"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.
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?
FADE IN: EXT. WASTELANDS - DAY The ground is smooth and shiny as glass. To the horizon. AVERY (40s), a timeless gaze of weariness on his soft regal face, sits astride a small GRYPHON with folded wings, lion’s body, eagle’s head. Gryphon’s collar displays four numbers: “4915”. GRYPHON Avery, let’s go home. AVERY You are all so eager to have me lose the grant monies. I will win. Avery rearranges the numbers on Gryphon’s collar. Avery and Gryphon vanish. The howling wind is alone once more. EXT. OUTDOOR MARKET - DAY Gryphon’s collar: “1594”. High-collared YOUNG MEN and long-skirted YOUNG WOMEN walk arm in arm. Avery’s face falls. GRYPHON All taken. Homeward now? AVERY No. No. And look a fool disproved? Lazy fool, I swear I’ll undo you. GRYPHON Even if you are to find one... Avery growls. EXT. DENSE JUNGLE - DAY Gryphon walks slowly, Avery on his back. Gryphon’s collar reads: “1495”. They reach a cliff, look down... CONQUISTADORS swarm off a ship onto a shore. GRYPHON Self-importance, tsk, tsk. ‘Twas your own undoing to wax philosophical at the Grand Council. AVERY Curse your tongue! Avery rearranges the collar numbers. EXT. AMERICAN SUBURB - DAY Gryphon’s collar: “1945”. Gryphon perches on a brick wall between houses. A small group of GIRLS (20) chat over a picket fence. Avery fixes his gaze on one girl, GAIL. Her slender figure, light breezy skirt, air of genteel daintiness. Gail looks up, notices Avery in the distance. She smiles. Avery’s eyes light up. Avery bends to Gryphon’s ear. AVERY Aha! I win, Gryphon. Be undone. Gryphon dies, turns to stone. Avery hops down from the wall. Approaches Gail. EXT. CITY - DAY (1945) Gail and Avery stroll, window-shopping. Hand in hand. EXT. DRIVE-IN THEATER - DAY In a huge convertible. Gail and Avery kiss. Long and low. INT. GAIL’S HOUSE - DAY Avery perches on the edge of the couch, uncomfortable. Standing over him, Gail and her PARENTS argue. Point at him. EXT. DRIVE-IN THEATER - NIGHT Gail weeps. Avery holds her close. EXT. GAIL’S HOUSE - NIGHT Gail, crying, rushes inside. The door slams in Avery’s face. Avery turns, slow, walks to the gate. Avery stops... He sprints to the door, throws it open, dashes inside. Comes back out, holds Gail lying across his arms, she’s still crying. But with joy. Avery runs down the street, twirls with Gail. Gail’s Parents, bewildered, stand in the door. INT. TINY CHAPEL - DAY Avery and Gail, married. Two bored witnesses in a far pew. INT. TINY APARTMENT - DAY (1955) Baby cribs in a corner. Avery (still 40), dressed like a businessman. Gail (now 30), dressed like a waitress. Give each other a huge, sweep-off-your-feet kiss. They go out the door, ready for the day. INT. TINY APARTMENT - NIGHT Avery and Gail enter, the end of an exhausting day. A peck of a kiss. EXT. LARGE HOUSE - DAY (1965) Avery (still 40), holds his hands over Gail’s eyes (now 40). He releases his hands, lets her see the house. She screams for joy, hugs him. INT. CHURCH - DAY (1975) A wedding. Avery (still 40) and Gail (now 50), dressed in finery, in the front row. Both faces bathed with happy tears. INT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY (1985) Avery (still 40) and Gail (now 60) read, comfortable, in matching chairs near a fireplace. They look up from their books, share a smile. Avery picks up Gail in his arms. EXT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY Avery, carrying Gail, runs down the street, twirls. Their laughter echoes off the houses. INT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY (1995) Christmas time. Avery (still 40) and Gail (now 70), surrounded by CHILDREN and GRANDCHILDREN and GREATGRANDCHILDREN, hand out presents. INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY (2010) Gail (now 85) lies in bed, helpless, attached to tubes. Avery (still 40) at her side... A DOCTOR pats his shoulder. INT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY Avery sits on the bed, holds Gail lying across his arms. Kisses her. AVERY No. No. You are so young yet. GAIL Wherever you come from, wherever you go, will you remember me? AVERY How could I forget you wondrous? INT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY Gail, white, lies unmoving in his arms. Avery, tears down his cheeks, twirls once with her, tender, slow. Lays her still body on the bed. EXT. AMERICAN SUBURB - DAY Gryphon, of stone, still on the eroding brick wall. Just another tacky bird-pooped gargoyle. Avery, gentle, remembrance, touches the numbered collar. The stone cracks, crumbles. A new-colored FEMALE GRYPHON emerges, alive. FEMALE GRYPHON Ah, you must be Avery. And you failed as the Grand Council predicted? AVERY No. No. I was right. It is human to be destined for life and beyond. FEMALE GRYPHON Are you off home to publish your findings, then? AVERY No. No. I am weak without her now. I am so weak. I am undone... She wins. Avery fiddles with Female Gryphon’s collar, now it reads: “1945”. Avery climbs onto her back. EXT. AMERICAN SUBURB - DAY (1945) Gail (20), looks up, notices Avery. She smiles. FADE OUT.
