Fountain by Osmosis: screenwriting syntax: guide by example

The Catbox

Here’s a nice depressing story to start out the new millenium with. Enjoy.

Title: The Catbox

Credit: Screenplay by:

Author: Warren R. Smith

Source: Based on 2BR02B by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

>BLACK SCREEN:

The narrator speaks from a black, blank, screen.

NARRATOR (V.O)

Everything is perfectly swell. There are no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no poverty, no wars. All diseases are conquered. So is old age. Death, barring accidents, is an adventure for volunteers. And the population of the United States is stabilized at forty-million souls.

FADE TO:

EXT. CHICAGO GENERAL HOSPITAL - DAY

It is a very nice day. People enter and leave the hospital. The lawn is trim. Sprinklers swish back and forth, creating a rainbow of water vapor and sunlight.

NARRATOR (CONT'D)

This bright morning in the maternity ward of the Chicago General Hospital, a man named Edward K. Wehling, Jr., waits for his wife to give birth. He is the only man waiting. Few couples opt for children anymore.

CUT TO:

INT. HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM - DAY

Mr. Wehling is hunched in his chair, his head in his hands. He is so rumpled, so still and colorless as to be virtually invisible. His camouflage is perfect, since the waiting room has a disorderly and demoralised air, too. Chairs, coffee-tables, and magazines, have been moved away from the walls. The floor is spread over with a spattered painter's dropcloth.

NARRATOR (CONT'D)

X-rays had revealed that his wife was going to have triplets. The children would be his first.

The room is being redecorated. A sardonic old man sits on a stepladder, painting a mural he does not like.

The mural he is working on depicts a very neat garden. Men and women in white, doctors and nurses, turn the soil, plant seedlings, spray bugs, spread fertilizer.

Others in purple uniforms pulled up weeds, cut down plants that were old and sickly, raked leaves, carried refuse to trash-burners. Not even in medieval Holland nor old Japan--had a garden been more formal, been better tended. Every plant has all the loam, light, water, air and nourishment it could use.

A hospital orderly comes down the corridor, singing under his breath a popular song:

ORDERLY

(singing)

[[the ~ below signifies lyrics]]

~So you found someone to take my place?

~Baby I'm glad.

~Take a look at the smile on my face

~You know I'm glad.

~Kiss me quick baby and I'll be on my way.

The orderly stops to look at the mural and the muralist.

ORDERLY (CONT'D)

Looks so real, I can practically imagine I'm standing in the middle of it.

PAINTER

What makes you think you're not in it?

(satiric smile)

It is called 'The Happy Garden of Life,' you know.

The orderly refers to one of the painted male figures in white, a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's Chief Obstetrician. Hitz is a blindingly handsome man.

ORDERLY

That's good of Dr. Hitz. Looks just like him.

PAINTER

Uh hmm.

ORDERLY

Lot of faces still to fill in there huh? Must be nice to be able to make pictures that look like something.

PAINTER

(curdling with scorn)

You think I'm proud of this daub? You think this is my idea of what life really looks like?

ORDERLY

What's your idea of what life looks like?

PAINTER

(gesturing to messy dropcloth)

There's a good picture of it. Frame that, and you'll have a picture a damn sight more honest than this one.

ORDERLY

You're a gloomy old duck, aren't you?

PAINTER

(shrugging)

Is that a crime?

ORDERLY

If you don't like it here, Grandpa--

(pantomimes a phone call)

you can always dial up the ol' Catbox.

The painter thumbs his nose at the orderly.

PAINTER

You think so, huh? When I decide it's time to go, it won't be at the Ethical Suicide Studios, the Catbox, Kiss-Me-Quick or whatever else you want to call it.

ORDERLY

A do-it-yourselfer, eh? Messy business, Grandpa. Why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you?

The painter expresses an obscenity.

PAINTER

The world could do with a good deal more mess, if you ask me.

The orderly laughs and moves on. Wehling, the father-to-be, sits with his head in his hands.

WEHLING

(mumbling, head down)

Mumble... grumble

A woman in pseudo-uniform strides in. Her high-heels, coat, bag and cap are all purple.

The medallion on her purple musette bag is the seal of the Service Division of the Federal Bureau of Termination, an eagle perched on a turnstile.

The woman has a lot of facial hair -- an unmistakable mustache. This contrasts with the delicate feminine lines.

