Scene 1
It is a sunny week towards the end of Spring, in Cambridge, England, a cul-de-sac town for privilege, and calibre, and brooding royalty of all races but especially the rat and fish people.
We seem to see a man with a guppie for a head. The fish flutters away: we are looking through a fishtank at a man (named PREGNANT), brooding on a chair. But he does actually have a guppie for a head. The guppie gasps and the man dies, his crown clatters out of shot.
The shot pans away . . . out the window . . . a street scene . . . an observant viewer may spot CORNTROUGH wheeling his bicycle through the crowds . . . title, “Francis Crot’s Scrum in the Cum” and opening credits . . . as a suicide jumper lands on a mattress . . . several children shouting whee! come onto it after him . . . pans farther . . . another window . . . into another apartment.
A man apparently with a goldfish for a head. The fish flutters away: we are looking through a fishtank at a young man (named LEMON), brooding on a chair. He has a normal head – frankly, perhaps a shade more pensive than normal.
Lemon arises and approaches the tank.
Showing posts with label scene 1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scene 1. Show all posts
Contagion at our Gates
BY FRANCIS CROT
Lemon is listening or "listening" to Xzibit's "E Lucean la Stelle."
LEMON: You don’t like think.
We see the fish eat a piece of food.
We see Lemon watching the fish.
LEMON: Don’t . . . actually . . . like, experience fish flakes, do you. Do you?
We see the fish.
LEMON: Your eyes detect it and your mouth swallows it. Isn’t that right? Like my heart . . . beats.
The man’s face suddenly comes into shot, pressed up against the glass. The fish darts. The man accuses.
LEMON: You aren’t really afraid! There’s no, there’s uh nothing . . . nothing to fear . . .
The shot changes. Lemon puts another piece of food in the water. The fish eats it. Lemon ponders.
LEMON: Little device.
Another piece.
LEMON: I’ve heard you have a memory of two seconds. What have you heard about me?
Another piece. Lemon keeps putting pieces of food in the tank, with increasing anger/excitement, as the scene wraps up.
LEMON: Is that memory like people have memories, or like my Mac has a memory? Could I see through your weird eyes? Would it thus be a pensioners’ bus tour of the Highlands, a baffling Hellish blur – relieved somewhat – continual – interesting – castle apparitions – ? – You uh see like food, you like swallow it – ? – nut in your automaton brain nothing more special than your automaton gut like you see food and you eat it and digest it and you see food and you eat
LEMON: You don’t like think.
We see the fish eat a piece of food.
We see Lemon watching the fish.
LEMON: Don’t . . . actually . . . like, experience fish flakes, do you. Do you?
We see the fish.
LEMON: Your eyes detect it and your mouth swallows it. Isn’t that right? Like my heart . . . beats.
The man’s face suddenly comes into shot, pressed up against the glass. The fish darts. The man accuses.
LEMON: You aren’t really afraid! There’s no, there’s uh nothing . . . nothing to fear . . .
The shot changes. Lemon puts another piece of food in the water. The fish eats it. Lemon ponders.
LEMON: Little device.
Another piece.
LEMON: I’ve heard you have a memory of two seconds. What have you heard about me?
Another piece. Lemon keeps putting pieces of food in the tank, with increasing anger/excitement, as the scene wraps up.
LEMON: Is that memory like people have memories, or like my Mac has a memory? Could I see through your weird eyes? Would it thus be a pensioners’ bus tour of the Highlands, a baffling Hellish blur – relieved somewhat – continual – interesting – castle apparitions – ? – You uh see like food, you like swallow it – ? – nut in your automaton brain nothing more special than your automaton gut like you see food and you eat it and digest it and you see food and you eat
Scene 9
A pub. Late afternoon. Lemon and Joe are playing pool. In the background are a table football table and VANESSA. CHRIS enters, “fresh” from football. Joe pauses his shot.
LEMON: Well?
CHRIS: Nine!
JOE: Nine’s all right.
CHRIS: Nine’s our season best.
JOE: Nice one.
Joe bends to sink something simple.
CHRIS: All right, Vanessa!
She waves.
LEMON: You still using the old ‘six-four-zero’?
CHRIS: Had Ben hanging back, didn’t we. Just the three goals in the second half.
Lemon is artificial and discomfited.
LEMON: Now you’ve [sic] in single figures, could it be time to start thinking offensively?
CHRIS: Maybe. And I'm not saying we're disappointed with the wretched result. If anything, we're ecstatic. But as the clock ran down, we faced a team increasingly less convinced of the strength of challenge we represented.
LEMON: Turned down the volume, did they.
CHRIS: Of the final five goals, three were accomplished by aerial scissor-kicks, one can be traced to a quite unnecessary hack-down by Ben, and one was an own goal.
LEMON: Deflection, or . . .
CHRIS: Yeah, deflection. To be honest, Ben kicking it in off Batesy’s elbow, so. Both. Ben played well actually.
Perhaps some soundtrack music begins now, or perhaps it has begun earlier. A pool shot, a real mega-hit, splays pseudo-chaos across the table-top. The camera shot lingers until this pool shot’s very last wobble. Meanwhile, floating away . . .
VANESSA: Did you win then?
CHRIS: Christ, Vanessa!
She’s laughing.
CHRIS: Have you not been listening? You must've never’ve been listening for a month to be asking me a question like that . . .
A pub. Late afternoon. Lemon and Joe are playing pool. In the background are a table football table and VANESSA. CHRIS enters, “fresh” from football. Joe pauses his shot.
LEMON: Well?
CHRIS: Nine!
JOE: Nine’s all right.
CHRIS: Nine’s our season best.
JOE: Nice one.
Joe bends to sink something simple.
CHRIS: All right, Vanessa!
She waves.
LEMON: You still using the old ‘six-four-zero’?
CHRIS: Had Ben hanging back, didn’t we. Just the three goals in the second half.
Lemon is artificial and discomfited.
LEMON: Now you’ve [sic] in single figures, could it be time to start thinking offensively?
CHRIS: Maybe. And I'm not saying we're disappointed with the wretched result. If anything, we're ecstatic. But as the clock ran down, we faced a team increasingly less convinced of the strength of challenge we represented.
LEMON: Turned down the volume, did they.
CHRIS: Of the final five goals, three were accomplished by aerial scissor-kicks, one can be traced to a quite unnecessary hack-down by Ben, and one was an own goal.
LEMON: Deflection, or . . .
CHRIS: Yeah, deflection. To be honest, Ben kicking it in off Batesy’s elbow, so. Both. Ben played well actually.
Perhaps some soundtrack music begins now, or perhaps it has begun earlier. A pool shot, a real mega-hit, splays pseudo-chaos across the table-top. The camera shot lingers until this pool shot’s very last wobble. Meanwhile, floating away . . .
VANESSA: Did you win then?
CHRIS: Christ, Vanessa!
She’s laughing.
CHRIS: Have you not been listening? You must've never’ve been listening for a month to be asking me a question like that . . .
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