In a world of non-stop holidays, what is the impact of a ho-hum day?
ORDINARY TIME 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. KITCHEN - DAY A glum head propped on two world-weary fists, cheeks squashed flat. Two listless eyes peer out at a bleak world. Pale lips puckered, ready to blow. This is RONNIE (13) at the kitchen table. He wears a tattered party hat perched at an uncaring angle, strapped-on remnant of a faded joy. A sole candle plunked in a massive iced sheet cake, four feet wide. Ronnie blows. The candle goes out. His parents clap, delirious with pasted-on happiness. One on either side of him, they almost seem like hovering prison guards: GERALDINE (50) and JIM (60). GERALDINE Happy January fifth! JIM Well, go on! Ronnie reaches for a knife, cuts the cake. Dirty dishes by the sink display uneaten leftovers of apple pie, ice cream, chocolate pudding. Candy wrappers litter the floor near the garbage can. Ronnie distributes the slices. He stares down at his piece. JIM Eat up, Ronnie. It’s a holiday. Geraldine and Jim dig in, delight in every icing-sweet bite. GERALDINE What’ll we do tomorrow? JIM What’s tomorrow? GERALDINE A holiday! JIM Gee whiz, a holiday? Which one? GERALDINE January sixth, silly! Ronnie turns from his cake in disgust. JIM Ronnie, not hungry? GERALDINE The sixth, let’s see. JIM You have to grow up strong. Eat your breakfast, son. RONNIE I want to go to school. GERALDINE Sixth, sixth-- School? JIM But it’s a holiday, Ronnie. Ronnie slides a hand up to his head, slow, strips the party hat off his head, slow, slow. He gets out of his chair, plods out, shoulders bowed. Jim watches him go, not a spark of concern. As soon as Ronnie is around the corner, Jim snatches Ronnie’s piece of cake. INT. RONNIE’S ROOM - DAY Ronnie sits on his bed, watches out the window. Clumps of CHILDREN sit in the neighboring yards and streets, wear party hats. Each Child bows over a personal handheld video game systems. Wrapping paper wafts in a gentle breeze. The bedroom is cluttered with dirty clothes, toys, video games. The floor might be somewhere under the mess. Geraldine enters, hands on hips. GERALDINE Look at this room, Ronnie. Ronnie looks. GERALDINE You’ll have to clean this up after the holidays. Ronnie nods. Jim leans in the doorway. 2. JIM You should get outside, Ronnie. I hear it’s going to rain later. RONNIE I’m bored of playing. Jim and Geraldine share a knowing look. Jim whips a present out from behind his back, a small wrapped item. Ronnie peels the wrapping paper, casual: a video game. JIM It’s a game! Ronnie nods at the absurd obviousness. Geraldine rumples Ronnie’s hair, kisses his head. GERALDINE Happy January fifth. Geraldine and Jim leave. Ronnie. Alone. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY Jim watches a ball game on the television. He lounges in complete feet-up beer-gut remote-control comfort. Rain begins to fall outside, gentle against the windows. Panicked PARENTS under umbrellas sprint through the sprinkles, shepherd their absorbed Children indoors. Jim doesn’t notice the tableau outside, absorbed in the TV. INT. KITCHEN - DAY Ronnie slumps, head on crossed forearms, the ragged party hat even more askew. He stares at a candle, on a cake with written icing: “Happy January 6th, Ronnie!” A wrapped present rests next to the cake: the same size and shape as the video game earlier. Geraldine and Jim clasp their hands, await Ronnie’s exhale. 3. INT. RONNIE’S ROOM - DAY Ronnie lies face up on his bed, plays a video game without even looking at his big-screen television, a remarkable mastery of the controller. The room is messier, dirtier. INT. KITCHEN - DAY Ronnie’s chin on the table, stares at a candle. This cake: “Happy January 7th!” Another present, same size. He looks sick to his stomach. He blows. The candle goes out. Geraldine and Jim clap. The eroded elastic band of the party hat snaps in two. Ronnie doesn’t even flinch. INT. RONNIE’S ROOM - DAY Ronnie lays on his bed, arms splayed, the portrait of apathy. MONTAGE - INT. KITCHEN - DAY A succession of cakes... - “Happy January Great Eight!” - “Happy January Divine Nine!” - “Amen! It’s 1-10!” - “It’s Heaven! January Eleven!” INT. RONNIE’S ROOM - NIGHT Dark, Ronnie sleeps in bed. Geraldine opens his door, creeps in. She stumbles her way across the treacherous floor, kisses him on the head. GERALDINE (whisper) I love you, Ronnie. Hope you’ll be all right with a regular day. Geraldine leaves. 4. Ronnie’s eyes snap open. INT. KITCHEN - DAY Ronnie, excited, shovels huge spoonfuls of corn flakes into his ravenous mouth. Jim, hair tousled, rubs his eyes, checks his morning breath. JIM Slow down there, Ronnie. It’s just cereal. RONNIE (mouth full) I know! Geraldine, in a terry cloth bathrobe, holds up a bookbag. GERALDINE It’s almost time. Sorry. After one last milky bite, Ronnie races from the table, snatches the bookbag from Geraldine’s hand, flies from the kitchen like a rocket. RONNIE (O.C.) Bye, Mom! EXT. RONNIE’S HOUSE - DAY Ronnie slams the front door, stands on the porch. Rain splashes to the ground in torrents, churns the front yard into a mudbath. Ronnie’s eyes open wide. He bites his lip in anticipation. He jumps off the front porch. He lands in the muddy front yard. A solid sheet of mud and water splashes straight up, shoots past his ankles, above his knees, beyond his waist, his shoulders, and hides Ronnie’s delirious, exuberant, joyful smile. FADE OUT. 5.
