One of the things that Alan Moore did during his time reinventing superhero comics was to point out the blinding obvious to an audience and an editorial/creative community. Mythology resonates because there is an end: Robin Hood fires the arrow to determine where he will be buried, ultimately the hero departs.
Now commercial considerations determine that for most characters in superhero fiction, that does not happen. With my own creation, Mr Forbidden and his family/friends associates, there is an ending in mind. I am writing it, even though I am ignorant of the chances of him ever being published, but because I want to know going in, that I am not creating someone who will disappear into stasis. The ending is there, even if no-one but me will ever see it.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Stack
Stack was/is my attempt to do something about a posthuman, based around the engine of the present being blasted with bits of the future
STACK
Issue 1
An underpass, across the crumbling expanse of wall is a detailed graffiti tag; we are looking at it through the lens of a digital camera.
Text: WHEN BRANNON TOOK OVER THE ROLE OF CHIEF OF POLICE IN 1992, PROPERTY DAMAGE OF $400 BECAME A FELONY, THE IDEA BEING THAT THIS WOULD DETER GRAFFITI IN LOS ANGELES.
Side view of HENRY UNDERWOOD, a black male in his early twenties, cropped black hair, goatee and spectacles. He is wearing a UCLA hooded sweatshirt and has a laminated pass around his neck on a rawhide thong, and he is bringing a small digital camera down from eye level. On his shoulder hangs a leather bag, where he keeps his laptop and cellular phone.
Text: BUT GRAFFITI ISN’T ABOUT VANDALISM, IT’S ABOUT IDENTITY, EXPRESSION AND PRIDE. YOU CANNOT PUT A PRICE ON THAT.
Henry’s lap top, USB cable to his camera connecting it all up as he downloads his pictures, the screen shows a huge amount of. JPEG files on there. Do this from Henry’s POV, the whole set-up is sat precariously on his lap.
Text: THE BROKEN WINDOW PRINCIPLE OF POLICING THAT HE PIONEERED IN NYC UNDER RUDY AND BROUGHT WITH HIM. KEPT THINGS REAL NICE FOR THE TOURISTS AND THE PEOPLE WHO COULD AFFORD A CERTAIN LEVEL OF DISTANCE FROM ANYTHING APPROACHING ‘REAL’ CRIME.
Page 2:
Henry, riding a mountain bike along the street, illuminated by the street lights, do this as an upshot so that we are looking at him.
Text: MY NAME IS HENRY UNDERWOOD, I WAS TWENTY-TWO AND A PHOTOJOURNALIST FOR STREETDOTCOM, WHICH WAS AN URBAN CULTURE SITE. ONE WEEK IT WOULD BE BOTOX PARTIES IN San Fernando, BUT THIS WEEK IT WAS GRAFFITI. I WORKED WITH MINIMAL OVERHEADS AND LITTLE TO NO EDITORIAL CAVEAT, SO I WORKED AS I CHOSE.
Henry, looking up and enjoying the breeze on his face. A small panel, a beat before we move onto the scene proper.
Text: TONIGHT WAS WHERE IT ALL BEGAN. AND ENDED.
Up ahead, A Lincoln, idling at the kerb. Around it are three black males, one sat on the hood of the car is POKE, painfully thin with cornrows, a white tee and blue jeans that sit low on his hips over white trainers, who is swigging on a can of beer. The second man, who is stood on the kerb is NEEDLE, he wears a short sleeved Von Dutch shirt, jeans and a red do-rag. He is puffing on a blunt, and his eyes are heavy-lidded with intoxication and next to him is RAY, who is wearing a wife beater, jeans and a ball cap worn to one side, from the waistband juts the handle of a .22 revolver. He is pointing ahead of him; he’s noticed HENRY.
Ray: THASS MY BIKE, MOTHERFUCKER!
Henry, staring straight ahead, a grim expression on his face as he pedals on.
Thought balloon: show a storm cloud with drops of rain and a fork of lightning.
Page 3:
RAY, walking into the path of Henry, arms out to each side and his head cocked to the left, eyes blazing with a crazed, malevolent energy.
Ray: I KNOW YOU HEARD ME, MOTHERFUCKER, THASS MY BIKE YOU RIDIN’ AN SHIT.
POKE, laughing as he hands the can over to Needle.
Poke: RAY, THAT AIN’T YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BIKE, YOU SOLD IT AT THA SWAP MEET!
Needle, looking at Henry through a fog of dope smoke as he brings the beer can to his lips.
Needle: MIGHT NOT BE HIS BIKE, POKE. BUT THIS BITCH DON’T LOOK HE EVER BEEN TO NO SWAP MEET.
Henry, holding onto the handle grips of his bike, on the verge of tears as Ray walks towards him, as we look over his shoulder.
Henry: PLEASE, MAN. I’M JUST GOING HOME, ALRIGHT.
Ray: YOU BEGGING ME, MAN?
Henry: NO, I..JUST.
Ray, up close, feeding off of the fear he’s creating in Henry.
Ray: GET OFF OF THE FUCKING BIKE.
Page 4:
Pan around to a side angle as Needle and Poke are walking over, Ray has the bike by the handlebars as Henry sits on it, feet on the asphalt.
Needle: GET THE FUCK OFF!
Poke: NEEDLE, NEVER MIND THE BIKE, WHASS IN THE BAG, RAY?
Henry, closing his eyes, as a single tear rolls down his cheek.
Henry: NO.
Pull back and pan around to a medium close up as Ray slaps Henry, his glasses flying towards us, cracked lenses and a bent arm as his head rocks back on his shoulder.
Henry, falling away, still clutching his bag. Do this as a downshot.
Cut to a blurred, out of focus upshot as Ray stands over him, the revolver in his hand with Needle and Poke flanking him.
Ray: GIVE IT UP, BITCH, THIS AIN’T YOUR NIGHT.
Page 5:
Cut to a falling cigarette butt, the end glowing in the twilight as we see it fall from a gloved hand.
The butt, hitting the floor.
The toecap of a cowboy boot, crushing it beneath. On the toe is a wolfs head, iridescent against the highly burnished black leather.
Upshot of an unshaven chin and a mouth, revealing white, even teeth, curved into a predatory smile.
Stack: NO, THIS AIN’T YOURS.
Head-level shot of Ray, Poke and Needle, Ray looks terrified, Poke is shocked and Needle looks deeply uncomfortable.
