randesq
02-13-2005, 05:31 AM
EXT. IMPORT/EXPORT WHAREHOUSE – DAY
The sound of planes taking off litters the background.
A muscled TRANSFER AGENT pushes a wooden crate on a dolly. Stenciled: WESTERN AFRICA.
TRANSFER AGENT
You gonna be able to handle this
Mr. Sensoir?
Armani clad ARI SENSOIR, (40), waify and bronzed is taken
back by the size of the crate.
ARI
There must be some mistake.
The transfer agent looks down at his clipboard.
TRANSFER AGENT
Nope. Got two more in the back like
it. Says Cynthia’s Gallery on the stamp -
A confused nod. Ari signs the slip.
EXT. CEMETERY - DAY
Ari confides to a head stone.
CYNTHIA SENSOIR 1945-1998 "Beloved Friend"
ARI
I’m moving farther into the abyss, Cynthia.
OS: A hacking cough interrupts. Ari cranes around.
Twenty headstones back; a chiseled Chinese man with
dreads, TREACH (30’s), tries to choke down a hit.
TREACH
Sorry. Test driving new sh1t.
Training wheels are wobbling.
ARI
Could I have a moment.
TREACH
(still coughing)
Your business is secondary.
ARI
It's her birthday today.
Treach chokes on one monster toke.
TREACH
(inhaling)
For your flower
(held breath)
one more minute.
Ari turns back to the headstone. Treach walks choking on
his exhale.
ARI
. . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.
Ari lifts a rock from his pocket, then rests it on the
headstone. In the distance -
Treach opens the van door; stacked wooden crates. ‘Cynthia’s Gallery’
INT. WHITESTONE’S PENTHOUSE - DAY
Detective SARKIN ‘BICEP’ ARMAS, (30’s) points at a body’s outline.
BICEP
We've got eight pints there -
The old guy died where he fell.
DETECTIVE STEPHEN WALLACE, (40’s), gray about the temples,
stares down at blood droplets on the polished marble.
BICEP
And small spatter there –
DET. WALLACE
Two shells spent.
Wallace’s eyes jart – Throw Carpet – Old man’s outline – each - blood – droplet TO
The empty frame.
He walks toward it: Jagged ends of canvas fray from the frame. Below the frame, a small brass number – ‘127’
DET. WALLACE
He was all thumbs on this one.
Bicep hands Det. Wallace an open book. Categorized photos of
the masterpieces hanging on the wall.
BICEP
It’s another Yeats.
Wallace studies the photo. Painting # 127: Yeats, 1915 ‘Greystones’.
DET. WALLACE
Why bottom feed when there’s riches
to choose from?
Wallace scans one priceless painting after another TO
a small discolored portion of wall where a painting once hung.
Bicep flips pages in the book.
BICEP
‘186’. A Picasso sketch.
Wallace walks along the wall, eyes roll across canvases.
DET. WALLACE
He always takes something . . .
He stops on a particular portrait, walking toward it.
DET. WALLACE
. . . for himself. What’s the name of
the sketch?
A clean bullet hole through the subjects forehead.
BICEP
Just a note here. ‘Screaming horse’
Wallace puts his pen through the hole in the painting.
DET. WALLACE
Get me what you can on it -
Wallace looks back down to the droplets.
DET. WALLACE
Our spiderman’s carrying the other
one around with him.
INT. DARKENED LOFT - DAY
Blinds squeeze light from the apartment. A hand holds a necklace against a bare chest and bandaged shoulder.
Lean like tension wire, THOMAS CONNOR, (40), stares at ‘Reeds’
on the coffee table. A crumpled masterpiece. His eyes drift TO
A wall to wall surveyors map. Greystones, 1876 stamped in block letters across the top.
Sweeping across the charted divisions of land to one huge area
of white space . . .
EXT. IRISH MANOR – GREYSTONES, IRELAND - DAY
SUPER: April 21, 1916
On a stone terrace, JACK BUTLER YEATS (40’s) paints the landscape. Ronan sits beside, soaking up the sun.
YEATS
You see, art transcends time.
Footprints for the culturally
devoid.
RONAN
What’s that mean?
‘Reeds’ comes alive under crisp brushstrokes.
Rail thin, PADRAIC PLUNKETT (40’s), enters through the open
patio doors.
PADRAIC
Okay Ronan, leave him to his work.
So he might concentrate more on his
canvas than his philosophy.
RONAN
Yes, father.
He stops Ronan.