A slice of family life as seen through the eyes of a child and her dolls.
5/35 by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: EXT. DESERTED PARKING LOT - DAY A small sedan stutters through the aisles of painted yellow parking spots. It jerks, stops, starts again. The sedan goes in wobbly reverse, eases into a parking spot, a crooked parking job. The sedan launches forward, straightens, slams to a stop. Reverses slowly, then sudden speed, flies backwards through the spot into the next aisle, skids to a halt. The sedan sits there, stopped. Two vague figures seen inside, both make wild arm gestures, build in intensity. The driver’s side door bursts open. SARA HAYES (16), huffing and puffing and rolling her eyes, stomps out of the car. SARA I don’t care! It sucks, you suck. Sara runs for a nearby busy road, chokes on her tears. The passenger’s door opens. DOMINIC HAYES (40s) gets out, leans on the car, chin on roof, gazes at a receding Sara. He slams the passenger door. Walks around the car, gets behind the steering wheel, drives after Sara. EXT. HAYES HOME - DAY The small sedan eases to a gentle stop in the driveway. Sara leaps from the passenger’s door, tear-smeared face, runs to the front door. INT. HAYES HOME - LIVING ROOM - DAY Sara dashes through the room, to the kitchen, loud sobs. SARA Mommm! Wide-eyed little MARITA HAYES (5), quiet introvert, in a corner, plays with a dollhouse and four little dolls: a daddy, mommy, and two girl dolls. Dominic enters, full of sighs, heavy heart, heavy feet. MARITA When can I learn to drive, Daddy? Dominic laughs to himself, sarcastic, looks at the kitchen. DOMINIC When you’re thirty-five. Marita examines the daddy doll’s buttons. Thinks. Dominic throws himself into an armchair, turns on a sports game on the television. Marita separates her little doll family: the mommy and daddy dolls on the dollhouse’s ground floor, two girls upstairs. CAROLINE HAYES (30s) comes in from kitchen, carries a can of beer, hands it over the back of the armchair, lowers it like a UFO into Dominic’s field of view. Dominic starts, laughs. He opens the beer, takes a sip. Caroline massages his shoulders. CAROLINE She’s pretty upset. DOMINIC She wouldn’t be if she ever listened to me. CAROLINE We all have to start somewhere. MARITA Daddy? DOMINIC She just off and does whatever. CAROLINE She learns different than you do. MARITA Daddy? CAROLINE Just adjust your-- DOMINIC Adjust my? Gimme a break! MARITA Daddy? Am I five, Daddy? 2. Dominic and Caroline look over at Marita, surprised. DOMINIC (child’s voice) I’s five year old. Marita, thoughtful. Holds up five fingers to the girl dolls. Sound of a car starting. Dominic’s eyes flick to the window. DOMINIC Oh, no. No, no. Dominic dashes to the window, spills beer on himself. DOMINIC’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW The small sedan, Sara in the front seat, pulls backwards out of the driveway, shudders to a stop, leapfrogs down the street. BACK TO SCENE Dominic dashes to the door. A cell phone rings. Marita throws one of the girl dolls into a far corner. Dominic yanks a cell phone from his pocket, looks at the screen. DOMINIC It’s Sara. Caroline puts her hand over her mouth. DOMINIC (into phone) Sara! What... Stop crying! I should call the cops on you... Uh, what? (long silence) She did?... Come on home. If she promised, we’ll make it up to you... Yes, I mean it. Come on. Dominic hangs up. An accusing look at Caroline. DOMINIC You said she could get a tattoo? CAROLINE When she learned to drive. 3. DOMINIC You didn’t... a tattoo? Not till she’s thirty-five! We should’ve talked it over. We... A tattoo! The sound of squealing brakes. DOMINIC’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW The small sedan jolts a screechy journey into the driveway. CAROLINE (O.S.) Well, she is driving. BACK TO SCENE Dominic, deep in his rage, startled into laughter. He chokes on a laugh, splutters, coughs. Caroline laughs, a joyous end to the conflict. Sara comes in, red-rimmed eyes, a look of wonder seasoned with a pinch of teenage distaste at adult humor. Dominic, doubled over, belly-laughs, waves his arms to Sara, invites her over. DOMINIC Come here, gimme a hug. MARITA No. Marita stands in the corner, tender tears welled up, tiny hands clenched into sad little fists. Dominic, shocked. DOMINIC It’s okay, honey. MARITA No. No. Marita explodes into body-bursting sobs. Caroline rushes over, strokes her hair, murmurs, soothes. MARITA You... can’t get... a hug... till you’re... thirty-five. Dominic drops to a knee in front of Marita, lifts her quivering chin, looks her in the eye. 4. DOMINIC You can get a hug at five... Dominic hugs her. DOMINIC And at six... Dominic hugs her harder. DOMINIC And at seven... Dominic bear-hugs her, lifts her off the ground. Marita giggles. DOMINIC And at eight... Dominic throws her in the air. Marita squeals. Even Sara smiles. DOMINIC And nine and ten and eleven... Dominic tickles her in the air, rolls her up in his arms, sways back and forth, kisses her hair and face. DOMINIC And everywhere in between. Marita catches her breath. She puts her hands on Dominic’s face, rubs his bristly five o’clock shadow. MARITA I’m hungry. CAROLINE Then, by golly, we’d better go out to eat. Marita smiles. Dominic carries her to the front door. Dominic tosses the keys to Sara. Her face brightens, a new purpose. The Hayes family goes out the front door, closes it. The sound of giggles and happiness fades... The dollhouse family is back together on the ground floor, embrace each other. FADE OUT. 5.
