The End of Shot Clocks

Steven Lazaroff

[Two Short Remarks

(One) Each occurrence of "(silence)" represents an ~5

second duration.

(Two) In place of objective instructions for actors to

follow to the letter, there are more subjective, emotional
templates.]

EXT. SKY AFTERNOON; JUNE 24, 2007

CAMERA: THE BLAZING SUN; a massive cloud like a freight

liner to those lost at sea, juts into view. It shields but
also obscures.

Down, out of the clouds, and into the city.

EXT. CITY - AFTERNOON – CONTINUOUS

Broken Social Scene’s ‘Hotel’ plays.

About 50 feet up, descending on a busy intersection in a

commercial epicenter with stores, restaurants, and offices.
There is a steady stream of people moving in all
directions. Slowly make our way to our boy. The boy is
stoic with nothing particularly distinguishable from his
face, except the complete and utter lack of expression. He
is not sad, not bored but impassive.

Under the boy’s perspective The Steady Stream is composed

of your standard city fare: men and women in dark suits
with briefcases; tight jeaned, sweater wearing hipsters;
anonymous college kids with backpacks, iPods, and flip
flops; a dude screaming on his blue tooth; a couple
arguing; two young men having a very intense but civil
conversation; and homeless people begging. Nne homeless
woman who wears such agony that it pains to imagine not
only the infrequency with which she must smile, but the
bare fact that this very same face could possibly smile.
and had smiled many times. perhaps under these very same
conditions, the same squalor that on this occasion leads to
her despair.

There are people in freshly cleaned aprons, aboard white

button down shirts/green polos and black pants, handing out
flyer-coupons in complete earnestness outside restaurants.
Neither self-loathing nor ignorant, they simply work and do
their best because they must.

The boy does not stare straight-ahead. He does glance at

people, taking them in with almost a fine tooth mental
comb, but there is no facial acknowledgment of this process
(aside from the slightly above-average length with which he
maintains his gaze) and especially no indication of his
opinion on the changing subjects.

The boy stays on the same street, walking. Everyone from

the once mass, diverges at different points, slowly
dissipating in correspondence with the exit of what was a
popular, commercial downtown area. The boy is stoic. There
is nothing particularly distinguishable from his face,
except the complete and utter lack of expression. The boy
is distinctly neither sad, nor bored; both are common
associations with an interpreted ‘blank look.’

The boy’s path becomes a path running through a small park

almost-alcove. This alcove is a part of a larger park
containing running paths, other benches, trees, and the
occasional piece of city-friendly wildlife, e.g. squirrel
or a bird. On the bench most directly adjacent to his path,
at the relative beginning to this path’s entry into park
territory, there is a girl sitting, reading and smoking a
cigarette.

The girl is reading The Ethics of Ambiguity by Simone de

Beauvoir. She has a red pen in her hair. She does not move
her head, or even appear to be moving her eyes, though we
are not close enough to know for certain. The girl does not
look up or appear to notice as the boy approaches.
The boy’s eyes go to her cigarette as he advances, then
horizontally to the other hand holding the book: feels
externally on his shorts’ skin for his pocket’s contents.
The boy finds no cigarettes, looks back to the girl (book,
face, cigarette). The boy breaks her plane slightly and
pulls back as if on a fishing rod's hook. Sheepishly, he
looks back, and pulls out his headphones (the music stops).
CAMERA: back, fifteen feet up, from the rear of girl's
seat, back and to the left.

BOY
Hey . . . Can I bum one of those?

The girl doesn't respond right away. She does not look up
until a moment after he finishes.

GIRL
Hello.
(pausing, demonstrating the options in each
hand)
A book or a cigarette?

BOY
(laughing)
A cigarette.

The girl hands the boy a cigarette. He lingers post-

lighting, smiles, and looks at her. She is looking at him
looking at her. He looks down and away, then tears himself
back to her.

BOY
Hi.

GIRL
(wearing the slight amusement of an 1/8"
grin)
Hi.
 BOY
“H-…”

Camera: FRONT, ZOOM on the girl’s FACE

GIRL
(incredulous)
Ok. I think we've covered greetings
already. Is that all you've got? Are
you just going to stand there and say
'Hi' to me?

BOY
Well. No. Hopefully not. I just can't
decide what I want to say next.

GIRL
Oh.

BOY
(with the bodily movement of someone
imaginarily kicking imaginary dirt)
Yeah.

