kyle patrick johnson: suspense

Showing posts with label suspense. Show all posts

February 22, 2012

August 27, 2010

The Fixed

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.

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.

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.

November 2, 2009

Nocturne

I wrote this script in an effort to give a different kind of face to the generic alien abduction/invasion story. It was, in large part, inspired by the song "Lion Tamer" from the musical "The Magic Show" by Stephen Schwartz.

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 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

May 14, 2009

Stage of Grief

Most of my scripts contain embedded heaploads of my personality, usually perceptible as strange or over-the-top humor. I decided, for this short script, to forgo my normal writing style as an experiment of humorlessness (but I couldn't help myself: there are several Kyle moments hidden in these pages).

If you enjoy dark suspense, this story is for you.

STAGE OF GRIEF by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com 2. FADE IN: EXT. BUSY CITY SIDEWALK - NIGHT (MOS) Hordes of pedestrians stream in spiderweb directions. WOMAN IN RED (40) strolls with two GIRLFRIENDS under the neon signs, laughs and points and chats and enjoys life. A tan Buick sedan accelerates, drifts towards the sidewalk. Unseen driver. Brakes screech, Buick skids out of control. SERIES OF SHOTS (SLOW MOTION) The Girlfriends throw themselves backwards, but Woman In Red appears rooted to the spot. Her smile fades. The Buick slams into Woman In Red, full force, knocks her to the ground. Her head bounces off the concrete pavement. The Buick panics, reverses, peels off down the street, muddy license plate. The Girlfriends gape after it, in shock. One pulls out a cell phone, still staring, dials. An ambulance arrives, red lights flash. Two PARAMEDICS jump out. A police car arrives, blue and red lights flash. Paramedics blow into Woman In Red’s mouth, pump her chest. Shake their heads to a POLICEMAN. Paramedics drape blankets over the Girlfriends. Cell Phone Girlfriend dials again. INGO GUNNARSON (45) drives up in a truck, jumps out, wears a doctor’s white clinic jacket, name stitched on. He looks at the Girlfriends, who weep mascara down their cheeks. Ingo kneels beside a filled body bag. He throws himself across the body bag, hugs it, screams his grief to the sky. Policeman opens a bright yellow pad. A traffic citation. He writes: “Unknown Person, tan sedan, hit and run”. Ingo, eyes running rivers, looks up at Policeman and the yellow pad. Policeman shrugs, a lame consolation. FADE OUT. INT. DENTIST’S OFFICE - DAY SUPER: “ONE WEEK LATER” 3. Wall plaque: “State’s Finest Dentist: Customer Service 2008”. Posters of teeth and open mouths. Framed portrait of Woman In Red on the desk. Ingo slumps, head on hands, eyes an inch from the photo. His eyes are sad, his posture broken. Without moving his eyes, he reaches an arm above the desk to a bookshelf, brings down a hefty textbook. Opens it. The pages are glued together, cut out, hiding place for a flask. He takes a swig. Stares at the portrait. An intercom buzzes. He replaces the flask with apathy, thuds the book back onto the shelf. Shuffles across the room, past a central dentist’s chair. He opens the door. Sees: NADIA TORNOW (80), curly blue hair, frozen in place as she pops a doughnut hole into a circular mouth. She chews. INGO Nadia, Nadia. Healthy breakfasts, right? Nadia bows her apology, mouth spilling crumbs. She hands Ingo her patient file, plunks her purse on his desk, sits in the dental chair, tries to swallow the doughy lump. Ingo brushes powdered sugar off the file. Half-hearted smile. INGO Let’s rinse, shall we? Open up. Nadia opens her sugar-coated mouth. Disgusting. Ingo sprays her teeth clean with a miniature hose. Puts a loud-sucking vacuum tube under her tongue. INGO Bogdana using that litterbox yet? Nadia nods. Mumbles something unintelligible. INGO I thought