Well, if I tell you now, it'll ruin the story. Enjoy!
COME FLY AWAY 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. COURTROOM - DAY Twelve JURY MEMBERS, a variety of races and IQs, listen to a venerable JUDGE (60) with stonefaced apathy. JUDGE ...are charged to agree upon a decision. Jury dismissed. Judge bangs the gavel. Jury Members file out a nearby door. A back row REPORTER turns to his BUDDY. REPORTER Oh, man. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in there. INT. JURY ROOM - DAY ZEEB, a full-bodied hairy black fly of Brooklyn lineage, struts his stuff on a closed door. SHAYA, a smaller Southern belle of a fruit fly, admires him from a window. The door opens. Zeeb zips away to the ceiling. Jury Members hand over their cell phone batteries to a hallway BAILIFF. Led inside by an Asian FOREMAN (40), they settle around a table, naked cell phones piled in the middle. Zeeb’s crazy compound eyes lock in on Shaya. He whistles. SHAYA Little old me? Zeeb makes a beeline for her, bounces against the windowglass with a BZZZZZ! Settles next to Shaya. ZEEB Hey. How you doin’? SHAYA I declare, you are forward. ZEEB I got ten more days to live, honey. I ain’t gonna spend ‘em in talk. Whaddya say, sugarlips? 2. SHAYA Kindly be a gentleman, then, and fetch me a snack. Foreman opens a box of doughnuts. ZEEB Look, crullers! My fav. Name’s Zeeb. SHAYA Shaya. I’d be delighted to taste your cruller. Zeeb breathes faster at the double entendre, pretends to bow. He plummets to the doughnut box, dodges reaching hands. Zeeb lands on an sticky-iced cruller. Foreman reaches for the cruller, sees Zeeb on it, makes an icky face, withdraws his hand. SHAYA Well, now. Looks like he passed with fly in crullers. Shaya looks at the camera, smiles, lets the punchline soak. She looks at her window reflection, preens. Zeeb shoots straight up, burdened with a giant crumb, eager to show his strength. He grunts. He’s never going to get to the window. Shaya snickers. SHAYA Come on, Zeeb, big boy. Show me how strong you are, show me muscles. Zeeb, spurred on by her honeysuckle voice, gives it his all. He careens into glass, drops the crumb. SHAYA Surely you don’t expect me to go all the way down there for a snack? Zeeb pants, exhausted. SHAYA You have nothing left for me, Zeeb? Shaya-ZEEB 3. BANG! Foreman karate chops a cell phone with a furious hand, snaps it into two pieces. Foreman displays eleven slips of paper with “Not Guilty” in one hand, one slip of “Guilty” in the other. SHAYA Manners, manners. These humans. Zeeb rubs his front legs together. ZEEB Down to business, eh, Shaya. Come here, babydoll. He puckers his lips. SHAYA You can’t even fetch me a morsel. You expect a reward? Gracious me. Zeeb’s blood pressure skyrockets. With a henpecked grunt, he lifts off again, heads down to the doughnuts. Foreman swats at him, his mood darker. Zeeb zooms in merry circles around Foreman’s hand, plays the matador, eyes his chance to get to the crullers. Zeeb dives in, grabs a tiny piece of icing, off again. Foreman, a mighty overhand straight-armed swat, crushes the rest of the doughnuts. SHAYA Who said the hand is quicker than the fly? Shaya looks at the camera, smirks again. She walks up the window, knows full well that Zeeb struggles to elevate to her. ZEEB Hold up, sugarlips. I’m carryin’, here. Have a heart, babe. Shaya gets to the top of the window, in shade, stops. Zeeb plunks down next to her. He smears icing onto his hairy lips. Puckers up. ZEEB Your snack’s ready, dollface. 4. Shaya, irresistible in her coyness, edges close to him. She breathes on him. He shudders in anticipation. SHAYA That’s my honeybear. She kisses him, licks icing off his lips. Wowza. ZEEB BANG! Another cell phone split in half. Foreman, boiling mad, face beet red, hand smarts from the blow. His slips of paper, now ten “Not Guilty” and two “Guilty”. Jury Members look at Foreman with sickened fright. ZEEB Oh, baby, you give me wings. SHAYA Flattery won’t get you where you want to go, big boy. Only the best are good enough for Shaya. ZEEB The best, babe? I am da best. Biggest, strongest, fastest. Fastest? SHAYA ZEEB Yeah. You wanna time me? SHAYA I don’t handle rides very well. Sometimes my little old tummy feels downright funny. ZEEB I’ll show you, really. Time me. Shaya, with a mournful head shake, flies to a large clock on the wall, lands on the second hand’s far tip. Tick, tock, tick, tock. She zooms around the clock face. SHAYA Let me see your style, Zeeb. Oop. Shaya holds in a vomitous urge. 5. Zeeb zooms across the room, bangs headfirst into the door. ZEEB (yells) How many was dat? SHAYA Four tocks. ZEEB Watch dis, lover! Zeeb zooms down towards the table, swoops under Foreman’s hand as it smashes down towards another unlucky cell. Shaya holds her breath. BANG! Zeeb flies out, unhurt. SHAYA Phew! Just my luck. Time flies when they’re halving phones. Shaya looks at the camera, simpers. Shaya flies back to the window on shaky legs. Zeeb joins her. Foreman looks down at his slips of paper, enraged. Wait a sec. He’s taken aback. He spreads the papers out on the table, one by one. Each one reads “Guilty”. Smiles all round. The Jury files out. ZEEB Come on, babe, let’s ditch this joint for a life outdoors, with kids, the whole works. I’m yours. SHAYA They gaze into each other’s eyes. Arm in arm, leg in leg, they fly into the window. They fly into the window. They fly into the window. They fly into the window. FADE OUT.