GIRL
What's the first thing that came to
mind?

BOY
(laughing on the order of a single
‘heh’)
. . . Yeah, right? . . . To be honest,
(looks her over, pauses)
I don't know . . . "

It is unclear whether the boy truly doesn’t know or if he

is simply uncomfortable to share.
 GIRL
You just say 'Hi' and begin speaking
without having any idea where you’re
headed.

Weird.

BOY
Yes, I had no idea where I was going,
(laughing)
and, yes, I think it’s weird too.

GIRL
Why do you think it's weird?

BOY
Because this happens all the time.

GIRL
Well . . . if it happens all the time,
then why is it weird??

BOY
This is the best it's ever gone.

GIRL
Oh.

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)
(silence)

BOY
(taking a deep breath like a diver taking a
deep breath before going under.)
It was the sound of your voice.

The follow-through on the exhalation is as if he needed the

extra wind from the large inhale to propel himself to
finish the sentence.

The girl is neither embarrassed nor comfortable, or

uncomfortable; she looks at the boy. He is looking out
somewhere slightly to the left of the girl, as if in a
waiting room. Together, the boy and girl possess two
evaluative but stoic expressions. Then, the moment the girl
finds the boy’s eyes, she laughs like a child at play.

GIRL
(furrowing her brow in bemused amusement)
What was?

BOY
The first thing that came to my mind
. . .

The girl gives the boy a quizzical look.

BOY
I don't mean a singing voice or
something.
(laughing)
I haven't heard you singing in the
shower . . .

GIRL
(smiling)
I hope not.
 BOY
(half-laughing with the kernel of real
confidence, takes the final drag off his
cigarette, stamps it out, and exhales)
Yeah, that'd be a bad way to start off
a conversation: "Hey, you didn't know
me prior to 60 seconds ago, but I heard
you singing in the shower and you have
a really gorgeous soprano."

The boy laughs, sporting a 1/5'' smile. The girl smiles,

more regarding the boy than the "joke."

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

The girl puts the book in her bag and stands up. The boy
remains seated. He is uncertain if the conversation is
over. The girl pulls out her pack of cigarettes and offers
the boy another cigarette. The boy accepts. She lights both
cigarettes and begins walking. The boy hastens at first
then walks beside her. The hesitation wears a sort of
fatigue like an old man resurrecting enthusiasm to run
after his grandson.

(silence)

(silence)

GIRL
I've always been uncomfortable with
this infatuation with a woman's
 physical beauty. It's such an empty
compliment really. What part did I play
in my looks? Very little . . . I can
maintain . . . I can style, put on
makeup, wear fashionable, flattering
clothes, but how much do my . . .
customizations . . . really matter?
We’re glorified janitors, in all
honesty. No artist: more like a
restorer. At best. And the real object
of the compliment is something I had
nothing to do with! I'm just dabbling
on nature's canvas! It's pure
luck . . .
(takes a large cigarette drag with the
collection of thoughts and the regathering
of an enthusiasm that sputtered out from
post-conclusion stress disorder)
They might as well say just that(!)
"What luck you had to stumble upon some
facial symmetry, a nice skin tone and
hair color . . . and a lack of
disfigurement” (?!):
(robotically)
“This set of features pleases me."
I'd appreciate that a lot more than a
standard
(drawled)
"You sure are beautiful, missy." Or at
the very least show me some creativity
if you're gonna focus on something that
isnt really the result of me. I mean, a
good metaphor or four would be just
fine. But, "ya know, you're beautiful"
is just . . . sad. I don't want it. So,
I guess what im saying . . . is . . .
thanks. Thank you for not being trite.
You, and your voice compliment . . .

This has an almost soliloquial feel. Tho, the girl

acknowledges the boy's presence intermittently, she mainly
looks Around, not directly at him. The boy is rapt. His
eyes smiling the smile his mouth and brow cannot yet form.

The girl chuckles, almost to herself. She looks down, then

immediately looks at the boy abruptly with almost
uncomfortable concentration for a few second, then back out
Into The Distance.

BOY
(sincerely, he's profoundly affected)
You're welcome.

The boy looks at the girl, taking her profile in, trying to
locate her keyhole, attempting to discern the slope of her
greatest synaptic ridges, the peak and trough of her axons,
through the dense thicket of dendrites.