PADRAIC
The future belongs to those who
command the present. Keep that here.
(touches his forehead)
And here.
His hand tenderly pats Ronan’s heart. Ronan collapses into
his father; a giant hug.
PADRAIC
Make it apart of your fabric.
(giant squeeze)
Now, go help your mum out.
Ronan disappears within the bowels of the manor. Padraic
looks out over the Marsh and beyond, land stretches across
the horizon.
Yeats’ canvas exactly matches Padriac’s view.
YEATS
I’m as drawn to your passions as your
landscapes.
PADRAIC
Well, Greystones may never again be
so tranquil.
A measured silence. Yeats stops painting. Birds skim through
the reeds.
PADRAIC
Our voice is to be carried to Dublin.
And you must finish your work.
YEATS
And you? When it starts . . .
Yeats walks up beside Padraic.
YEATS
They’ll surely know who stood behind it.
PADRAIC
Don’t we all stand behind it?
They stare out over the reeds and beyond, dark clouds choke the horizon . . .
INT. 'THE VOODOO LOUNGE' – NEW YORK CITY - DAY
Down a row of empty, high back booths to the mother of all booths. Inside HARVEY HERBSTEIN,(40’s), jacked on steroids,
his head to small for his body, drinks a shake.
HARVEY
Jesus Christopher Columbus, it’s the
pimple on my ***.
Harvey pounds the shake, wincing. Ari sits.
ARI
There were three crates -
BAM. Harvey slams Ari in the chest with a backhand.
Ari keels over, gasping for air.
HARVEY
The crates are getting larger. I
can’t, I’m a prom queen. I can’t.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t -
Harvey plucks Ari’s trachea between his thumb and forefinger, pinching.
HARVEY
You got three more drops, then you
can be whomever it is, you fancy
yourself to be. That’s our arrangement.
Harvey opens another can, tasting it like a fine wine.
Smacking his lips. Ari struggles for composure.
HARVEY
Ahtt-ahtt, that’s ok. Save the breath
for breathing. I don’t need any more
**** tumbling out of your head.
Harvey lays his head on the table, meeting Ari’s perspective.
A vein bulging whisper.
HARVEY
Just make sure you keep picking up those
crates.
(suddenly nice)
And I’ll need a few tickets for your piece
of ***’s fundraiser.
The sound of planes taking off litters the background.
A muscled TRANSFER AGENT pushes a wooden crate on a dolly. Stenciled: WESTERN AFRICA.
TRANSFER AGENT
You gonna be able to handle this
Mr. Sensoir?
Armani clad ARI SENSOIR, (40), waify and bronzed is taken
back by the size of the crate.
ARI
There must be some mistake.
The transfer agent looks down at his clipboard.
TRANSFER AGENT
Nope. Got two more in the back like
it. Says Cynthia’s Gallery on the stamp -
A confused nod. Ari signs the slip.
EXT. CEMETERY - DAY
Ari confides to a head stone.
CYNTHIA SENSOIR 1945-1998 "Beloved Friend"
ARI
I’m moving farther into the abyss, Cynthia.
OS: A hacking cough interrupts. Ari cranes around.
Twenty headstones back; a chiseled Chinese man with
dreads, TREACH (30’s), tries to choke down a hit.
TREACH
Sorry. Test driving new sh1t.
Training wheels are wobbling.
ARI
Could I have a moment.
TREACH
(still coughing)
Your business is secondary.
ARI
It's her birthday today.
Treach chokes on one monster toke.
TREACH
(inhaling)
For your flower
(held breath)
one more minute.
Ari turns back to the headstone. Treach walks choking on
his exhale.
ARI
. . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.
Ari lifts a rock from his pocket, then rests it on the
headstone. In the distance -
Treach opens the van door; stacked wooden crates. ‘Cynthia’s Gallery’
INT. WHITESTONE’S PENTHOUSE - DAY
Detective SARKIN ‘BICEP’ ARMAS, (30’s) points at a body’s outline.
BICEP
We've got eight pints there -
The old guy died where he fell.
DETECTIVE STEPHEN WALLACE, (40’s), gray about the temples,
stares down at blood droplets on the polished marble.
BICEP
And small spatter there –
DET. WALLACE
Two shells spent.
Wallace’s eyes jart – Throw Carpet – Old man’s outline – each - blood – droplet TO
The empty frame.
He walks toward it: Jagged ends of canvas fray from the frame. Below the frame, a small brass number – ‘127’
DET. WALLACE
He was all thumbs on this one.