Page 6:
Medium shot in full profile. STACK somewhere between an extreme sports athlete and the Marlboro Man. He stands about six feet tall, with black hair worn stylishly unkempt and a faint trace of silver at the temples. He wears designer sunglasses, Oakley or Wayfarer, the kind worn by extreme athletes low on the bridge of his nose, above which his cerulean blue eyes twinkle, there are the faintest traces of crows feet there. He is a big man, but a lot of his bulk is concealed beneath the biker jacket he wears, a designer motley of colors (no logos). He wears blue jeans and the aforementioned boots; his hands are squeezed into his pockets. Think a grizzled Brad Pitt or a young Jack Nicholson. Around his neck, on a chain is a symbol, a golden triangle with a circle inset and inside of that is a caduceus.
Stack: STEP AWAY FROM THE MAN, AND DROP THE WEAPON ON THE GROUND.
Ray, pointing the revolver at Stack, it is held to the left as he looks at Stack, terrified.
Ray: FUCK YOU, MAN. BEST BACK OFF BEFORE I PUT YOU DOWN.
Needle hands behind his back, staring at Stack.
Needle: MOVE YOUR ASS, MOTHERFUCKER.
Cut behind him, as we see him racking the slide on a Glock-17.
Stack (no tail): WOULDN’T RECOMMEND THAT, MY MAN.
Needle, pointing the gun at Stack.
Needle: RAY AIN’T GOING TO DO SHIT, UNDERSTAND?
Page 7:
Poke, pointing at Henry on the ground, bemused.
Poke: THOUGHT WE WAS FIXIN’ TO ROB THIS BITCH, NOW WE’RE GONNA SHOOT THAT BITCH?
Ray: THAT’S RIGHT, POKE.
Needle: DAMN STRAIGHT.
Stack, stood there, still smiling.
Stack: IT APPEARS TO BE THAT WAY, SIR. WOULD YOU BE PULLING A GUN AT THIS POINT?
Poke, shrugging his shoulders embarrassed.
Poke: NOT UNLESS YOU GONNA LET ME GRAB IT FROM MY GLOVE COMPARTMENT?
Stack (no tail): THAT MIGHT BE STRETCHING IT THERE, MIND IF I DECLINE THAT?
Poke, frowning as we are looking over Stack’s shoulder at this point.
Poke: SEEMS FAIR TO ME. BUT THEN I AIN’T THE ONE WITH TWO GUNS POINTED AT MY CRACKER ASS.
Page 8:
Needle, pointing the gun at Stack as he looks to Ray.
Needle: SO WHAT NOW, DO WE SHOOT HIS ASS?
Ray: THAT’S UP TO HIM, IT’S DARK, MIGHT BE THAT HE GOT HIMSELF LOST AND MIGHT WANT TO WALK HIS ASS OVER THE STREET.
Stack, slipping the glasses up the bridge of his nose with a gloved forefinger, the smile has left his face entirely.
Stack: THAT’S VERY THOUGHTFUL OF YOU, RAY.
3. The other hand, sliding from the pocket, gripping something. 4. Pull back as Stack has a dart gun, something that resembles a cross between a paint ball gun and a squeeze bottle in his hand, firing it with his arms stretched ahead of him, in a two-handed grip.
Needle, falling away, clutching his pelvic area, the gun relinquished entirely.
Ray, folding over as he is shot.
Poke, aghast at what has happened.
Pull back as he lurches towards Ray’s revolver.
Upshot, the dart gun pointed downward, a gloved finger on the outside of the trigger guard.
Stack: DON’T.
Page 9:
Henry sat upright, broken glasses askew on his face, cradling his bag.
Text: NOW THAT WOULD’VE MADE FOR SOME DAMN FINE PHOTOS.
Stack, pocketing the gun, whilst Poke cowers at his feet.
Stack: NOW, I INTEND TO DIAL 9-11, WHICH IS PROBABLY MORE THAN YOU’D HAVE DONE FOR THIS MAN HERE, AM I RIGHT?
Poke, crying and nodding as he trembles at Stack’s feet.
Poke: PLEASE MAN, DON’T KILL ME, I AIN’T DONE SHIT TO YOU.
Stack, smiling kindly as he helps Poke to his feet.
Stack: YOU EVER SEEN ME BEFORE?
Poke: NO, MAN. NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE.
Stack: YOU KNOW WHY YOUR BOY RAY IS ACTING ALL SKITTISH?
Poke, shaking his head and hugging himself.
Poke: HEARD HE GOT INTO SOME SHIT WITH THIS WHITE BITCH IN TORRANCE, CLAIMING HE RAPED HER, BUT RAY SAID HE DIDN’T DO SHIT.
Stack: HE SAY HOW OLD THIS ‘WHITE BITCH’ WAS?
Stack one hand on Poke’s shoulder, as he looks him in the eyes.
Stack: SHE WAS YOUR SISTER’S AGE, POKE. HE FORCED HIMSELF ON HER, THEN HE CUT HER AND HE LEFT HER BARELY BREATHING. I KNOW WHAT YOU FEEL NEEDS TO BE DONE IF YOU ROLL WITH A CERTAIN CROWD, BUT…
Poke, his head bowed, as he looks disgusted. Tight head and shoulders shot here.
Poke: THAT AIN’T RIGHT, DOG.
Page 10:
Poke, looking up confused and disoriented as Stack helps Henry to his feet.
Poke: HOW’D YOU KNOW I HAD A SISTER?
Stack: I KNOW A LOT OF THINGS, POKE. I KNOW THAT YOU’RE NOT LYING THERE IN A POOL OF YOUR OWN BLOOD, RIGHT NOW…
Angle the shot so that we can see Henry holding his glasses as Stack turns to Poke.
Stack: BUT KEEP ROLLING ON THESE STREETS AND YOU WILL BE. GO HOME TO YOUR MOMMA, POKE. TAKE SOMETHING GOOD OUT OF THIS WHOLE SHITTY DEAL, ALRIGHT?
Poke, walking away, shoulders down back to his car.
The car, pulling away.
Stack, turning to Henry and smiling at him.
Stack: ARE YOU ALRIGHT? NAME’S STACK
Henry: HENRY. YES. I AM, AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO THANK YOU.
Stack: THERE A GOOD BAR AROUND HERE?
Page 11:
Establishing shot, a bar, somewhere cheap and cheerful but not entirely a dive of ill repute.
Drop the angle of the shot so that we are looking at a tabletop, a frosted pitcher, two glasses, both empty and an ashtray on one side.