NURSE DUNCAN

Is this where I'm supposed to come?

PAINTER

A lot would depend on what your business was. You aren't about to have a baby, are you?

NURSE DUNCAN

They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture. My name's Leora Duncan.

She waits.

PAINTER

And you dunk people.

NURSE DUNCAN

What?

PAINTER

Nothing.

NURSE DUNCAN

That sure is a beautiful picture. Looks just like heaven or something.

PAINTER

Or something.

He takes a list of names from his smock pocket and reads it over.

PAINTER (CONT'D)

Duncan, Duncan, Duncan,

(scanning the list)

Yes--here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left.

She studies the mural bleakly.

NURSE DUNCAN

Gee, they're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art.

PAINTER

A body's a body, eh? All righty then. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here.

He indicates a faceless figure of a woman who is carrying dried stalks to a trash-burner.

NURSE DUNCAN

Well, that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing.

The painter claps his hands in mock delight.

PAINTER

You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do! Of course the sheave-carrier is wrong for a hostess! A snipper, a pruner--that's more your line.

He points to a figure in purple who is sawing a dead branch from an apple tree.

PAINTER (CONT'D)

How about her? You like her at all?

NURSE DUNCAN

Gosh!

(blushing)

That--that puts me right next to Dr. Hitz.

PAINTER

That upsets you?

NURSE DUNCAN

Good gravy, no! It's--it's just such an honor.

PAINTER

Ah, You... you admire him, eh?

NURSE DUNCAN

Who doesn't admire him?

(gushing)

Who doesn't admire him? He was responsible for setting up the very first Ethical Suicide Studio in Chicago.

PAINTER

Nothing would please me more, than to put you next to him for all time. Sawing off a limb--that strikes you as appropriate?

NURSE DUNCAN

That is kind of like what I do.

And, while Leora Duncan poses for her portrait, into the waiting room bounds Dr. Hitz himself. He is seven feet tall, and booming with importance, accomplishment, and the joy of living.

DR. HITZ

Well, Miss Duncan! Miss Duncan! What are you doing here?

(coyly)

This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in!

NURSE DUNCAN

(shyly)

We're going to be in the same picture together.

DR. HITZ

Good! And, say, isn't that some picture?

NURSE DUNCAN

I sure am honored to be in it with you.

DR. HITZ

Let me tell you. I'm honored to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible.

He salutes her and moves toward the door that leads to the delivery rooms.

DR. HITZ (CONT'D)

Guess what was just born.

NURSE DUNCAN

I can't.

DR. HITZ

Triplets!

NURSE DUNCAN

Triplets?

DR. HITZ

Triplets.

NURSE DUNCAN

Do the parents have three volunteers?

DR. HITZ

Last I heard, they had one, and were trying to scrape another two up.

NURSE DUNCAN

I don't think they made it. Nobody made three appointments with the Suicide Studios. Nothing but singles going through today, unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name?

The lone waiting father, sits up, red-eyed and frowzy. He raises his right hand.

WEHLING

Wehling, Edward K. Wehling, Jr., is the name of the happy father-to-be.

(addressing a spot on the wall)

Present.

DR. HITZ

Oh, Mr. Wehling, I didn't see you.

They just phoned me that your triplets have been born. They're all fine, and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now.

WEHLING

(emptily)

Hooray.

DR. HITZ

You don't sound very happy.

WEHLING

What man in my shoes wouldn't be happy?

He gestures with his hands to symbolise care-free simplicity.

WEHLING (CONT'D)

All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the Happy Hooligan, and come back here with a receipt.

DR. HITZ

You don't believe in population control, Mr. Wehling?

WEHLING

(tautly)

I think it's perfectly keen.

Dr. Hitz becomes severe with Wehling, towering over him.

DR. HITZ

Would you like to go back to the good old days, when the population of the Earth was twenty billion--about to become forty billion, going on one hundred and sixty billion? Do you know what a drupelet is, Mr. Wehling?

WEHLING

(Sulkilly)

Nope.

DR. HITZ

A drupelet, Mr. Wehling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a blackberry. Without population control, human beings would now be packed on this surface of this old planet like drupelets on a blackberry! Think of it!

Wehling continues to stare at the same spot on the wall.