so. Takes a few weeks. Her cat was about a month before she figured it out. Nadia mumbles something, a surprised tone. 4. INGO Oh, I’ve had lots of practice. She used to say I couldn’t understand her because there was nothing in her mouth. I’d say that’s why our arguments weren’t my fault. She’d laugh. Ingo turns his head away, macho, misty-eyed. He swallows. He turns off the hose, withdraws it and the vacuum. Props her mouth wide open with lip retractors. Approaches her teeth with a tiny mirror and pick. Taps on each tooth. INGO This just a routine check? Nadia mumbles something, tongue immobile. INGO Oh, this one here? Ingo taps on a molar. Nadia gives a little scream of pain. Bites down. INGO That’s her. Tongue down, please. Ingo works in silence. Scrapes the tooth. Examines his handiwork. Digs at the tooth some more. Starts up a whiny cordless dentist’s drill. Moves the drill around inside her mouth. Grinding. Nadia’s eyes, full of fear. INGO It’s all right, Nadia. I won’t hurt you. Done this a million times. Nadia attempts a stretched lips smile, mumbles something. Ingo stops, motionless, the drill whirs without effect. INGO No. Thanks. I needed to get back to work right away. I’m sorry, too... Ingo begins to weep. The drill drifts, touches a tooth, whirs. Nadia winces, a little cry of pain. 5. Ingo pulls the drill out of her mouth, turns it off. INGO She was everything... Gone just like that. I don’t even know who... Doc Vern says I’ve already passed through denial, anger, bargaining, straight to depression. Why not? Nadia’s eyes tear up. She mumbles more. INGO Yeah. I need one, don’t I? Maybe next month. Ingo stands, composes himself. Walks to the window. Looks through it, deep breaths in and out. The drill in his right hand. INGO’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW A parking lot. Empty. Except for a tan Buick sedan. BACK TO SCENE Ingo turns pale. Double-takes at the car outside. He sidles over to his desk, talks to cover his movement. INGO The Godlessness of it all. All those people on the street, all those people on the sidewalk. That car only hits one. Why her? Why that moment? Of course I still believe. I believe He’ll lead me to the one who took her from me. He gets to the desk, looks down at Nadia’s purse. A bright yellow slip sticks out the top. A series of emotions flash across his face: Confusion. Remembrance. Decision. Anger. Coldness... INGO I know why you came to see me. Nadia mumbles something, a long phrase, whimpers with pain, almost crying. She points to her molar. Ingo’s back is to her, doesn’t see her. 6. WHIRRR! He flicks the drill on. INT. RECEPTIONIST’S DESK - DAY A door behind the desk opens. Ingo’s head pops through. His breathing is slow, normal. Blood spattered cheek. INGO Margret, call 911. An accident. MARGRET (20), flustered receptionist, fumbles with the phone. EXT. STRIP MALL - DAY A squad car squeals into the parking lot, lights and sirens. Jolts to a stop in front of “Ingo Gunnarson, Dentist”. INT. DENTIST’S OFFICE - DAY Ingo slumps, head on hands, eyes an inch from the photo of Woman In Red. He smiles. He kisses the picture. He stands, crosses to Nadia’s purse. Pulls out the bright yellow slip with wet red fingers. Blood smears on the paper. INSERT - BRIGHT YELLOW SLIP Reads: “Meter Violation -- No Parking Zone -- $35 Fine.” BACK TO SCENE Ingo trembles, shakes his head, drops the paper. INGO No. No, no. Nonononononononononono. Ingo rips the purse apart, flings stuff all over the office. The door bangs open. POLICEMAN #2 points a gun inside. Ingo looks up, wild look, blood all over his face and white coat. Policeman #2 looks at Nadia’s mutilated body, gulps. MOMENTS LATER Ingo lays facedown, hands cuffed behind him. Policeman #2 kneels on his back, searches him. INGO But... you don’t understand... she told me... I heard her... she confessed... FADE TO BLACK.

March 10, 2009

Picking Up the Peaces

Logline: "A witty, unsettling thriller - former deadly assassin struggles for peace in a world that may not want it."

