of the story before I asked him to write down a short treatment (I was still finishing PICKING UP THE PEACES at that time).

From that humble beginning, the story fleshed itself out in a most remarkable way. The excerpt below gives a hint of the broad tones of the screenplay, but there are hundreds of fascinating and well-thought-out details of the technology and the backstory that are only available upon request.

I list this story as an Alternate History genre, because I don't know what else to call it. Almost all of the characters are named for real persons, though major portions of their personalities have been fabricated for the story. I did a vast amount of research into the original trials, and I must say that they are beyond fascinating.

The chance to use language to portray characters was delightful. I usually describe this script as a cross between PIRATES OF THE CARRIBEAN and Henry Miller's play, THE CRUCIBLE.

THE CRUCIBLE is more historically-based than our story. But ours has been thematically adapted to our modern time, and deals with very specific wants and needs: the interplay between science and religion, the place of strong and independent women in society, the need for a no-holds-barred-rise-up-from-the-ashes heroine in a vacillating world.

THE DREADNAUGHT BOX by Kyle Patrick Johnson Story by Matthew Groves Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com Registered with: Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Registration #1363435 2. FADE IN: INT. LONDON FLAT - NIGHT SUPER: “1602, London”. The ceiling used to be white before the candle soot; the small windows used to be clean before grimy hands worked them open and closed for years; the corners bright before mice bit holes in the floorboards and spiders spanned strong webs. Yellow candles on a central worktable cast a sick light on ancient manuscripts, pieces of wood, wire, string, cloth: all strewn around in an eccentric whirlwind. A black cat flits through the flickering circle. Crouched beside the workbench, WILLIAM GILBERT (60s), a low ring of white hair still clings to his head. Wears a flowing thin gown of cheap brown wool, ruffle around the neck. Puffs deep breaths, like he’s just run a marathon. Excited. Holds a slender cylinder of sparkling clean metal close to his nearsighted eyes, inspects it. Nods, satisfied. Wraps a tiny copper wire around it with thick dirty thumbs, again and again, covers the cylinder in a tube of closely packed wire. A candle snuffs out. No wax left. Impatient, Gilbert thrusts another candle into a small metal bowl filled with black and white shavings. The bowl bursts into low blue flames. Blue light competes with the candles, dance against each other on the low ceiling: now blue, now yellow, now joined in green. Brighter than before, no longer a strain to see. Gilbert cackles, delighted. With shaking fingers, he jams the wire and cylinder into a small contraption on the worktable. He turns a small vertical crank, gains speed. A small pulley runs forward, spins a cat’s-hair-lined glass wheel against the wire cylinder. The faster he cranks, the faster the wheel spins. A blinding white spark arcs across the wire, brightens the room to day. Gilbert slobbers in delight, a manic look of glee. 3. From outside, the window has a blue glow. Flashes white. Back to blue. White again, as if a lightning storm is cramped within. Gilbert grabs a heavy metal candlestick, holds it near the wire. PHUNK! With a massive spark, the candlestick sticks to the wire, magnetized. Gilbert dances a wide-eyed jig, knocks books to the floor, scatters manuscripts in excitement. GILBERT Electricus! Electricus! A yellow page drifts onto a candle. Bursts into flame. Gilbert throws his gown across the fire, pats it out, delirious. Hugs a thick manuscript to his chest. DOWNSTAIRS Gilbert dances down a staircase to a common room, chairs, a fireplace. Landlord! GILBERT LANDLORD (20s), a hunched yet imposing figure, sleeps in an armchair next to the fire. All in shadow. Landlord opens an eye, the fire glitters red in it. An evil eye. LANDLORD Be ye waking me for no purpose? GILBERT It hath been done. Electricus. Methinks I would fain burst were I to refrain from sharing my discovery. Arcs-sparks, electricus! LANDLORD Eh. A discovery, is it? GILBERT Electricus. Electricus. The plans are complete, the manuscript done. Gilbert squeals in his excitement, fists clenched. Jogs back upstairs, mutters to himself. LANDLORD A discovery? Indeed, William Gilbert. A discovery. 