Bicep hands Det. Wallace an open book. Categorized photos of
the masterpieces hanging on the wall.
BICEP
It’s another Yeats.
Wallace studies the photo. Painting # 127: Yeats, 1915 ‘Greystones’.
DET. WALLACE
Why bottom feed when there’s riches
to choose from?
Wallace scans one priceless painting after another TO
a small discolored portion of wall where a painting once hung.
Bicep flips pages in the book.
BICEP
‘186’. A Picasso sketch.
Wallace walks along the wall, eyes roll across canvases.
DET. WALLACE
He always takes something . . .
He stops on a particular portrait, walking toward it.
DET. WALLACE
. . . for himself. What’s the name of
the sketch?
A clean bullet hole through the subjects forehead.
BICEP
Just a note here. ‘Screaming horse’
Wallace puts his pen through the hole in the painting.
DET. WALLACE
Get me what you can on it -
Wallace looks back down to the droplets.
DET. WALLACE
Our spiderman’s carrying the other
one around with him.
INT. DARKENED LOFT - DAY
Blinds squeeze light from the apartment. A hand holds a necklace against a bare chest and bandaged shoulder.
Lean like tension wire, THOMAS CONNOR, (40), stares at ‘Reeds’
on the coffee table. A crumpled masterpiece. His eyes drift TO
A wall to wall surveyors map. Greystones, 1876 stamped in block letters across the top.
Sweeping across the charted divisions of land to one huge area
of white space . . .
EXT. IRISH MANOR – GREYSTONES, IRELAND - DAY
SUPER: April 21, 1916
On a stone terrace, JACK BUTLER YEATS (40’s) paints the landscape. Ronan sits beside, soaking up the sun.
YEATS
You see, art transcends time.
Footprints for the culturally
devoid.
RONAN
What’s that mean?
‘Reeds’ comes alive under crisp brushstrokes.
Rail thin, PADRAIC PLUNKETT (40’s), enters through the open
patio doors.
PADRAIC
Okay Ronan, leave him to his work.
So he might concentrate more on his
canvas than his philosophy.
RONAN
Yes, father.
He stops Ronan.
PADRAIC
The future belongs to those who
command the present. Keep that here.
(touches his forehead)
And here.
His hand tenderly pats Ronan’s heart. Ronan collapses into
his father; a giant hug.
PADRAIC
Make it apart of your fabric.
(giant squeeze)
Now, go help your mum out.
Ronan disappears within the bowels of the manor. Padraic
looks out over the Marsh and beyond, land stretches across
the horizon.
Yeats’ canvas exactly matches Padriac’s view.
YEATS
I’m as drawn to your passions as your
landscapes.
PADRAIC
Well, Greystones may never again be
so tranquil.
A measured silence. Yeats stops painting. Birds skim through
the reeds.
PADRAIC
Our voice is to be carried to Dublin.
And you must finish your work.
YEATS
And you? When it starts . . .
Yeats walks up beside Padraic.
YEATS
They’ll surely know who stood behind it.
PADRAIC
Don’t we all stand behind it?
They stare out over the reeds and beyond, dark clouds choke the horizon . . .
INT. 'THE VOODOO LOUNGE' – NEW YORK CITY - DAY
Down a row of empty, high back booths to the mother of all booths. Inside HARVEY HERBSTEIN,(40’s), jacked on steroids,
his head to small for his body, drinks a shake.
HARVEY
Jesus Christopher Columbus, it’s the
pimple on my ***.
Harvey pounds the shake, wincing. Ari sits.
ARI
There were three crates -
BAM. Harvey slams Ari in the chest with a backhand.
Ari keels over, gasping for air.
HARVEY
The crates are getting larger. I
can’t, I’m a prom queen. I can’t.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t -
Harvey plucks Ari’s trachea between his thumb and forefinger, pinching.
HARVEY
You got three more drops, then you
can be whomever it is, you fancy
yourself to be. That’s our arrangement.
Harvey opens another can, tasting it like a fine wine.
Smacking his lips. Ari struggles for composure.
HARVEY
Ahtt-ahtt, that’s ok. Save the breath
for breathing. I don’t need any more
**** tumbling out of your head.
Harvey lays his head on the table, meeting Ari’s perspective.
A vein bulging whisper.
HARVEY
Just make sure you keep picking up those
crates.
(suddenly nice)
And I’ll need a few tickets for your piece
of ***’s fundraiser.