Logline: "A free-spirited school bus driver dismantles the selfish dysfunction of the family next door, enlivening them with Wiggliness, a magical enlightenment manifested as an infectious dance."
My wife and I were recently lamenting the lack of quality family films that featured a "functional" family unit of two parents and children. So many of these genre films lack two-parent households or even rudimentary politeness.
My goal with this film, then, was to create something that I would be proud to take my four-year-old to see in the theater: a movie with arresting visuals for the kids, puns and jokes for the adults, and valuable everyday morals for after-viewing discussion.
Enjoy.
WIGGLINESS 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 #1333235 2. Sound: dogs snuffle and sniff. FADE IN: INT. CHEMICAL LABORATORY - DAY A human nose. Over a glass beaker of yucky green liquid. An uncertain sniff. Gains confidence, sniffs stronger. The nose belongs to MOM FAMILY (37), confident ditziness in a sunbather’s body. She wears a white labcoat over a polkadotted sundress, hair bobbed in ‘50’s style. MOM A little less black licorice, a little more anise. Holding the beaker: DR. MISTER (50s), eyeglasses falling off his face, name stitched onto his own white labcoat. DR. MISTER But, Mrs. Family, anise is black licorice. MOM Then it’s perfect! Dr. Mister pushes his glasses up his nose in confusion. INT. OFFICE - HOSPITAL - DAY A sickly smile etched on the face of DAD FAMILY (39), a muscle-bound jock in imagination only. Dad stands in front of a giant mahogany desk, holds up a small silver box in a trembling hand. DAD But don’t you even want to hear about all the new features in this year’s model-An imposing face thrusts toward across the desk: MRS. BOSS (60), a white-haired Amazon. MRS. BOSS What’s the cost, Mr. Family? Dad puts up a finger, tries to regain control. 3. DAD You know, I think, once you test the new rechargeable-The cost. Dad gulps. INT. CHEMICAL LABORATORY - DAY Mom walks along a high counter full of beakers and glasses, each filled with a different colored liquid. She sniffs each one. She blows air out through her nostrils after each one. MOM Too much like dandelion. Peach. Persimmon. Meaty. Antifreeze. Manure. Ah, ah, there it is! Mom lifts a beaker of black sludge. Gazes at it like gold. MOM Perfect citrus just like an orange! Dr. Mister shuffles over, pulls out a syringe of clear solution, squeezes out three drops into the sludge. The black turns a crystal-clear orange color, the consistency turns to water. Mom takes a deep breath. MOM Perfect! That’s the one. INT. OFFICE - HOSPITAL - DAY Mrs. Boss, eyelids almost closed in boredom. Dad speaks a million words a second, tries to win the sale. DAD Then this button on the side is a time-saving device that all your doctors can use, more time, you know. MRS. BOSS 4. DAD (CONT'D) It’ll pull the patient’s tongue out all by itself and, well, help them say aah without lifting a finger so then the doctor can look in and say, “All spiffy and spicky span”, and the patient will be happy and the doctors will be so happy that you bought them and you only-- Mrs. Boss raises a hand, a stern look, arched eyebrows. Dad pauses, worried. MRS. BOSS You say the doctors here will like me better? Dad nods, foreboding floods his face. MRS. BOSS I’ll take a hundred. DAD Oh, wow! Yes, Mrs. Boss, we’ll be sure to deliver those next week. EXT. SUBURBAN CUL-DE-SAC - FAMILY HOUSE - AFTERNOON Perfectly quiet. Empty wide-spaced homes. Not a car in a driveway, not a person in sight. A large yellow school bus pulls into the cul-de-sac, brakes squeak, stops with a huff. The bus door opens... CHILDREN flood out of the bus, cover the cul-de-sac with noise and color and movement, seem like thousands. Last off the bus, four kids who stick together: GRACIE FAMILY (14), pretty, prim, not-quite-popular; ALEXA FAMILY (11), chubby and lovely, thoughtful eyes; SOPHIA FAMILY (9), the smart kid, thick glasses; ETHAN FAMILY (7), a boy’s boy. The Family kids walk to their house in a clump, through crowds of active Children who pay them no attention. DR. MISTER (V.O.) So how are the children? 5. MOM (V.O.) Great, thanks for asking. Gracie’s really made a lot of friends. Gracie looks ashamed that no Children are talking to her. MOM (V.O.) Alexa’s not sure what she wants to be when she grows up, of course. Alexa’s backpack displays an Olympic figure skater. She wears leotards. She twirls and spins absently. MOM (V.O.) Sophia has such a sense of humor. Sophia’s intelligent eyes are serious. The Family kids reach the front door. Gracie unlocks it. MOM (V.O.) And Ethan, oh Ethan. I’m afraid he’s too influenced by the girls. Ethan jumps and bounces, hardly still for a second. Barks like a dog, howls at the sky. Ethan is yanked inside by Gracie’s arm. INT. CHEMICAL LABORATORY - AFTERNOON Dr. Mister and Mom clean up the lab counters, pour beakers into a slop sink. MOM They must be getting back around now. They usually beat me home. DR. MISTER My wife and I haven’t been able to have any. It must be great to come home to children. MOM (struck by thought) Why, yes, I guess it is. INT. OFFICE - AFTERNOON Dad pushes unending forms and papers across the desk. Mrs. Boss fills out all the forms, hundreds of signatures. 6. MRS. BOSS So what about you, Mr. Family? Do you really have a family? Hahaha. Dad rolls his eyes. He’s never heard that one before. DAD Yeah. Four kids. MRS. BOSS They must keep you busy. What do you do for fun? Fun? DAD The rest of this script is unavailable for preview. Please contact the author to view the script in its entirety.