4. INT. LONDON FLAT - EVENING Gilbert, bloodshot eyes, feverishly plays with his invention. The door bursts open. Landlord stands there, a wide stance of control, arms on hips, now wears a black cloak. Three HOODED FIGURES stand behind him, their cloaks each made of one giant piece of fine thick cloth. Two cloaks are black, the third a purple with gold threads interspersed. LANDLORD Allow us a peek. GILBERT Oh, the consequences, oh, the possibility. Electricus! Hooded Figures fan out into the room, surround Gilbert. LANDLORD So ye say. But what good is it? What good? GILBERT LANDLORD Are ye mad, man? What. Does. It. Do. GILBERT The magic of the spheres, new captured in shavings of metal. The power to attract, to collide. Think of it. The power to rip metals from the bosom of the earth. Or, or, an army, arrayed in battle, strips the enemy’s swords and shields from their grasp. Electricus... Landlord’s thin lips smile, but his beady eyes remain evil. LANDLORD These, my Scot friends, desire to purchase this power from ye. GILBERT Purchase? Canst thou purchase power? I think not. Landlord rolls his eyes. 5. LANDLORD (to Hooded Figures) At the least, do not make it appear as murder nor plague. Bad for business. Landlord slips out the door. Closes it. Locks it. Hooded Figures advance upon Gilbert. Silent, menacing. Gilbert looks up in sudden fear. He throws the invention at them, breaks it in pieces, distracts their attention for an instant. Gilbert dives backwards, thrusts the thick handwritten manuscript into a wide, short, intricately carved wooden box. Clacks the lid shut. Throws the box through the window. GILBERT’S POV - THROUGH SHATTERING WINDOW The box tumbles towards a muddy street. Lands on the back of a farmer’s rumbling wagon full of cabbages. THROUGH WINDOW FROM OUTSIDE Gilbert’s throat is seized by the purple/gold Hooded Figure. Choking, struggling, he is dragged backwards, struggles, fingers reach out. He disappears into the murky black of the room. The black cat leaps out of the window. THE WAGON disappears into the heart of the maze that is London, bears cat and box into the night. Gilbert’s death sounds fade out. EXT. LONDON FLAT - NIGHT On fire. Burns into the night sky. Small groups of men throw water buckets on neighboring buildings, halt the spread of the fire. Landlord watches from the street, furious. A Hooded Figure materializes, bends to his ear. HOODED FIGURE The price of failure. 6. LANDLORD I shall prove my worth. FADE TO BLACK. INT. GLASSBLOWER’S SHOP - ENGLISH VILLAGE - DAY SUPER: “85 YEARS LATER” A square pane of windowglass, laid on a table. A circular hole in the middle of the glass. A spinning saw, powered by a foot pump. The glass is pushed against the saw by the confident fingers of GLASSBLOWER (60s), unblinking, intent. The square edges of the pane are shaved off, now a large circle, nine inches across. Glassblower brushes the glass free of debris. Behind him, bent over a counter, her feet hanging off the floor, hovers ANDALUCIA MATHEWES (15), dark curls around a lovely innocent face, serious gray eyes, gingham dress. ANDALUCIA And the bigging-glass, too. GLASSBLOWER Aye, little miss. Cain’t rush art. Glassblower holds a thin wooden ring, of hard wood, paints the outside of it with a thick paste. With painstaking care, he inserts the ring into the hole in the circular pane. Presses it hard against the glass. GLASSBLOWER Most o’ my customers don’t care to watch me at my work, little miss. Andalucia’s eyes do not waver, hungrily devour Glassblower’s every move. Glassblower holds a smaller circle of glass, two inches across, to the saw. He shaves down the top and bottom of the glass, makes each side convex. A magnifying glass. Glassblower whips the glass to his eye, turns to face Andalucia, makes a face. 7. She giggles. Glassblower inserts the convex glass into wooden ring. Taps it in place with a wooden mallet, snug fit. GLASSBLOWER A right worthy gift, little miss. Do not ye forget my payment. Andalucia hands over a book of thick paper, crude binding. The title: “De Motu Animalium” by Aristotle. GLASSBLOWER Ah, yes. Monday, next, then, so’s ye’ll learn me to read it. Andalucia picks up the glass, puts it into a wooden box. William Gilbert’s box. EXT. ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE - DAY Hills of tall grass, almost impossibly green, idyll of pastoral perfection. Giant spreading trees spot the landscape with the stolid promise of eternal protection. Andalucia holds the box like a schoolgirl, clasped against her stomach. She looks up through the dappled green leaves of a tree, watches a puffy white cloud sail through the sky. She blows a kiss to the cloud. She skips down a dirt lane, rounds a bend, sees a small thatched house with an attached stable. A sweating horse paws the ground near the stable door. Andalucia gives a squeal of glee, runs to the house. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - STUDY - DAY ROBERT MATHEWES (65) writes at a desk. Dirt samples and hundreds of rocks line towering shelves behind him. MARY MATHEWES (50) writes at a desk opposite Robert’s, framed by jars of preserved small animals and plant specimens. Peeks into a primitive microscope. Andalucia bursts in, hugs Mary’s head to her chest, nuzzles her nose into Mary’s hair. ANDALUCIA Mother, Mr. Clement is here? 8. ROBERT He arrived this very noon, a waystation on a longer trip, I gather. He is making ready for dinner. Robert makes a pouty face at Andalucia. She skips to him, hugs his head, nuzzles his receding hairline. MARY Where hast thou been, Lucy? ANDALUCIA In town with the glassblower, finishing another invention. Andalucia bites her lip. ANDALUCIA Mother. Could you full-name me Andalucia with Mr. Clement? It is genteel and I am an adult. ROBERT (automatic correction) “Couldst thou”. (realizes) Why, heavens, no. Thou art our one and only Lucy. Andalucia, scrunchy face, disappointed. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - HALLWAY - EVENING WILLIAM CLEMENT (40) descends the stairs. Clement is a doughnut hole of a man: round little head, round little body, round little arms. Andalucia waits for him at the dining room door. ANDALUCIA Well met, Mr. Clement. CLEMENT My, my. Thou art grown, little Andalucia. He gets a smile for that. ANDALUCIA Only as much as Father will allow. 9. CLEMENT Quite right. They smile. Some inside joke. They know each other well. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - DINING ROOM - NIGHT The walls are cluttered with exotic souvenirs from all continents: wooden shields, jade, feather headdresses. A small square table. Clement and the Mathewes sip broth. Clement has changed into a simple outfit. He speaks through the soup, not quite rude, borderline. CLEMENT To my astonishment, my clocks, my life’s work, the solution to the longitude problem, were declared mere imitations of some imposter original. Inquiring at the London posts of trade, I find my own anchor escapement clocks, pride of my soul, my Pygmalion, attributed to some mediocre Scot, and my own efforts to prove my right merely a blot on my escutcheon. A SERVANT (50s) enters with a small tureen, fills up Clement’s empty soup bowl. ROBERT A blot on thy what? CLEMENT Clock term. Sorry. My reputation. CLEMENT Naturally affronted, I advanced upon Scotland to do battle. Clement dives into his soup. Stops talking. Robert and Mary exchange a knowing glance. ROBERT And the Scot? He said? CLEMENT This Scot claims inventor’s rights. He challenged me to courts, to prove his lone right. His threats were vast, and he called me a bas-- 10. CLEMENT (CONT'D) (glances at Andalucia) Names fit for lesser men. ANDALUCIA Challenge him, Mr. Clement! Clement looks surprised: girls aren’t supposed to talk at table. He glances at Robert. Robert nods, smiling, allows Clement to answer her. CLEMENT I can dear afford sprockets and cogs. Court fees would ruin me. ANDALUCIA But you are in the right. Clement shrugs. Helpless. MARY “Thou”, Lucy. ANDALUCIA (under her breath) Andalucia. (out loud) Thou art in the right. MARY Lucy, bid goodnight to Mr. Clement. Then to bed. Obedient though unwilling, Andalucia stands, curtsies. HALLWAY Andalucia stomps her feet heavily, then lighter: imitates departing footsteps. She dives to the door, presses her ear to the keyhole. She hears snippets of conversation. CLEMENT ...saw the Scot had stolen. The papers were in mine own hand... MARY ...group of Scot powermongers here a month ago. They intend to replace religion with science... bribery... ROBERT ...no society for we Dissenters, nor for scientists... 11. CLEMENT ...must flee to the Colonies... good place for a clockmaker... Servant taps Andalucia’s shoulder. Andalucia looks up, guilty, skips upstairs. ANDALUCIA’S BEDROOM Dark, only the moon provides light. Andalucia snuggles deep under her covers. Her eyes peek out, wide, wondering. A quiet conversation, unintelligible, floats up from below. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - STUDY - DAY Clement stares with sightless eyes at the rock shelves. Andalucia enters, wears a simple, gleamingly white frock. ANDALUCIA Mr. Clement? Clement turns. A frown etched deep into his soul. Pretends to read the tiny labels attached to each sample. CLEMENT My mind is suited to gears, faces, hours, mechanics. I confess that all these look like rocks to me. ANDALUCIA But they are. CLEMENT (forced humor) Are they, now! Perhaps we should not tell thy father. ‘Twould break his heart. ANDALUCIA (smiles, shy) Perhaps you would enjoy my inventions, in my precious box. CLEMENT Methinks I would. Lead on, girl. Andalucia steps forward, takes Clement by the hand. Leads him out of the room. 12. ANDALUCIA’S BEDROOM Clement squeezes into an armchair designed for smaller buttocks. His good-natured grin reappears. Andalucia opens a dresser drawer. Pulls out Gilbert’s box. She unwraps the first bundle. The glass circle. ANDALUCIA Carving down the sides, slightly thus, and look! A bigging-glass. A gift for Mother’s birthday next, a display case for her specimens. Her face contorts through the glass. Clement belly-laughs. Andalucia hands the glass to Clement, who plays with it while she unwraps the second bundle: a metal tube, wider on one side than the other, capped at the wide end with a bulb of cured animal skin. It’s an eyedropper. ANDALUCIA Upon drawing liquid into the tube, I can then dispense it precisely, droplet by droplet. CLEMENT Thy talents overwhelm this poor clockmaker. Just as I thought nothing more remained to be invented! Andalucia, pleased, holds up a tiny gray stone and a whole dried red pepper plant. ANDALUCIA Presents from Father and Mother. A most powerful lodestone and a fire plant from the Americas. Clement smiles broadly, as though he’s never seen a finer rock or a prettier dried plant. ANDALUCIA Are you departing, Mr. Clement? To the colonies? Clement loses his good humor in an instant. He shrugs. NEIGH! A horse outside. Andalucia rushes to the window. 13. ANDALUCIA’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW Four horses. Four RIDERS, each hooded: three Riders wear black cloaks, the fourth cloak is purple with gold threads. ANDALUCIA (O.S.) Happy day. More visitors! BACK TO SCENE Clement comes to the window, looks out. Dives to the ground, pulls Andalucia down with him. She shouts in surprise, he covers her mouth. CLEMENT Shhhh. Shhh. Those are the Scots. Andalucia’s face, no fear. She doesn’t understand. Clement peeks just his eyes over the window sill. CLEMENT’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW Robert approaches the Riders. Silent conversation, the purple Rider acts like a little Hitler, gestures broadly. Robert bows, submissive. With a final flourish, the Riders pull their horses around, gallop off over the hill. EXT. COUNTRY HOUSE - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) Robert still bows, forehead in the dirt. Clement and Andalucia run from the house, help Robert to stand. Robert leans heavily on Clement. ROBERT No more. There is no more time. Andalucia looks between them, back and forth. CLEMENT The ship sails forth from Liverpool two morns hence. The Regal. Robert nods. Clement runs to the stable. ANDALUCIA What, Father? What is it? 14. Robert tenderly holds her face. ROBERT Divine Providence, as stipulated by lesser men, hath decreed a journey, my dear. Go, prepare. ANDALUCIA Prepare for a journey? INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - DINING ROOM - DAY Servant and Mary pack the fine china gently into a wicker basket. Robert races through the room, an armful of clothes. ROBERT Leave those. MARY This china is priceless! ROBERT Leave it! We must travel light, silent, fast. Mary points at the hundreds of wall souvenirs. Robert bites his lip. Andalucia comes in, drawn in by the conversation. ROBERT I value thy life higher than trinkets, Mary. ANDALUCIA And every all of thy rocks, Father? Robert looks pained. Shakes his head. Andalucia now looks properly frightened. THROUGH WINDOW Clement, atop his horse, rockets out of the stable. Gallops away, dust rises behind him. EXT. COUNTRY HOUSE - NIGHT Robert, Mary, and Andalucia climb onto a small wagon, a small horse. Robert flicks the reins. A tearful Andalucia waves goodbye to Servant. 15. Servant goes back inside the house. The wagon disappears into the dark distance. Servant reappears, arms full of valuables. She scurries off into the night. Silence. The lonely little house. Sounds of galloping hooves. Coming closer. Nearly a hundred Riders burst into frame. Skid to a halt outside the house. Jump off their horses, crash through the front door. Sounds of destruction inside, ripping, breaking, crushing. Flames in the attic. The Riders come out. Mount their horses. Ride away. The house is completely overtaken with bright red fire. EXT. WAGON - NIGHT Robert flicks the reins. Andalucia and Mary sleep in the back. Silent horses flit like ghosts through the countryside. THE REMAINDER OF THIS SCREENPLAY IS AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