This film reads like an over-the-top and witty look at global politics and warfare, comparable to a Coen Brothers film or a Doonesbury cartoon. As always, the full script is available upon request.

Note: this excerpt contains ADULT LANGUAGE and VIOLENCE.

January 1, 2009

Much Better

This tiny story was my entrant in MoviePoet.com's November contest, which required all entries to be only one page long.

It's an incredible and fulfilling challenge, to tell a story (complete with beginning, middle, climax, and end) in just one page of screenplay format. Enjoy!

December 30, 2008

Sin

A homage to Flannery O'Connor, this short (and sweet?) script with a short (and sweet?) title examines the overbearing burden of a well-formed conscience, and our differing responses to moments of grace.

Sin by Kyle Patrick Johnson An Original Screenplay KyleJohnsonScripts@gmail.com Represented by: Contact: Phone: Fax: Email: Website: Canton Literary Management Eric Canton 866.429.3118 888.843.7193 Ecanton@prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: EXT. CITY SIDEWALK – NIGHT Cold frozen breath hangs in the air. A dull flickering glow of a broken streetlight. the straining bulb. A hum from A hooded head swivels back and forth, a ceaseless vigil, a lookout. Hands rub vigorously. A frozen exhale. The streetlight suddenly flicks on full. SARAH (20s), gangsta wannabe, jumps against a storefront. She shrinks into the shadows under cut wires leading to an old-fashioned burglar alarm bell. Her head continues its perpetual motion. The streetlight fails again. Sarah steps back out into the dark street. behind her: “Goldinger’s Jewelry.” She glances at her watch. Boom. A muffled gunshot. The store’s sign Sarah’s eyes are confused, troubled, panicky. INT. GOLDINGER’S JEWELRY Security cameras hang lifeless, dangling from cords. MATTHEW (30s), cold-faced viper, stands behind a broken glass jewelry counter, holds a gun. SCOTT (20s), younger than he looks, white with fright, crouches by a safe in the back wall. He slowly turns his head, looks at Matthew. Matthew spits at a dark, huddled body in a side wall’s open doorway. MATTHEW We don’t have time. Let’s go. 2. Scott scoops up a small garbage bag, scurries towards the front door. Matthew jerks his head, internally furious, swearing to himself. He kicks the body. Scott goes out the front door. pocketing his gun. SIDEWALK Sarah opens the two passenger-side doors of a small car as Matthew and Scott hurry out of the store. She circles the car, sits in the driver’s seat, starts it up with trembling fingers. Matthew and Scott leap headlong into the car as it starts moving. The doors close as the car speeds away. INT. GARAGE - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER) The car sits idling as the garage door closes. The garagedoor-opener machine casts a sickly yellow light. Sarah turns the car off, still trembling, still in shock. Matthew aggressively opens his door, gets out, slams it shut. Scott, ashen, gets out of the car. Tosses the garbage bag on a workbench. Sits on the car’s front bumper, thinking. Matthew upends the bag, dumping loot, jewelry, cash all over the workbench. He sorts it. Cash in one neatly stacked pile, jewels and gold in another. He looks back at Sarah. MATTHEW You cold, or what? Quivering, Sarah shakes her head. She gets out of the car. Matthew follows close behind, Matthew hands her the pile of cash. MATTHEW You did good. Get out of here. Sarah pauses, then takes the money. She stands, waits. Matthew points to an interior door, emphatically. 3. MATTHEW I said, get out of here. leave when we’re ready. We’ll The door closes. Sarah turns, slowly, goes into the house. Locks. Matthew stuffs all the valuables into his pockets. MATTHEW I’ll find the fence. few days. See you in a Without looking at Scott, Matthew goes to an exterior door and leaves. Scott remains on the bumper, stock still. The garage-door-opener light goes out. In the dark, Scott gropes his way to the exterior door. exits, closes it softly behind him. INT. SCOTT’S APARTMENT – DAY Scott sits forward on the couch, remote in hand, eyes anxious. Watches TV. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) …the brutal murder of a robbery gone wrong. Police are still trying to identify what is missing from the store. The victim has been identified as… SAME – NIGHT Scott leans back on the couch, hair tousled, eyes bleary. licks dry, chapped lips. Watches TV. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) …if you know anything about this crime, the police ask you to call their crime task force hotline at… SAME – DAY Scott’s throat is dry and thick. He tries to swallow, can’t. His lips are involuntarily drawn back across his face, his bloodshot eyes glued to the glowing screen. He He 4. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) …no progress at this time. Police Commissioner Smith reports that every available unit is combing the streets… SAME – NIGHT Scott looks like Death. He pulls his eyes open with his hands. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) ...difficulty of finding criminals without eyewitnesses. If you saw anything suspicious, you are asked… Scott presses a button on the remote. The TV clicks off. Starts to fall He leans forward, puts his head in his hands. asleep. Slaps himself in the face, forces himself awake. He staggers to his feet, collects his thoughts, heads for the door. EXT. CATHOLIC CHURCH – NIGHT Scott stumbles up the steps to the massive front door. tries to open it. Locked. He tries a smaller door to the side. Another. Locked. Scott swings his head like a wounded animal looking for escape. He awkwardly lopes down the steps to the building next door, the -EXT. RECTORY Every window is dark. A motion-sensitive light flicks on as Scott approaches the front door. Blinded, Scott reaches for the doorbell, can’t find it. He bangs on the front door. No response. He knocks with all his might, both hands. Finally, a light inside. The front door opens. Locked. Locked. He 5. FR. REYNOLDS (40s), soft hands and soft heart, pokes a sleepy head out. What? FR. REYNOLDS Yes? The Scott pushes past Fr. Reynolds, bullies into the house. outer door squeals as it is forced open. Fr. Reynolds stumbles back. INT. RECTORY - FOYER Scott whirls around, towers threateningly over the smaller priest. Fr. Reynolds placidly stands his ground. Yes? FR. REYNOLDS Before speaking, Scott tries to swallow, still cannot. Fr. Reynolds nods. FR. REYNOLDS Let’s get you a glass of water, son. Watch that loose rug in the kitchen. KITCHEN Scott sips a glass of water as though swallowing is painful. He stands on an old, frayed rug with upturned corners. Fr. Reynolds leans against a counter, patient, waiting. Scott puts the empty glass down. SCOTT I gotta get something off my chest. FR. REYNOLDS You’re in the right place for that. FADE TO BLACK. INT. SCOTT’S APARTMENT – DAY Scott sprawls across his couch, limbs splayed. A key in the door. Asleep. The door opens: Matthew enters. 6. Matthew bounds into the apartment, plops down on the couch, pokes Scott in the ribs. MATTHEW Hey, Scott. Great news. man. Come on, Scott opens an eye, stretches, yawns, not ready to wake. Matthew punches him in the leg. MATTHEW Scott, man. I dusted it all! We’re home free. Matthew pulls a wad of hundred dollar bills from a pocket. Sprinkles them on Scott. MATTHEW That’s your half. I got an idea for our next -No. SCOTT Matthew waits, perplexed. MATTHEW I think we oughta hit -No. SCOTT Matthew’s eyes narrow. MATTHEW Oh, you don’t want Sarah along this time? I thought she did -SCOTT No, that’s not it. We killed him, man. That’s not cool. We can’t just do another job now, pretend it didn’t happen. Matthew is taken aback, looks at Scott with contempt. MATTHEW What should we do? What, you’re okay with stealing but not with killing? What’s the difference? SCOTT I went to see a priest. 