Logline: "An ailing but cheerful young priest follows his conscience during a religious oppression in Mexico... and pays the ultimate price."
In my life, "Viva!" represents many firsts and many lasts: it was the first screenplay that I completed, my only musical to date (featuring nine original songs and the lyrics to a tenth), and my first and last script based on a true story (the life and death of Miguel Pro). Originally designed to be a stage production (hence the lengthy pieces of dialogue and discussion), it will require a future rewrite due to some screenplay formatting errors that are immediately evident to the practiced eye.
Below the script, I've even uploaded two full songs for those who are musically inclined, or at least for those who know someone who can play the piano. :)
"Viva!" remains a special story in my heart, and one that I sincerely hope will be soon told.
It is a story of particular significance to all those of Hispanic or Catholic origin.
VIVA! 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 #1321467 2. An excerpt from page 60. INT./EXT. ESSEX/STREETS - DAY Humberto is driving, Roberto is in the front passenger’s seat. Miguel is in the backseat, dressed in disguise as a wealthy young dandy, and strange GURGLING SOUNDS are coming from him. Roberto keeps turning around with an odd look on his face. Large bags of rice and grain are on the floor next to Miguel, ready to be distributed to the needy. Roberto continuously tosses small unbound stacks of pamphlets out the window. The pamphlets, pro-Catholic and pro-League, scatter in the wind and disperse. MIGUEL I sure will miss this car, Humberto. HUMBERTO I will, too. But you can’t live in a car. ROBERTO Father’s trying so hard to get a job, but no one wants to mine anymore. They just want to fight and booze. HUMBERTO Booze? How do you know about boozing? ROBERTO Um... in the newspapers? MIGUEL (to Humberto) How much can you get for it? We notice that the sounds are not from Miguel, but from the bundle on his lap: a tiny Newborn in swaddling blankets. HUMBERTO For the car? Probably quite a bit. I’m thinking of selling it to Luis Vilchis, you remember him. He’s an engineer, got some money. The Newborn begins to cry. 3. ROBERTO Can you feed it some of that rice? MIGUEL Can I feed it, what? Do you know how little this baby is? You don’t feed a little baby rice. HUMBERTO Of course. You feed it beans, Roberto. Easier to chew. MIGUEL You two. Unbelievable. You’ll never get married at this rate. You’d better be priests. HUMBERTO Nah, too dangerous. MIGUEL Have you seen any married couples lately? Dangerous? That’s dangerous. ROBERTO Whose baby is that? MIGUEL I don’t know. Another stray. Someone said that Senor Flores and his wife might adopt another baby. We’ll try them first. The Essex hits a large bump in the road, and the Newborn, which naturally is not seat-belted, flies straight up out of Miguel’s arms. A comic moment follows, with Roberto and Miguel both trying to catch it and keep the baby safe. With no harm, the Newborn is soon back in Miguel’s lap. ROBERTO Why is it crying? It’s safe now. MIGUEL Why does it rain? shine? Huh? ROBERTO Why does the sun The Newborn relieves itself of nervous tension by promptly barfing all over Miguel’s nice dandy suit. Miguel pulls it out of the swaddling suit and holds it up, trying to use the blankets to catch the vomit. 4. While he is thus entangled, the Newborn urinates. Miguel gives up and hugs the Newborn, while Humberto and Roberto roar with laughter. EXT. STREETS - THE ESSEX continues down the road, and we again notice, as it fades away, the prominent LICENSE PLATE NUMBER 10101 FADE TO BLACK. INT. EUCHARISTIC STATION #3 - LIVING ROOM - MORNING Miguel is saying Mass with about thirty in the congregation. He is wearing a cap, blue shirt, tan sweater, brown pants, and a dirty khaki overcoat. As he finishes distributing Communion, a SERVANT GIRL dashes in. SERVANT GIRL The police are coming. They’re at the front. MIGUEL Be calm, be swift. Hide your veils. Disperse into different rooms of the house, and be quiet. As the congregation scatters, Miguel calmly pulls out a cigarette and cigarette holder, fits them together, and puts them in his mouth. He puts the Eucharist into an inside pocket on the overcoat. As he proceeds to light his cigarette, Detective #2 and FLATFOOT #1 burst into the room, trailed by the frightened Servant Girl. DETECTIVE #2 There’s public worship going on here. MIGUEL Come, now. You’re