June 17, 2009

Symphony In Blue

Quite a while back, I had begun a feature-length screenplay called "All That Extra Joy", about a rock star who, after hitting life's bottom, transfigured himself into a philanthropic modern St. Francis. I'd ultimately abandoned the project as too ambitious for my early efforts at character development.

But the first scene was extremely poignant, I thought. So, after a tweak here and there, I've reengineered it into a stand-alone short story about the profundities and vagaries of happiness. Enjoy.

SYMPHONY IN BLUE by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: INT. CHICAGO - UNITED CENTER - NIGHT Just before a rock concert. A large standing CROWD talks amongst themselves. Roadies on stage hurriedly dismantle the equipment used by the warm-up band. Lights dim ever-so-slightly. A hush of anticipation... Lights come back up. Just a test. Crowd starts talking again. EXT. UNITED CENTER - WINTER - NIGHT (MOS) A couple STRAGGLERS pay for their tickets at the gate. COPS shiver in the cold. The streets are quiet. A scrolling light banner reads: “Tonight: Phil Glassman Live”. INT. UNITED CENTER - STAGE - WINGS PHIL GLASSMAN (40s), too-deep aging lines on his face, jumps up and down, flaps his arms at his sides, hugs himself. Does jaw-stretching exercises, opens his mouth, works it. EXT. UNITED CENTER (MOS) The Cops jump up and down, blow on their gloved hands. They flap their arms, keep warm. Two HOBOS, wrapped in overcoats and rags, shuffle up to a dumpster around the side of the building. HOBO #1 opens the dumpster lid, clasps his hands at his knees. HOBO #2 puts a foot in Hobo #1’s hands, tumbles into the dark dumpster. Reaches out a hand, pulls Hobo #1 in after him. INT. UNITED CENTER - STAGE The lights dim fully. Crowd hushed completely in the dark, the long-awaited moment. Phil walks quietly, on the balls of his feet, to center stage. No one sees him in the dark. He stands, arms raised in a hero pose. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) The hobos search through the dumpster, tossing aside bizarre arena garbage. 2. Hobo #1 freezes in delight, dives after a buttered popcorn carton. He lifts it in front of him, arms raised and outstretched, adoring. It’s full! INT. UNITED CENTER A sharp, blinding blue spotlight hits Phil dead-on at center stage. The crowd goes nuts. He looks down at his admiring fans as they reach desperately for him, yelling too loud to be heard. Crowd jumps up and down. Pandemonium. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) Hobo #2 jumps up and down in glee, grabs at the popcorn. INT. UNITED CENTER Phil reaches out his hand. The rest of the band runs onstage: DRUMMER, BASS, KEYBOARD, and ELECTRIC VIOLIN. Drummer (20s) tosses, tosses!, a garish electric guitar into Phil’s outstretched grasp. In an easy motion, easy from a thousand shows before, Phil slings the guitar strap over his shoulder. The crowd goes wild. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) Both hoboes bring their hands to their mouths, gobble up the unnaturally bright yellow tiny balls of popcorn. INT. UNITED CENTER - STAGE Phil steps forward to a microphone stand in front of him. Takes it in both hands. Brings it to his mouth, touches his lips, his tongue, kisses it, caresses it. Breathes out loudly, as in pleasurable ecstasy. His breath is louder than the entire madding mob. And they love it. 3. PHIL Are you ready? The crowd screams fervently. Drummer yells in ecstasy without a microphone, barely heard. DRUMMER Are you ready? PHIL One, two, a-one, two, three... Drummer, now seated at his set, kicks into a frenetic rhythm. All band members force their instruments to make noise. They exaggerate their gyrations, make sure everyone can see how “into” the music they are. A dizzying light show sprays around the arena. Phil overstrums his guitar. And screams. PHIL Ba-ye-ah-ah-by! Baby! Ba-ye-ah-ah-by! Baby! In these oscillating days I see a scintillating haze And I don’t think even your gaze Can cut it. I think this world is full of crap Crap crap to fill the