Henry: THAT WASN’T THE FIRST TIME YOU THREW DOWN BACK THERE, WAS IT?
Stack: NO, CAN’T SAY THAT IT WAS. WHAT WERE YOU DOING IN THAT ‘HOOD ANYWAYS?
3. Henry, raising a glass to his lips and smiling to himself as Stack lights a cigarette.
Henry: TAKING PHOTOGRAPHS OF GRAFFITTI TAGS, AS IT HAPPENS. AND YOU?
Stack: TRACKING DOWN A SICK RAPIST WITH THE INTENT OF CLAIMING A FAT REWARD THAT THE GIRL’S FATHER THREW UP YESTERDAY.
Stack, exhaling as Henry looks at him quizzically through his broken glasses.
Henry: IS THAT WHAT YOU DO?
Stack: WHEN THE OCCASION ARISES, YES IT IS SOMETHING THAT I DO.
Henry, sipping once again at his beer.
Henry: SO, WHAT DO YOU PULL DOWN ON THAT, AFTER TAX?
Stack: IT’S NOT ABOUT THE MONEY, TO BE HONEST, NOT THAT I MIND BEING PAID FOR DRAGGING SOME WASTE OF SKIN BACK TO JAIL.
Page 12:
Stack, pausing as he lights a cigarette, sucking up the courage to tell Henry about who he really is, he’s slightly turned away as he does this.
Stack: YOU’RE A JOURNALIST, RIGHT? IMAGINE YOU’VE SEEN SOME THINGS, YEAH?
Henry: YOU COULD SAY THAT, THERE’S NOT A LOT THAT CAN SURPRISE ME, I SUPPOSE.
Hold on Stack, as he looks at Henry over his cigarette.
Stack: SIX MONTHS AGO, I WAS THE SORRIEST PIECE OF SHIT YOU’VE EVER SEEN. A FUCKED-UP SKIN-POPPIN’ SKANK WHO SLEPT WHERE HE PASSED OUT AND STOLE WHAT HE COULD.
Cut to Henry, appraising him, looking for holes in his story already.
Henry: YOU LOOK REMARKABLY WELL, STACK. I’VE KNOWN PEOPLE ON BOTH SIDES OF ADDICTION, AND NONE OF THEM, EVEN THE ONES WHO SURVIVED, LOOK AS WHOLE AS YOU DO.
Stack: I COULD CLAIM ALL KINDS OF SHIT, BUT THAT’S THE PROBLEM, HENRY—
Pan back to Stack.
Stack:--I DON’T REMEMBER HOW I CLEANED UP. AT ALL.
Page 13:
Henry, smiling politely.
Henry: EXPLAIN THAT.
Stack: LAST THING I REMEMBER, SHUFFLING DOWN SUNSET, LOOKING FOR SOMEWHERE TO FIX UP AND CRASH, GET THE TASTE OUT OF MY MOUTH—
Henry: NOT THAT MUCH DETAIL, STACK—
Stack: I TURN INTO THIS ALLEYWAY, SEE THIS DUMPSTER I CAN CRASH IN AND
Cut to a ragged, bone-thin junkie, who bears only the slightest resemblance to the present Stack, wreathed in a corona of white light as tesseract shapes surround him.
Voice (no tail): INITIATING PROCEDURE, PREPARATION STAGE ONE
Henry (no tail): AH, COME ON.
Henry, smiling, awkwardly as he suddenly seems uncomfortable, repaying Stack’s hospitality with his own incisive insights.
Henry: ALIENS TURN YOU FROM SKANKY MCSKANK INTO THE MARLBORO MAN? COME ON, WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL HERE?
Stack, sat there, appraising Henry, not insulted or angry, as he slightly leans over the table, taking Henry in, breathing in his aura, palms flat on the table as he looks at him. Angle this panel slightly from the side, so that the perspective is slightly distorted.
Stack: NOT PULLING ANYTHING, HENRY. I HAVE SOME PROOF, NOT ALL OF IT HERE.
Henry: IS YOUR PLACE LINED WITH TINFOIL? FEEL I SHOULD, AT LEAST ASK THAT.
Close up on Stack’s eyes.
Stack: OK, I KNOW THAT RIGHT NOW, YOU’RE TORN BETWEEN GRATITUDE THAT I SAVED YOUR LIFE AND FEAR THAT YOU ARE TALKING TO A GENUINE NUTJOB. THAT YOU HAVEN’T CALLED YOUR MOMMA, EVELYN, IN OVER A WEEK BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY TO HER AND THAT YOU FEAR THAT SHE COMPARES YOU UNFAVORABLY TO YOUR ELDER BROTHER, RAYMOND, WHO WORKS IN INVESTMENT BANKING. HOW AM I DOING?
Page 14:
Henry, mouth agape, he’s been thinking that exact train of thought. A moment, a beat of silence.
Henry, draining his glass, eyes still bulging ahead.
Henry, slamming the glass down.(Have this panels form the top half of the page in a horizontal sequence, with the latter pair taking a widescreen approach)
Henry: MR STACK, I AM GRATEFUL TO YOU FOR SAVING MY LIFE, BUT THIS CONVERSATION IS TAKING ONE SEVERE TURN TOWARDS FUCKED UP.
Stack, lighting a cigarette.
Stack: IT’S NOT SOMETHING I ENJOY DOING, BUT I NEED SOMEONE TO BELIEVE, TO BEAR WITNESS.
Henry: WHY NOT JUST GO ON LETTERMAN OR SOMETHING?
Stack: BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE THE ANSWERS THAT PEOPLE WANT TO HEAR.
Pan around and pull back to encompass both men.
Stack: I KNOW THAT SOMETHING HAPPENED, THAT I HAVE BEEN GIVEN SIGNIFICANT ADVANTAGES TO SOME END, BUT I CANNOT SEEM TO PUT IT ALL TOGETHER, I CANNOT THINK AROUND IT, I CANNOT FORCE IT.
Henry: IT MIGHT BE SOME FORM OF BREAKDOWN.
Page 15:
Stack, looking slightly vulnerable.
Stack: COULD BE, BUT AS SMART AS I AM, I AM TOO CLOSE TO IT.
Henry: TRIED THERAPY?
Stack: IT’S NOT A TRAUMA, HENRY. IT’S A PUZZLE. I CAN FUNCTION, BUT I GET THIS FEELING THAT I COULD GET ALONG BETTER KNOWING MORE ABOUT IT.