7. Matthew’s eyes instantly turn icy. He pulls a gun from a pocket, points it between Scott’s eyes. Scott doesn’t seem to even notice. MATTHEW Man, you didn’t. SCOTT Stealing didn’t hurt anyone. MATTHEW Are you an idiot? Of course it did. That’s not the point. You tell him? SCOTT I confessed, yeah. MATTHEW We’re going to jail for life now. SCOTT No, he won’t tell anyone. can’t. Rules. He MATTHEW I don’t believe it. He’s gonna. This can’t happen, man. Matthew cocks the gun, straightens his arm. MATTHEW Who’s the priest? Scott shakes his head. No. But his eyes stray to the window. Matthew looks over the back of the couch, over his shoulder, out of the window. He sees a church across the street. He grits his teeth. He turns back to Scott... who is not there. The front door is open. Matthew leaps off the couch in pursuit. HALLWAY Scott races to the stairwell, throws open the door, fairly flies down the steps. 8. Matthew rockets out of the apartment, pocketing the gun. runs after Scott. STREET Scott weaves across the busy street, dodging cars. RECTORY Scott heads straight for the rectory door, not knocking, pushes it open. The door squeaks. RECTORY FOYER Scott swings the door closed behind him as he runs in. door fails to fully close. SCOTT Fr. Reynolds! FR. REYNOLDS (O.S.) (mouth full) In here. STREET He The Matthew races across the street, narrowly missed by a honking truck. RECTORY KITCHEN Fr. Reynolds stands at the sink, eating a bowl of ice cream. Scott bursts in. Ah, Scott. pleasure. FR. REYNOLDS Sorry, my guilty He holds up the ice cream, winks. SCOTT (breathless) Matthew, the guy, I said in confession, he knows, he’s coming to kill you. FR. REYNOLDS Son, I don’t remember anything you said in confession. It’s grace. Remind me. 9. SCOTT I stole, my friend killed someone, I can’t get forgived till I turn myself in, he’s gonna kill us. FR. REYNOLDS It’s absolution, not forgived. The outer door creaks. He’s here! SCOTT Too far. Fr. Reynolds looks at his phone. FR. REYNOLDS Then there’s just enough time to pray. Matthew slams open the kitchen door. Points the gun at Fr. Reynolds, points it at Scott, back to the priest. MATTHEW You’re stupid, Scott. stupid. No. SCOTT He said I had to. Stupid, FR. REYNOLDS There’s always time to do the right thing, Matthew. Your sin -MATTHEW No such thing. FR. REYNOLDS It seems real to Scott. MATTHEW Scott’s gonna put me in jail, so I don’t give a damn what he thinks. SCOTT It’s the only way to forgiveness. MATTHEW Piece of... I killed her, I killed her, not you. What -SCOTT It was my fault. store. I picked the 10. FR. REYNOLDS One sin leads to another. They’re both commandments, you know. Matthew looks as though his head will explode with rage. God! MATTHEW Matthew raises the gun one last time at Fr. Reynolds. A noise from the hallway, the outer door opening. Matthew wheels, running to get a firing angle into the hallway against the intruder. He trips on the loose rug. SLOW MOTION The gun slips forward out of Matthew’s hand as he tries to maintain balance. Matthew flies horizontally, reaching out for the gun. The gun twists and tumbles in air. Matthew’s groping hand reaches the gun, grabs it too tightly. The gun is backwards. Matthew lands on the ground. His hand clenches. The gun goes off against his head, muffled. BACK TO SCENE Matthew lies on his stomach, bleeding profusely onto the rug. He gasps for air. FR. REYNOLDS Oh, son, oh, son. Scott stares in horror. Fr. Reynolds, as though perfectly used to such situations, briskly walks over, kicks the gun away from Matthew’s hand, kneels down beside him. FR. REYNOLDS (to Scott) (to Matthew) (MORE) 911. 11. FR. REYNOLDS (CONT'D) You still have a chance, son. Aren’t you sorry at all? Matthew looks up at him with fading eyes. Sorry? Matthew dies. The kitchen door opens... Sarah stands there, her eyes red with prolonged weeping. SARAH I heard someone in here. need to confess. I just FADE OUT. MATTHEW

February 22, 2012

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Takers Toll

July 8, 2009

The Dreadnaught Box

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Stage of Grief

March 10, 2009

Picking Up the Peaces

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Much Better

December 30, 2008

Sin

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