DR. HITZ (CONT'D)

Before the scientific way stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around, and nothing to eat but sea-weed--and still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jackrabbits. And their right, if possible, to live forever.

WEHLING

I want those kids.

(quietly)

I want all three of them.

DR. HITZ

(softening)

Of course you do. That's only human.

WEHLING

I don't want my grandfather to die, either.

DR. HITZ

(gently, sympathetically)

Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the Catbox.

NURSE DUNCAN

I wish people wouldn't call it that.

DR. HITZ

What?

NURSE DUNCAN

I wish people wouldn't call it the Catbox, the Happy-Hooligan, and stuff like that. It gives people the wrong impression.

DR. HITZ

You're absolutely right. Forgive me. I should have said, 'Ethical Suicide Studios.'

NURSE DUNCAN

That sounds so much better. Don't you think so?

DR. HITZ

This child of yours--whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Wehling. He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet, thanks to population control. In a garden like that mural there.

(shaking his head)

When I was a young man, this planet was a hell that nobody thought could last another twenty years. Now centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel.

He smiles luminously. The smile quickly fades when Wehling draws a revolver. Wehling shoots Dr. Hitz dead.

WEHLING

There's room for one--a great big one.

(to Nurse Duncan)

It's only death.

(he shoots her)

There! Room for two.

And then Wehling shoots himself.

The painter sits on the top of his stepladder, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene.

PAINTER

(silently mouths)

Three.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

Nobody came running. Nobody, seemingly, heard the shots.

The Painter slowly descends the ladder.

NARRATOR (CONT'D)

The painter knew he would never finish--that he had about enough, of the Happy Garden of Life.

He drops his paint brush on the spattered dropcloth and picks up the gun.

NARRATOR (CONT'D)

He really intended to end it there. But he didn't have the nerve.

.PAINTER'S POV:

There is a phone in the corner of the room.

He goes to it and dials.

HOSTESS ON PHONE (V.O.)

(very warm voice)

Greater Chicago Ethical Suicide Studios. How may I help you?

PAINTER

(calmly)

How soon could I get an appointment?

HOSTESS ON PHONE (V.O.)

We could probably fit you in late this evening, sir. It might even be earlier, if we get a cancellation.

PAINTER

All right, fit me in, if you please.

.FADE TO BLACK:

NARRATOR (V.O.)

The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life demanding to be born and, once born, demanding to be fruitful ... to multiply and to live as long as possible--to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever.

HOSTESS ON PHONE (V.O.)

Let's shoot for 6:30 PM then. Your name please.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

All the answers that the painter could think of were grim. Even grimmer, surely, than a Catbox, a Happy Hooligan, an Easy Go. He thought of war. He thought of plague. He thought of starvation.

HOSTESS ON PHONE (V.O.)

Sir? I need your name please.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

He gave his name, spelling it out for her.

HOSTESS ON PHONE (V.O.)

Thank you, sir. Your city thanks you; your country thanks you; your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations.

> THE END <

How the Butler Done It

Title: How The Butler Done It

Credit: Screenplay by:

Author: Warren R. Smith

Source: adapted from Make-Believe by A.A. Milne

= An idea for a staged play comes to Miss Anne and she must see it through.

INT. SMALL PARLOR - LONDON - YEAR 1910

Our aspiring playwright is young MISS ANNE. She has her hair pulled back in a bun though a loose lock of it has fallen down her forehead and into her eyes. This facial accent and her earnestness makes it appear she has been hard at work. But Miss Anne hasn't been scrubbing floors. She holds a freshly typed out theatrical script and leans against the writing table of a humble London flat. She is running the story by her beau-friend. He is supportive to a fault.

HER BEAU

I am sorry. It's just I can't help it, Anne. It's exciting. Please, go on. I know I will love it.

MISS ANNE

(playfully, primly)

We'll be glad to hold a question and answer session directly after I've finished reading.

(she kisses his cheek)

Your patience shall be rewarded my love.

Okay, here it is.

(clears her throat)

Ahem.

(brushes hair out of her eyes)

In the opening scene is set in the spacious playroom of the HUBBARD FAMILY--nine of them. Counting Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard, we realize that there are eleven Hubbards in all, and you would think that one at least of the two people we see in the opening scene would be a HUBBARD of sorts. But no...

HER BEAU

Very suspenseful. I like this.

MISS ANNE

(raising a hand requesting patience)

The