2. Henry, shaking his head slightly dismissively.
Henry: STACK, IT MIGHT BE THAT YOU GOT YOURSELF FUCKED UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE, THE BRAIN IS CAPABLE OF ALL KINDS OF INVENTIONS.
Stack: SO HELP ME, OINK AROUND IN MY LIFE, AT LEAST GET A STORY THAT’LL MAKE YOUR EDITOR BLOW A FUSE.
3. Henry, smiling as he realizes that his journalistic instinct is being appealed to, here.
Henry: STACK THE PSYCHIC BOUNTY HUNTER, MIGHT PITCH IT AS A FUCKING MOVIE!
Stack: NAH, NOT THESE DAYS, GOTTA BE A REMAKE OR A SEQUEL TO GET A STUDIO INTERESTED. SO, YOU IN?
Henry, holding up one finger.
Henry: YOU GET ONE WEEK, I GET TO GO WHERE I WANT, WITH YOU OR WITHOUT YOU AND I WILL SEE WHAT I CAN DIG UP. THAT’S WHAT SAVING MY ASS AND THEN GETTING ME HALF-CUT GETS YOU.
Stack: I’LL GET MY KEYS, NEED TO KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE ANYWAYS.
Page 16:
Establishing shot, Stack’s car with the two men in the front. In terms of what he drives, I envisage something modified to the gills, that isn’t about being visually ostentatious but certainly doesn’t come close to being something off of a factory line – tough and fast, designed for the street, be it a hot pursuit or a cruise. Certainly not a SUV or similar, it has to be an urban man car.
Stack: SO WHERE YOU LIVE?
Henry: NOT FAR, PULL OUT AND I’LL DIRECT YOU.
Flip to an overhead downshot as the car pulls out into traffic.
Cut to a through the windshield view, Stack is driving.
Henry: WHAT ARE WE LISTENING TO?
Stack: THELONIUS MONK.
Henry: YOU EVER LISTEN TO ANY REAL MUSIC?
Stack, smiling.
Stack: I TAKE MY MUSIC SERIOUSLY, HENRY.
Page 17:
Cut to behind the car, a black Lincoln, following them, an indistinct figure behind the wheel and a license plate that reads WH1TE.
Cut to Stack, looking in the rear view mirror, having clocked the Lincoln.
Stack: HMM
Henry, looking over his shoulder.
Henry: WE BEING FOLLOWED?
Stack (no tail): SOME NEW FRIENDS OF MINE, I THINK.
Pull back and drop to a slight downward angle as Stack turns the car right.
The Lincoln, following.
Page 18:
Cut to the rear door of the Lincoln, swinging open as it drives on, use speed lines to indicate the motion.
Stack, still checking the rear view as his hands grip the wheel.
Stack: OH SHIT…
Henry, looking ahead through the windshield, he’s seen something ahead.
Henry: STACK!
Big panel, in the headlights is a scarred, thuggish dwarf, wearing a black hooded top with a skull and cross bones across it, board shorts over steel toe capped boots. His eyes glitter coldly in the headlights and any visible flesh is striated with scars, a thin scrub of beard lies across his chin and cheeks. This is BRUTAL, one of the Seven, the agents of the antagonist who we will detail as time goes on. His arms are folded across his chest and he smiles coldly.
Page 19:
Cut to a side-view as the car stops inches from where Brutal stands, unperturbed.
Henry, stunned as Stack is moving to open the door.
Henry: WHAT IS THAT?
Stack: STAY HERE, HENRY. I GOT THIS..
Henry: I GUESS YOU WOULD HAVE.
Cut to an angled upshot, Stack looking over Brutal.
Stack: I THOUGHT THIS WAS DONE, B.
Brutal: SHE HOPED YOU WOULD RECONSIDER
Brutal, looking past Stack to Henry. Take this slightly from the side, in terms of body language, Stack is diplomatic, almost deferential.
Brutal: WHO’S THIS, YOUR SIDEKICK?
Stack: JUST A FRIEND, B. TELL HER THAT I CAN’T TAKE ANYTHING ELSE ON, RIGHT NOW, IT’S PERSONAL STUFF.
Brutal: WHAT’S HIS NAME?
Cut to Henry, looking out his passenger side window.
Snow: IT’S HENRY, ISN’T IT?
Page 20:
SNOW, if you’ve seen Angeline Jolie in Gone In 60 Seconds, it’s a shit film but she looks utterly incandescent in it, with the white-blond dreads set against her complexion. Use that as a reference, but shake it up a little. She is a Los Angeles fairy tale, there is something of the 40’s about her set against a gothic aesthetic, but she is a study in white and purity, a white gold nose ring, pearl lip gloss and eye shadow, emerald eyes that almost cut you to look at you. She wears a sheer white dress, under which we can see the outlines of tribal tattoos. You have to take the breath away, here.
Snow: I KNOW YOUR WORK.
Stack, turning on his heel, slightly perturbed as Snow has slid around to the front of the car, she has a beautiful back, all tone and definition.
Stack: SNOW, I THOUGHT WE DISCUSSED THIS.
Snow: WE DID, BUT I THOUGHT WE SHOULD TRY AGAIN.
Henry, looking concerned.
Henry: STACK?
A blur of motion, past Stack, blowing his hair up.
Brutal, squatting on the hood of the car, pointing a scarred finger and snarling at Henry.
Brutal: SHUT YOUR FUCKING FACE!
Page 21:
Stack, looking over at Brutal as his back is to us, dancing a tattoo on the hood of Stack’s ride.
Stack: STEP OFF OF THE HOOD, LITTLE MAN.
Close up as Henry reaches for the glove compartment, whilst staring straight ahead at Brutal.
Text: I DIDN’T THINK, I JUST REACTED
3. The compartment door, flipping open as Henry’s hand darts inside. 4. Brutal, looking over his shoulder as he gives Stack the finger.
Brutal: GO FUCK YOURSELF STACK BEFORE I –
Page 22:
Drop back to a medium distance shot as Brutal is thrown off of the hood, three exit wounds punching through his back, his arms pinwheeling.
Henry, the revolver extended and smoke drifting from the barrel as he looks on, shocked.
Stack, removing his glasses, surprised.
Snow, face crumpled in rage and dismay.
Brutal’s surprised face, pale from blood loss
Henry, in close up.
Henry: OH MAN.a well-travelled path by Morrison and Ellis). One script was written, some art completed but the artist jumped ship.