ten-mile gap Between us: How’d that ever hapPen? But it Ain’t the sign of the times. It’s just that you’re not worth it! CROWD Not worth it! Not worth it! PHIL Ba-ye-ah-ah-by! Baby! Ba-ye-ah-ah-by! Baby! In our fluoroscopic friends We think our microscopic ends Actually matter and transcend This theme park. I know this world is full of poop Poop poop to overflow the scoop Of the great cosmic pooper-scoop In the dark. Ain’t the sign of the times. It’s just that it’s not worth it! 4. CROWD Not worth it! Not worth it! EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) The hobos sit, contented, happy. Freezing in their dumpster. With an empty popcorn carton resting between them. INT. UNITED CENTER - SOUND BOARD Far away from the stage down the middle aisle, a SOUND MAN works the controls of his sound board, turning channels up and down. He wears bright green earplugs. Looking over his shoulder is SIMON (60s), slick sleazeball. Simon is enraptured by the music. Shouts to Sound Man over the din. SIMON Pure poetry! Sound Man impatiently rips out one of his ear plugs. What? SOUND MAN SIMON Pure poetry! Love this stuff! Sound Man grumbles at the inane interruption, jams the ear plug back in his ear. Gives Simon one last baleful glance. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) The hobos conduct silent music in their heads, arms wave, huge grins on their faces, lying back among the garbage. INT. UNITED CENTER - STAGE The drummer builds a beat into the chorus. PHIL Your love... means nothing Your face... needs something Your cash... means nothing Your bod... needs something I’m drowning in the dry I’m starving in the rye CROWD Not worth it! Not worth it! Not worth it! Not worth it! NOT WORTH IT! YEAHHH! 5. The song concludes in a flurry of talentless strumming. The crowd’s roar reaches new heights. They begin to chant. CROWD We love Phil! We love Phil! We love Phil! We love Phil! Phil, dripping with sweat, puts the microphone in his mouth. PHIL You know you do. Yeah! The crowd, acknowledged, outscreams even itself. SERIES OF SHOTS Phil sings a new fast-paced song, a wild look in his eyes. Drummer, tongue lolling, finishes off a raucous solo. A girl in the crowd, eyes back in her head, manic with lust. Beers spill in the crowd, slosh over uncaring heads. Phil sings a calmer ballad, his eyes desperate, tearing up. Below him, the crowd sways, heads a-tilt. Phil, in the middle of an upbeat song, glances at his wristwatch. He sighs, impatient. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) The hobos are asleep in each other’s arms. Lying in garbage. In peace. INT. UNITED CENTER - TWO HOURS LATER Phil finishes the last encore, raises his hands in farewell, waves arrogantly to the crowd. The front row fans are practically crying as he departs. Phil lets his guitar slide off his body. It slams onto the stage, breaks in two. He struts off-stage. Behind him, the front row storm up on stage, fight viciously over pieces of the guitar. 6. BACKSTAGE As soon as he is out of sight of the fans, Phil drops his superstar demeanor. His eyes become blank, he looks weary. He walks slowly down a hallway to his dressing room. His face is encrusted with stage makeup: his lips too red, brows too heavy, cheeks too shiny. Simon appears from a side corridor. SIMON On to Phoenix. Oh, man, you get better every night, champ! PHIL Glad you think so. SIMON What, don’t you? No answer. FADE OUT.

February 16, 2014

For Jennie

February 3, 2014

Healthy

December 5, 2013

Tragic Carmedy

July 11, 2011

There Are No More Heroes

April 1, 2011

It'll Come

February 10, 2011

I Blank You

August 27, 2010

The Fixed

August 8, 2010

The Sense of Being Watched

July 3, 2010

The Thick Window

June 11, 2010

Self-Portrait of a Quiet Eye

May 2, 2010

Research & Development

February 1, 2010

Ordinary Time

January 5, 2010

5/35

November 13, 2009

Double Lock

September 19, 2009

Takers Toll

July 19, 2009

After The End

July 8, 2009

The Dreadnaught Box

June 17, 2009

Symphony In Blue

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