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Portrait of a Nightmare
A Screenplay by:
Andrew Keil
Based on the novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
By James Joyce
And
The Seagull
By Anton Chekhov
INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT
An overview of an old and dusty LIBRARY zooms in to a corner
to find a young man sitting alone at a table amidst the walls
and walls of books.
CUT TO:
An ENVELOPE lies unopened on the table, and the man reaches
over to grab it. He grabs a nearby letter opener and begins
to open the unaddressed piece of mail. He winces as he
realizes he's cut himself. The envelope falls from his
hands.
His BLOOD begins to fall from his hand where he was cut, and
drops onto the envelope. To his astonishment, the blood
begins to coagulate into words.
The blood reads: TO STEPHEN.
Still holding his cut hand, Stephen pulls out the letter from
the envelope to reveal a blank page. Blood drips onto it.
More words begin to appear, but they are crossed out, as if
the person did not know how to write what they wanted to say.
The only intelligible words are: "A new subject for a short
story", "Beware", and "Treplev."
FADE TO BLACK.
INT. PUB - NIGHT
Stephen approaches a bartender still holding the letter wet
with blood, but he no longer bleeds.
STEPHEN
Murphy, could I bother you for a
minute?
Murphy, a grizzled old bartender, smiles at Stephen as he
cleans a mug.
MURPHY
Sure, Stephen. What's on your
mind?
STEPHEN
(Looks unsure.)
Actually, could I just get a drink?
Stephen slips the letter into his cloak pocket. Murphy hands
him a mug full of beer. Stephen grabs the wet mug, and
proceeds to nurse his beer.
STEPHEN
It's difficult being different than
everyone Murphy.
Murphy looks at him intently.
STEPHEN
(Takes a gulp of his
beer.)
Half of the time the mere words
spilling forth from my mouth
alienate me from the general
public. I demanded personal
freedom and independent thought,
and I got it alright. But at what
cost? What am I to write about if
I have no interpersonal
relationships other than the
occasional barkeep?
MURPHY
You've come in here once a week for
the past five months and every time
you look the same. Maybe you'll
never be satisfied. But maybe
there's still something out there
that you haven't experienced.
Murphy pats him on the shoulder.
MURPHY
Now get outta here! Heaven knows
what great work you could do should
you get your head on straight!
Stephen gets up from his seat, leaving half of his mug still
full. Murphy looks at the mug, shrugs, then proceeds to
drink the rest of the beer.
CUT TO:
EXT. WOODS - NIGHT
Stephen walks along a dirt path, staring up at the stars. He
abruptly stops, clenches his stomach, and throws up (OS).
STEPHEN'S POV
Shakily he sees faint lights appear in the forest. Steadily
toward him come what at first look like men. As they come
closer, however, it is evident that they are SATYRS. They
circle around him, and reach their arms toward him.
CUT TO:
INT. STEPHEN'S HOUSE - DAY
Stephen jolts out of bed in his tiny house, looking
bewildered. A MELANCHOLY WALTZ plays in the background.
He grabs his cloak thrown across a nearby chair and feels
inside the pocket. He pats it, obviously finding nothing.
He sighs, reassured and pleased. Then, he glances at the
floor. The letter lies there, a foot away from the bed.
STEPHEN
What blood is this?/A supernatural
affair of human bondage,/A
pestilence of
petrification,/Somewhere my fate
weeps.
He gets out of bed, moves over to a desk and uses a pen
wetted with ink to write out this new poem.
While writing, a faint SCRATCHING noise grows louder and
louder until Stephen finishes writing and looks first at his
door.
STEPHEN'S POV
The door is closed. His vision turns around to his bed, and
on the floor he sees the letter unfolded with all the blood
removed. His blood sits in a pool inches from the letter,
which has now burst aflame. It turns quickly into ashes.
ANGLE - STEPHEN'S FACE
Sweat drips down Stephen's face, his mouth lies agape, his
eyebrows furrowed. He cannot speak.
ANGLE - BLOOD
The blood bubbles, and then steadily forms a HAND. Bones,
muscle, and then skin form with it. It has a mind of its
own, and walks on its fingers. It leaps up and lands on his
desk, where it forms a mouth on its palm.
HAND
Conform, conform, the eagles are
coming, the eagles are coming!
EAGLES break through the windows in his tiny, isolated house.
The HAND dances on the desk.
HAND
Pull out his eyes, apologize,
apologize, pull out his eyes!
ANGLE - STEPHEN
He sits frozen. He closes his eyes. He begins to mumble
incoherently.
STEPHEN
(Voice goes from very soft
to loud.)
Stefaneforos, Stefaneforos,
Stefaneforos, Stefaneforos,
Stefaneforos!
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT
Stephen's head lifts up from a book at the table where he
must have fallen asleep. He feels himself to makes sure he's
really there, finally pinching himself on the cheek.
STEPHEN
That would have been the death of
me. How absurd, how disturbing!
He looks down at the table. An unopened envelope lies next
to his book. Stephen picks it up, opens it without a letter
opener, and pull out the letter.
STEPHEN
(Reading.)
Stephen, I cannot allow you to
enter my house again. You are good
for nothing. Simon Dedalus.
Stephen crumples it up and tosses it into a nearby garbage
canister.
He gets up and walks through hall of the library, meeting
nobody. He moves past the front desk, and the librarian does
not even glance up at him. He opens a set of FRENCH DOUBLE
DOORS leading out of the library.
ANGLE - STEPHEN
The library doors close behind him. Sweat drips down his
face again, falling from his hair.
The camera moves around him until it shows the land around
him. A small deserted beach surrounds him, with a DOCK and a
STAGE not too far away. The camera angles back towards him,
and the library is nowhere in sight. He walks forward into
the sand, until the HAND rises out of the sand and grabs his
ankle.
Stephen gasps in surprise, but, unlike before, the HAND is
attached to an entire BODY. The body of a man comes out of
the sand, while Stephen is too traumatized to move. It has a
gaping bullet hole in its head, allowing the ocean behind him
to be seen through it.
The man spits out some sand, then blood begins trickling down
his mouth, which hangs wide open. He blinks, and then
speaks.
TREPLEV
Stephen, this is not just your
nightmare. I was like you, worried
about the opinions of my art. I
desired the respect and attention
of my mother, which I never feel I
received, and the love of a woman.
I expected these individuals to
return the love I gave to them in
my own idealistic fashion, and it
led only to disappointment and
failure. I died...
(A seagull lands on the
shoulder of the dead man
while he pauses.)
Do art for art's sake, and don't
expect wide acceptance. Now take
this bird from me.
Stephen reaches out and firmly grips the bird, it flutters in
his hand.
TREPLEV
Good. Now rip out its heart!
Stephen, with a pitiful resigned look on his face, thrusts
his hand through the bird's chest and pulls out its HEART.
The seagull drops to the ground dead.
TREPLEV
(With a grim smile and a
last spit of blood.)
You must triumph over the hearts of
others. Eat it!
Stephen closes his eyes, puts the heart in his mouth, chews,
and swallows. He then opens his eyes, and as he smiles the
camera ZOOMS into the black pits of his cornea, losing itself
in the depths of its eternity.
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