The original concept was that Stack, descended from the legendary afro-american archetype of Stack-o-lee, had returned to the 21st century L.A., summoned by increasing despair and racial tension, herald of race riots and violence. The whole piece came from the p.o.v of a black journalist, who bore witness to the whole thing.
The script, too hastily written became a future thing, and I am looking to revise it into the original concept, make it more urbane and horrific.
STACK
Issue 1
An underpass, across the crumbling expanse of wall is a detailed graffiti tag; we are looking at it through the lens of a digital camera.
Text: WHEN BRANNON TOOK OVER THE ROLE OF CHIEF OF POLICE IN 1992, PROPERTY DAMAGE OF $400 BECAME A FELONY, THE IDEA BEING THAT THIS WOULD DETER GRAFFITI IN LOS ANGELES.
Side view of HENRY UNDERWOOD, a black male in his early twenties, cropped black hair, goatee and spectacles. He is wearing a UCLA hooded sweatshirt and has a laminated pass around his neck on a rawhide thong, and he is bringing a small digital camera down from eye level. On his shoulder hangs a leather bag, where he keeps his laptop and cellular phone.
Text: BUT GRAFFITI ISN’T ABOUT VANDALISM, IT’S ABOUT IDENTITY, EXPRESSION AND PRIDE. YOU CANNOT PUT A PRICE ON THAT.
Henry’s lap top, USB cable to his camera connecting it all up as he downloads his pictures, the screen shows a huge amount of. JPEG files on there. Do this from Henry’s POV, the whole set-up is sat precariously on his lap.
Text: THE BROKEN WINDOW PRINCIPLE OF POLICING THAT HE PIONEERED IN NYC UNDER RUDY AND BROUGHT WITH HIM. KEPT THINGS REAL NICE FOR THE TOURISTS AND THE PEOPLE WHO COULD AFFORD A CERTAIN LEVEL OF DISTANCE FROM ANYTHING APPROACHING ‘REAL’ CRIME.
Page 2:
Henry, riding a mountain bike along the street, illuminated by the street lights, do this as an upshot so that we are looking at him.
Text: MY NAME IS HENRY UNDERWOOD, I WAS TWENTY-TWO AND A PHOTOJOURNALIST FOR STREETDOTCOM, WHICH WAS AN URBAN CULTURE SITE. ONE WEEK IT WOULD BE BOTOX PARTIES IN San Fernando, BUT THIS WEEK IT WAS GRAFFITI. I WORKED WITH MINIMAL OVERHEADS AND LITTLE TO NO EDITORIAL CAVEAT, SO I WORKED AS I CHOSE.
Henry, looking up and enjoying the breeze on his face. A small panel, a beat before we move onto the scene proper.
Text: TONIGHT WAS WHERE IT ALL BEGAN. AND ENDED.
Up ahead, A Lincoln, idling at the kerb. Around it are three black males, one sat on the hood of the car is POKE, painfully thin with cornrows, a white tee and blue jeans that sit low on his hips over white trainers, who is swigging on a can of beer. The second man, who is stood on the kerb is NEEDLE, he wears a short sleeved Von Dutch shirt, jeans and a red do-rag. He is puffing on a blunt, and his eyes are heavy-lidded with intoxication and next to him is RAY, who is wearing a wife beater, jeans and a ball cap worn to one side, from the waistband juts the handle of a .22 revolver. He is pointing ahead of him; he’s noticed HENRY.
Ray: THASS MY BIKE, MOTHERFUCKER!
Henry, staring straight ahead, a grim expression on his face as he pedals on.
Thought balloon: show a storm cloud with drops of rain and a fork of lightning.
Page 3:
RAY, walking into the path of Henry, arms out to each side and his head cocked to the left, eyes blazing with a crazed, malevolent energy.
Ray: I KNOW YOU HEARD ME, MOTHERFUCKER, THASS MY BIKE YOU RIDIN’ AN SHIT.
POKE, laughing as he hands the can over to Needle.
Poke: RAY, THAT AIN’T YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BIKE, YOU SOLD IT AT THA SWAP MEET!
Needle, looking at Henry through a fog of dope smoke as he brings the beer can to his lips.
Needle: MIGHT NOT BE HIS BIKE, POKE. BUT THIS BITCH DON’T LOOK HE EVER BEEN TO NO SWAP MEET.
Henry, holding onto the handle grips of his bike, on the verge of tears as Ray walks towards him, as we look over his shoulder.
Henry: PLEASE, MAN. I’M JUST GOING HOME, ALRIGHT.
Ray: YOU BEGGING ME, MAN?
Henry: NO, I..JUST.
Ray, up close, feeding off of the fear he’s creating in Henry.
Ray: GET OFF OF THE FUCKING BIKE.
Page 4:
Pan around to a side angle as Needle and Poke are walking over, Ray has the bike by the handlebars as Henry sits on it, feet on the asphalt.
Needle: GET THE FUCK OFF!
Poke: NEEDLE, NEVER MIND THE BIKE, WHASS IN THE BAG, RAY?
Henry, closing his eyes, as a single tear rolls down his cheek.
Henry: NO.
Pull back and pan around to a medium close up as Ray slaps Henry, his glasses flying towards us, cracked lenses and a bent arm as his head rocks back on his shoulder.
Henry, falling away, still clutching his bag. Do this as a downshot.
Cut to a blurred, out of focus upshot as Ray stands over him, the revolver in his hand with Needle and Poke flanking him.
Ray: GIVE IT UP, BITCH, THIS AIN’T YOUR NIGHT.
Page 5:
Cut to a falling cigarette butt, the end glowing in the twilight as we see it fall from a gloved hand.
The butt, hitting the floor.
The toecap of a cowboy boot, crushing it beneath. On the toe is a wolfs head, iridescent against the highly burnished black leather.
Upshot of an unshaven chin and a mouth, revealing white, even teeth, curved into a predatory smile.
Stack: NO, THIS AIN’T YOURS.
Head-level shot of Ray, Poke and Needle, Ray looks terrified, Poke is shocked and Needle looks deeply uncomfortable.
Page 6:
Medium shot in full profile. STACK somewhere between an extreme sports athlete and the Marlboro Man. He stands about six feet tall, with black hair worn stylishly unkempt and a faint trace of silver at the temples. He wears designer sunglasses, Oakley or Wayfarer, the kind worn by extreme athletes low on the bridge of his nose, above which his cerulean blue eyes twinkle, there are the faintest traces of crows feet there. He is a big man, but a lot of his bulk is concealed beneath the biker jacket he wears, a designer motley of colors (no logos). He wears blue jeans and the aforementioned boots; his hands are squeezed into his pockets. Think a grizzled Brad Pitt or a young Jack Nicholson. Around his neck, on a chain is a symbol, a golden triangle with a circle inset and inside of that is a caduceus.