making fun of me. But that’s not a bad idea. DETECTIVE #2 There’s a public service here. MIGUEL There’s nothing public about it. 5. FLATFOOT #1 We saw a priest enter this house about half an hour ago. MIGUEL That’s ridiculous. I’ll bet you money that there’s no priest here. DETECTIVE #2 We have orders to search the house. And we will. MIGUEL I tell you, if you find some public worship going on, let me know. The police move off through the house, Miguel trailing. HALLWAY They come to a door. DETECTIVE #2 What’s in here? MIGUEL Just a bedroom. Detective #2 throws OPEN the DOOR and reveals a sitting room with fireplace, and about ten people. A bedroom? DETECTIVE #2 Miguel shrugs humorously, having no knowledge of the house. DETECTIVE #2 What are you all doing here? MIGUEL It’s a literary society. We enjoy reading and discussing classic texts. Miguel gives Detective #2 a cherubic smile. Detective #2, whose patience is running thin, indicates another door. DETECTIVE #3 And in here? MIGUEL A sewing room. Flatfoot #1 OPENS the DOOR to reveal a rather dingy bathroom. 6. MIGUEL Some women do their best sewing in there. Detective #2 thrusts his face at MIGUEL. DETECTIVE #2 If I could prove what I know, you’d be dead tomorrow. I’m going to station my men outside this house, and the first wrong move your priest makes, you’re all going to die for it. Detective #2 and Flatfoot #1 leave. The congregation regathers, and insistently sends Miguel out the back door. EXT. EUCHARISTIC STATION #3 - BACK ALLEY Miguel comes out of the door, thinking all is well, but a shout from the far side of the alley reveals Flatfoot #2, who rushes at Miguel. Knowing the jig is up, Miguel races away from Flatfoot #2, and turns a corner onto a busy street. He knocks over an attractive YOUNG WOMAN. MIGUEL quickly picks her up and backs her against a wall. She is surprised and not very amused. MIGUEL Quick, please, I’m a priest and they’re after me. The Young Woman understands immediately, and she pretends to kiss Miguel passionately, but she misses his lips entirely in order to preserve his chastity. Miguel has his back to the street, and Flatfoot #2 emerges from the alley and runs right by. When the coast is clear, Miguel pulls away. Thanks. MIGUEL You saved my life. YOUNG WOMAN If only every life could be so much fun to save. Miguel wonders about her sanity, and quickly escapes. FADE TO BLACK. 7. An excerpt from page 80. EXT. COURTYARD - A FEW HOURS LATER Miguel steps out into a pitch-black night. The only illumination is from some eerie half-light a few buildings away. Miguel lets his eyes adjust to the night, then looks furtively around him while he cups his hands to his face, about to light a cigarette. He spies Detective #1 and DETECTIVE #2 standing at the courtyard entrance, blocking his path to the street. Miguel does not recognize them, but he is put on edge. Miguel adjusts his suit and walks straight for the detectives. MIGUEL Excuse me. My matches must be wet. Can you light my cigarette? Detective #2 lights Miguel’s cigarette, and both detectives eye him with glittering, suspicious gazes. MIGUEL Um, could you do me another favor? Point me to the San Tomas Hotel? DETECTIVE #1 Where’re you from? Don’t I know you? MIGUEL (breezily) Out of town. I’m staying at the San Tomas Hotel, but I don’t know my way around the city yet. It’s a big city, you know. Detective #1 points. DETECTIVE #1 The center of town is that way. DETECTIVE #2 I think I know you, no? MIGUEL Thanks for the light. night. Have a good 8. Miguel boldly walks away from the detectives, who stand dumbfounded. Miguel does not risk a backward glance. DETECTIVE #2 (two long beats) I’ve never heard of the San Tomas Hotel. Detective #1 whips his head around, staring at Detective #2. Both stride off purposefully after Miguel, in unison. STREETS - MIGUEL hears their feet on the pavement fifty yards behind. Without moving his head, he looks skyward and utters a silent prayer. He does not increase his pace, but begins scanning the road ahead of him, looking for escape. Miguel emerges onto a moderately busy intersection, and fortuitously sees a taxicab sitting right in front of him. Without breaking stride, he opens the door and gets in. INT./EXT. TAXICAB/STREET Miguel slides in the taxi, behind a TAXI DRIVER. MIGUEL (with urgency) Drive. Where? Straight. TAXI DRIVER MIGUEL Miguel glances behind and sees the two detectives hailing another cab. Soon they are in pursuit. MIGUEL So, how’s the world? The world? Father. What? TAXI DRIVER It’s a mess, brother. MIGUEL TAXI DRIVER MIGUEL You called me brother. 