Stack: STEP AWAY FROM THE MAN, AND DROP THE WEAPON ON THE GROUND.
Ray, pointing the revolver at Stack, it is held to the left as he looks at Stack, terrified.
Ray: FUCK YOU, MAN. BEST BACK OFF BEFORE I PUT YOU DOWN.
Needle hands behind his back, staring at Stack.
Needle: MOVE YOUR ASS, MOTHERFUCKER.
Cut behind him, as we see him racking the slide on a Glock-17.
Stack (no tail): WOULDN’T RECOMMEND THAT, MY MAN.
Needle, pointing the gun at Stack.
Needle: RAY AIN’T GOING TO DO SHIT, UNDERSTAND?
Page 7:
Poke, pointing at Henry on the ground, bemused.
Poke: THOUGHT WE WAS FIXIN’ TO ROB THIS BITCH, NOW WE’RE GONNA SHOOT THAT BITCH?
Ray: THAT’S RIGHT, POKE.
Needle: DAMN STRAIGHT.
Stack, stood there, still smiling.
Stack: IT APPEARS TO BE THAT WAY, SIR. WOULD YOU BE PULLING A GUN AT THIS POINT?
Poke, shrugging his shoulders embarrassed.
Poke: NOT UNLESS YOU GONNA LET ME GRAB IT FROM MY GLOVE COMPARTMENT?
Stack (no tail): THAT MIGHT BE STRETCHING IT THERE, MIND IF I DECLINE THAT?
Poke, frowning as we are looking over Stack’s shoulder at this point.
Poke: SEEMS FAIR TO ME. BUT THEN I AIN’T THE ONE WITH TWO GUNS POINTED AT MY CRACKER ASS.
Page 8:
Needle, pointing the gun at Stack as he looks to Ray.
Needle: SO WHAT NOW, DO WE SHOOT HIS ASS?
Ray: THAT’S UP TO HIM, IT’S DARK, MIGHT BE THAT HE GOT HIMSELF LOST AND MIGHT WANT TO WALK HIS ASS OVER THE STREET.
Stack, slipping the glasses up the bridge of his nose with a gloved forefinger, the smile has left his face entirely.
Stack: THAT’S VERY THOUGHTFUL OF YOU, RAY.
3. The other hand, sliding from the pocket, gripping something. 4. Pull back as Stack has a dart gun, something that resembles a cross between a paint ball gun and a squeeze bottle in his hand, firing it with his arms stretched ahead of him, in a two-handed grip.
Needle, falling away, clutching his pelvic area, the gun relinquished entirely.
Ray, folding over as he is shot.
Poke, aghast at what has happened.
Pull back as he lurches towards Ray’s revolver.
Upshot, the dart gun pointed downward, a gloved finger on the outside of the trigger guard.
Stack: DON’T.
Page 9:
Henry sat upright, broken glasses askew on his face, cradling his bag.
Text: NOW THAT WOULD’VE MADE FOR SOME DAMN FINE PHOTOS.
Stack, pocketing the gun, whilst Poke cowers at his feet.
Stack: NOW, I INTEND TO DIAL 9-11, WHICH IS PROBABLY MORE THAN YOU’D HAVE DONE FOR THIS MAN HERE, AM I RIGHT?
Poke, crying and nodding as he trembles at Stack’s feet.
Poke: PLEASE MAN, DON’T KILL ME, I AIN’T DONE SHIT TO YOU.
Stack, smiling kindly as he helps Poke to his feet.
Stack: YOU EVER SEEN ME BEFORE?
Poke: NO, MAN. NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE.
Stack: YOU KNOW WHY YOUR BOY RAY IS ACTING ALL SKITTISH?
Poke, shaking his head and hugging himself.
Poke: HEARD HE GOT INTO SOME SHIT WITH THIS WHITE BITCH IN TORRANCE, CLAIMING HE RAPED HER, BUT RAY SAID HE DIDN’T DO SHIT.
Stack: HE SAY HOW OLD THIS ‘WHITE BITCH’ WAS?
Stack one hand on Poke’s shoulder, as he looks him in the eyes.
Stack: SHE WAS YOUR SISTER’S AGE, POKE. HE FORCED HIMSELF ON HER, THEN HE CUT HER AND HE LEFT HER BARELY BREATHING. I KNOW WHAT YOU FEEL NEEDS TO BE DONE IF YOU ROLL WITH A CERTAIN CROWD, BUT…
Poke, his head bowed, as he looks disgusted. Tight head and shoulders shot here.
Poke: THAT AIN’T RIGHT, DOG.
Page 10:
Poke, looking up confused and disoriented as Stack helps Henry to his feet.
Poke: HOW’D YOU KNOW I HAD A SISTER?
Stack: I KNOW A LOT OF THINGS, POKE. I KNOW THAT YOU’RE NOT LYING THERE IN A POOL OF YOUR OWN BLOOD, RIGHT NOW…
Angle the shot so that we can see Henry holding his glasses as Stack turns to Poke.
Stack: BUT KEEP ROLLING ON THESE STREETS AND YOU WILL BE. GO HOME TO YOUR MOMMA, POKE. TAKE SOMETHING GOOD OUT OF THIS WHOLE SHITTY DEAL, ALRIGHT?
Poke, walking away, shoulders down back to his car.
The car, pulling away.
Stack, turning to Henry and smiling at him.
Stack: ARE YOU ALRIGHT? NAME’S STACK
Henry: HENRY. YES. I AM, AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO THANK YOU.
Stack: THERE A GOOD BAR AROUND HERE?
Page 11:
Establishing shot, a bar, somewhere cheap and cheerful but not entirely a dive of ill repute.
Drop the angle of the shot so that we are looking at a tabletop, a frosted pitcher, two glasses, both empty and an ashtray on one side.
Henry: THAT WASN’T THE FIRST TIME YOU THREW DOWN BACK THERE, WAS IT?
Stack: NO, CAN’T SAY THAT IT WAS. WHAT WERE YOU DOING IN THAT ‘HOOD ANYWAYS?
3. Henry, raising a glass to his lips and smiling to himself as Stack lights a cigarette.
Henry: TAKING PHOTOGRAPHS OF GRAFFITTI TAGS, AS IT HAPPENS. AND YOU?
Stack: TRACKING DOWN A SICK RAPIST WITH THE INTENT OF CLAIMING A FAT REWARD THAT THE GIRL’S FATHER THREW UP YESTERDAY.
Stack, exhaling as Henry looks at him quizzically through his broken glasses.
Henry: IS THAT WHAT YOU DO?
Stack: WHEN THE OCCASION ARISES, YES IT IS SOMETHING THAT I DO.
Henry, sipping once again at his beer.
Henry: SO, WHAT DO YOU PULL DOWN ON THAT, AFTER TAX?
Stack: IT’S NOT ABOUT THE MONEY, TO BE HONEST, NOT THAT I MIND BEING PAID FOR DRAGGING SOME WASTE OF SKIN BACK TO JAIL.
Page 12:
Stack, pausing as he lights a cigarette, sucking up the courage to tell Henry about who he really is, he’s slightly turned away as he does this.
Stack: YOU’RE A JOURNALIST, RIGHT? IMAGINE YOU’VE SEEN SOME THINGS, YEAH?
Henry: YOU COULD SAY THAT, THERE’S NOT A LOT THAT CAN SURPRISE ME, I SUPPOSE.
Hold on Stack, as he looks at Henry over his cigarette.
Stack: SIX MONTHS AGO, I WAS THE SORRIEST PIECE OF SHIT YOU’VE EVER SEEN. A FUCKED-UP SKIN-POPPIN’ SKANK WHO SLEPT WHERE HE PASSED OUT AND STOLE WHAT HE COULD.
Cut to Henry, appraising him, looking for holes in his story already.
Henry: YOU LOOK REMARKABLY WELL, STACK. I’VE KNOWN PEOPLE ON BOTH SIDES OF ADDICTION, AND NONE OF THEM, EVEN THE ONES WHO SURVIVED, LOOK AS WHOLE AS YOU DO.
Stack: I COULD CLAIM ALL KINDS OF SHIT, BUT THAT’S THE PROBLEM, HENRY—
Pan back to Stack.
Stack:--I DON’T REMEMBER HOW I CLEANED UP. AT ALL.
Page 13:
Henry, smiling politely.
Henry: EXPLAIN THAT.
Stack: LAST THING I REMEMBER, SHUFFLING DOWN SUNSET, LOOKING FOR SOMEWHERE TO FIX UP AND CRASH, GET THE TASTE OUT OF MY MOUTH—
Henry: NOT THAT MUCH DETAIL, STACK—
Stack: I TURN INTO THIS ALLEYWAY, SEE THIS DUMPSTER I CAN CRASH IN AND
Cut to a ragged, bone-thin junkie, who bears only the slightest resemblance to the present Stack, wreathed in a corona of white light as tesseract shapes surround him.
Voice (no tail): INITIATING PROCEDURE, PREPARATION STAGE ONE
Henry (no tail): AH, COME ON.
Henry, smiling, awkwardly as he suddenly seems uncomfortable, repaying Stack’s hospitality with his own incisive insights.
Henry: ALIENS TURN YOU FROM SKANKY MCSKANK INTO THE MARLBORO MAN? COME ON, WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL HERE?
Stack, sat there, appraising Henry, not insulted or angry, as he slightly leans over the table, taking Henry in, breathing in his aura, palms flat on the table as he looks at him. Angle this panel slightly from the side, so that the perspective is slightly distorted.
Stack: NOT PULLING ANYTHING, HENRY. I HAVE SOME PROOF, NOT ALL OF IT HERE.
Henry: IS YOUR PLACE LINED WITH TINFOIL? FEEL I SHOULD, AT LEAST ASK THAT.
Close up on Stack’s eyes.
Stack: OK, I KNOW THAT RIGHT NOW, YOU’RE TORN BETWEEN GRATITUDE THAT I SAVED YOUR LIFE AND FEAR THAT YOU ARE TALKING TO A GENUINE NUTJOB. THAT YOU HAVEN’T CALLED YOUR MOMMA, EVELYN, IN OVER A WEEK BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY TO HER AND THAT YOU FEAR THAT SHE COMPARES YOU UNFAVORABLY TO YOUR ELDER BROTHER, RAYMOND, WHO WORKS IN INVESTMENT BANKING. HOW AM I DOING?
Page 14:
Henry, mouth agape, he’s been thinking that exact train of thought. A moment, a beat of silence.
Henry, draining his glass, eyes still bulging ahead.
Henry, slamming the glass down.(Have this panels form the top half of the page in a horizontal sequence, with the latter pair taking a widescreen approach)
Henry: MR STACK, I AM GRATEFUL TO YOU FOR SAVING MY LIFE, BUT THIS CONVERSATION IS TAKING ONE SEVERE TURN TOWARDS FUCKED UP.
Stack, lighting a cigarette.
Stack: IT’S NOT SOMETHING I ENJOY DOING, BUT I NEED SOMEONE TO BELIEVE, TO BEAR WITNESS.
Henry: WHY NOT JUST GO ON LETTERMAN OR SOMETHING?
Stack: BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE THE ANSWERS THAT PEOPLE WANT TO HEAR.
Pan around and pull back to encompass both men.
Stack: I KNOW THAT SOMETHING HAPPENED, THAT I HAVE BEEN GIVEN SIGNIFICANT ADVANTAGES TO SOME END, BUT I CANNOT SEEM TO PUT IT ALL TOGETHER, I CANNOT THINK AROUND IT, I CANNOT FORCE IT.
Henry: IT MIGHT BE SOME FORM OF BREAKDOWN.
Page 15:
Stack, looking slightly vulnerable.
Stack: COULD BE, BUT AS SMART AS I AM, I AM TOO CLOSE TO IT.
Henry: TRIED THERAPY?
Stack: IT’S NOT A TRAUMA, HENRY. IT’S A PUZZLE. I CAN FUNCTION, BUT I GET THIS FEELING THAT I COULD GET ALONG BETTER KNOWING MORE ABOUT IT.
2. Henry, shaking his head slightly dismissively.
Henry: STACK, IT MIGHT BE THAT YOU GOT YOURSELF FUCKED UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE, THE BRAIN IS CAPABLE OF ALL KINDS OF INVENTIONS.
Stack: SO HELP ME, OINK AROUND IN MY LIFE, AT LEAST GET A STORY THAT’LL MAKE YOUR EDITOR BLOW A FUSE.