9. TAXI DRIVER I call everyone brother. MIGUEL But I’m a father. No. TAXI DRIVER You a priest? MIGUEL (gauging him) Am I? TAXI DRIVER You got a license to be a priest? Better. MIGUEL I was ordained. TAXI DRIVER Father, I’m a Catholic. I haven’t seen a priest in... months. MIGUEL And you’re not likely to see this one again any time soon. See the cab following you? TAXI DRIVER There’s one behind me, yeah. MIGUEL They’re after me. TAXI DRIVER Anything I can do, Father. know that. You MIGUEL Good man. Tell you what. Make a left turn up ahead. Get up some speed and I’ll jump out. Hopefully they’ll follow you, but they won’t do you any harm if I’m not in here. OK? OK. TAXI DRIVER Land on something soft. it into his so his white the corner, the curve. Miguel takes off his hat, crumples it and stuffs jacket pocket. He takes off his jacket as well, shirt is showing. As the taxicab careens around Miguel jumps out the door on the outside part of 10. EXT. STREET - MIGUEL lands hard on his side, but bounces up quick as a flash. He grabs his jacket and leans up against a lamppost, pretending to lounge there. The cab door closes on its own from the force of the curve, and the taxicab disappears down the road. THE DETECTIVE’S TAXICAB comes around the corner, and they do not give Miguel a second glance, not expecting a white-shirted idler to be their prey. As they, too, disappear, MIGUEL walks in the opposite direction. He comes up a bit short, limping, injured slightly in the fall. MIGUEL Ooo. Pride goeth before the fall, and health after it. FADE TO BLACK. INT. GARAGE - HANDHELD SHOT - EARLY EVENING (MOS EXCEPT DIALOGUE) (BLACK AND WHITE) Pale autumn light from an unseen opening garage door spills over the floor, and, moving up, reveals an automobile with the license plate 10101. The shadows of four men fall upon the car. The men enter the garage, and suddenly fill up the screen with their bodies, then grow smaller as they approach the car. Wordlessly, they execute their preconceived plan. Vilchis picks up a couple homemade bombs and places them carefully in the backseat. The Driver slides into the driver's seat. RUIZ picks up some ammunition and climbs into the backseat. TIRADO also has firearms, and sits in the back seat. Vilchis looks into the camera with an inevitable, timeless, piercing, oddly passive gaze, and then climbs into the front passenger seat. The driver starts the car and smoothly pulls out of the garage, right by the CAMERA, which PANS to follow it. SUPER: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1927, MEXICO CITY. MOVING WITH CAR (SAME TAKE) The car pulls out onto the street, and drives for a block. The car turns left, drives for a block, turns left again into a busy plaza and parallel parks. PAN DOWN to car interior. The men have clenched jaws. Driver looks worried. 11. VILCHIS There’s no other way. TIRADO When Obregon was President, he sanctioned attacks on Catholic churches. He is a terrorist. A monster. RUIZ VILCHIS Monster or man, the end is the same. It is us or it is him. Juan, pistols. Tirado hands Vilchis two pistols and ammunition. begins to load his guns. RUIZ We only have two bombs, we should spread them out. Juan, you want to throw one with me? OK. TIRADO Vilchis RUIZ Two hands are better than one. VILCHIS They should be coming soon. The assassins wait. PAN TO two distinct vehicles coming lazily around the crowded plaza. The first contains bodyguards, and the second is a semi-bulletproof limousine with GENERAL OBREGON inside. The assassins begin to come to life, readying themselves. The first car passes by their parked position, and the limousine comes by broadside. Tirado and Ruiz each throw a bomb, both of which bounce off the limousine and onto the ground before exploding, and harming no one while shattering car windows. Vilchis, hoisting himself out of the car while shouting profanities, empties two pistols dead into the side of the limousine. Driver starts the car, ready for the getaway. After the bombs explode and the pistols are emptied, Vilchis, Tirado, and Ruiz reach for their shotguns as they jump back into the car. Driver peels out of the plaza while the assassins reach their heads and guns out of the car, looking backwards. 12. The bodyguards in the first car have reacted swiftly, and give close chase, firing heavier automatic weapons than the assassins have. TIRADO is winged in the shoulder and falls back in his seat with a thud. RUIZ is struck in the head by a bullet and falls, senseless, onto Tirado, knocking him to the floor of the car. Driver, panicked by his comrades’ apparent demise, crashes the car into oncoming traffic. Driver disappears on foot. VILCHIS flees in the other direction. THE BODYGUARDS AND OBREGON get out of their cars and approach the Essex warily, Obregon gesturing wildly. They see the unconscious Ruiz lying on top of Tirado, with Ruiz’s blood flooding the scene. The bodyguards, rightfully furious, are not gentle. They haul Tirado and Ruiz to their feet and slap them around. EXT. BULLFIGHT ARENA (COLOR FADE IN) (SOUND FADE IN) Vilchis is out of breath and traumatized by the “deaths” of Tirado and Ruiz. He falls into a seat, even while the rest of the crowd is standing and cheering. He puts his head down and weeps.
Here are two songs from the musical. "Polite Company" is a lament, sung by Miguel in his deepest moment of despair. "Heavenly Ardor" is a gutwrenching song of joy, sung by Miguel as he looks forward to his reward hereafter.
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