3. Henry, smiling as he realizes that his journalistic instinct is being appealed to, here.
Henry: STACK THE PSYCHIC BOUNTY HUNTER, MIGHT PITCH IT AS A FUCKING MOVIE!
Stack: NAH, NOT THESE DAYS, GOTTA BE A REMAKE OR A SEQUEL TO GET A STUDIO INTERESTED. SO, YOU IN?
Henry, holding up one finger.
Henry: YOU GET ONE WEEK, I GET TO GO WHERE I WANT, WITH YOU OR WITHOUT YOU AND I WILL SEE WHAT I CAN DIG UP. THAT’S WHAT SAVING MY ASS AND THEN GETTING ME HALF-CUT GETS YOU.
Stack: I’LL GET MY KEYS, NEED TO KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE ANYWAYS.
Page 16:
Establishing shot, Stack’s car with the two men in the front. In terms of what he drives, I envisage something modified to the gills, that isn’t about being visually ostentatious but certainly doesn’t come close to being something off of a factory line – tough and fast, designed for the street, be it a hot pursuit or a cruise. Certainly not a SUV or similar, it has to be an urban man car.
Stack: SO WHERE YOU LIVE?
Henry: NOT FAR, PULL OUT AND I’LL DIRECT YOU.
Flip to an overhead downshot as the car pulls out into traffic.
Cut to a through the windshield view, Stack is driving.
Henry: WHAT ARE WE LISTENING TO?
Stack: THELONIUS MONK.
Henry: YOU EVER LISTEN TO ANY REAL MUSIC?
Stack, smiling.
Stack: I TAKE MY MUSIC SERIOUSLY, HENRY.
Page 17:
Cut to behind the car, a black Lincoln, following them, an indistinct figure behind the wheel and a license plate that reads WH1TE.
Cut to Stack, looking in the rear view mirror, having clocked the Lincoln.
Stack: HMM
Henry, looking over his shoulder.
Henry: WE BEING FOLLOWED?
Stack (no tail): SOME NEW FRIENDS OF MINE, I THINK.
Pull back and drop to a slight downward angle as Stack turns the car right.
The Lincoln, following.
Page 18:
Cut to the rear door of the Lincoln, swinging open as it drives on, use speed lines to indicate the motion.
Stack, still checking the rear view as his hands grip the wheel.
Stack: OH SHIT…
Henry, looking ahead through the windshield, he’s seen something ahead.
Henry: STACK!
Big panel, in the headlights is a scarred, thuggish dwarf, wearing a black hooded top with a skull and cross bones across it, board shorts over steel toe capped boots. His eyes glitter coldly in the headlights and any visible flesh is striated with scars, a thin scrub of beard lies across his chin and cheeks. This is BRUTAL, one of the Seven, the agents of the antagonist who we will detail as time goes on. His arms are folded across his chest and he smiles coldly.
Page 19:
Cut to a side-view as the car stops inches from where Brutal stands, unperturbed.
Henry, stunned as Stack is moving to open the door.
Henry: WHAT IS THAT?
Stack: STAY HERE, HENRY. I GOT THIS..
Henry: I GUESS YOU WOULD HAVE.
Cut to an angled upshot, Stack looking over Brutal.
Stack: I THOUGHT THIS WAS DONE, B.
Brutal: SHE HOPED YOU WOULD RECONSIDER
Brutal, looking past Stack to Henry. Take this slightly from the side, in terms of body language, Stack is diplomatic, almost deferential.
Brutal: WHO’S THIS, YOUR SIDEKICK?
Stack: JUST A FRIEND, B. TELL HER THAT I CAN’T TAKE ANYTHING ELSE ON, RIGHT NOW, IT’S PERSONAL STUFF.
Brutal: WHAT’S HIS NAME?
Cut to Henry, looking out his passenger side window.
Snow: IT’S HENRY, ISN’T IT?
Page 20:
SNOW, if you’ve seen Angeline Jolie in Gone In 60 Seconds, it’s a shit film but she looks utterly incandescent in it, with the white-blond dreads set against her complexion. Use that as a reference, but shake it up a little. She is a Los Angeles fairy tale, there is something of the 40’s about her set against a gothic aesthetic, but she is a study in white and purity, a white gold nose ring, pearl lip gloss and eye shadow, emerald eyes that almost cut you to look at you. She wears a sheer white dress, under which we can see the outlines of tribal tattoos. You have to take the breath away, here.
Snow: I KNOW YOUR WORK.
Stack, turning on his heel, slightly perturbed as Snow has slid around to the front of the car, she has a beautiful back, all tone and definition.
Stack: SNOW, I THOUGHT WE DISCUSSED THIS.
Snow: WE DID, BUT I THOUGHT WE SHOULD TRY AGAIN.
Henry, looking concerned.
Henry: STACK?
A blur of motion, past Stack, blowing his hair up.
Brutal, squatting on the hood of the car, pointing a scarred finger and snarling at Henry.
Brutal: SHUT YOUR FUCKING FACE!
Page 21:
Stack, looking over at Brutal as his back is to us, dancing a tattoo on the hood of Stack’s ride.
Stack: STEP OFF OF THE HOOD, LITTLE MAN.
Close up as Henry reaches for the glove compartment, whilst staring straight ahead at Brutal.
Text: I DIDN’T THINK, I JUST REACTED
3. The compartment door, flipping open as Henry’s hand darts inside. 4. Brutal, looking over his shoulder as he gives Stack the finger.
Brutal: GO FUCK YOURSELF STACK BEFORE I –
Page 22:
Drop back to a medium distance shot as Brutal is thrown off of the hood, three exit wounds punching through his back, his arms pinwheeling.
Henry, the revolver extended and smoke drifting from the barrel as he looks on, shocked.
Stack, removing his glasses, surprised.
Snow, face crumpled in rage and dismay.
Brutal’s surprised face, pale from blood loss
Henry, in close up.
Henry: OH MAN.a well-travelled path by Morrison and Ellis). One script was written, some art completed but the artist jumped ship.
The original concept was that Stack, descended from the legendary afro-american archetype of Stack-o-lee, had returned to the 21st century L.A., summoned by increasing despair and racial tension, herald of race riots and violence. The whole piece came from the p.o.v of a black journalist, who bore witness to the whole thing.
The script, too hastily written became a future thing, and I am looking to revise it into the original concept, make it more urbane and horrific.
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