The girl maintains her look out Into The Distance, not the
boy. The boy’s expression is matter of fact, not without
emotion, but not exuberant either: as though realizing
something which is known to be new but feels so familiar
and right that it is perceived as anything but new. The boy
maintains his look outward, completely at ease with no
desire to sneak glimpses commissioned by his long-term
memory, no fear of never seeing the girl again. The boy is
able to see her only how and what she is this instant.

(silence)

(silence)

GIRL
(looking the boy square in the eyes)
I haven't been that honest with anyone,
given from my core being since . . . I
can remember, since I knew I had a core
being. Since I knew I could choose.

(silence)

GIRL
And to a “stranger." That's a weird
thing to know. Now that I have accepted
 it . . .
(no longer looking at him, looking out at
water, deep exhale)
But I guess I've always known it.

BOY
Acceptance is good.

GIRL
It is.

There is silence as the boy looks at the girl looking at

the boy.

The girl is unexpectedly, volcanically, drunk with passion.

GIRL
People . . . they don't want it though.
And it's just so much easier to give
them what they want rather than what
you think they need. Even if it is the
acknowledged, Right Thing. Even if it
is the best thing for you . . . Why is
Easy so dynastic?"

BOY
I'm not exactly sure either, but you're
right. I know that much.

GIRL
(grinning)
Well, that’s good.

BOY
(smiling)
It's probably as simple as it sounds.
"easy" is so pervasive . . . exactly
because of itself - it's the simplest,
least contingency-ridden option.
 Occam’s Razor. You know Occam?

GIRL
(faux solemnity)
I do.

BOY
Oh, and its warm and fuzzy and snuggles
close with you at night. Whispers in
your ear that it’s the right choice
while it’s jerking you off . . .

The boy looks mildly apologetic for going “blue.”

GIRL
(laughing causing the Boy to experience a
Kevin Arnold Facial Shift)
So, who are you, Mysterious Cigarette
Bummer? You don't seem to be a full-on
cynical misanthrope yet, are ya? What
drags you out from underneath the
covers?"

The girl recognizes an other who has given as fervently,

with as much passion, even if it is in the complete
opposite fashion, and against the current, thus,
unsuccessfully.

BOY
(laughter, the sort following someone
bringing up a hotly debated internal
philosophical queasiness)
Well . . .
(looks to the sky, looks around, looks to
her, obviously thinking, over a period of
maybe 5 seconds…speaking with a tad bit of
sheepishness)
This.
 GIRL
This?

BOY
Yes . . . this. Or . . . the
possibility of this . . . Talking with
earnest girls who . . . don't hide who
they are and . . . aren't afraid. of
me, themselves . . . fate, chance
. . .”

The girl demurs, blushes. She looks to the ground and

raises her eyes to his eyes, which have not left her. She
is uncertain and a heretofore barely seen version of the
girl enters: she is sad and frightfully unsure, like Annie
Clark at 3:38 of this video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?
v=1vxQs84FMWQ). The whole thing is needed for context, but
the look on her face as her eyes lower, break away from the
shield, the absolute stare, and embraces the uncertainty of
her suffering, of her fundamental unalterable position.

BOY
But that goes for men too, minus the
romantic connotations. Earnestness,
sincerity . . . autonomy
(righting himself, at least in his own mind;
tho it remains definitely up for debate
whether or not either one is Off the Rail)
. . . sounds like some 'sweet guy
line', but it's also the truth
("open" eyes/ raised brows)
. . . so it's got that . . .

The boy attempts a bit of facial persuasion with an eye,

brow, lip-involved appeal of concurrence, as in: "Touche??
Eh? Eh? Eh?” The girl gives ambiguous scepticism. The boy
continues since he does not know if it was facetious or
genuine.

BOY
But really, what motivates me, what
 keeps me out of the . . . dark recesses
of depression and a life of solitude in
the thick labyrinthine forest, is
learning and loving . . . for the sake
of themselves but not for sheer . . .
accumulation of knowledge or massive
adulation . . . or . . . as a means of
anything else but it is my - and our -
human essence to be conscious, reflect,
reason, and love! To become, to become,
and to become some more . . . leaving
impossibly private heavens behind!
(beat)
(CAMERA: ZOOM on BOY, from the shoulders
up..BLAZING SUN in background, partially
obscured by his passionately vibrating head,
while also maintaing its naturally blinding
qualities)
. . . to feel happiness and
suffering . . . laugh at our folly or
wit . . . living every instant
with as much fervor as the last, living
for the sake of the best possible
world, of the best possible me . . .
and everyone else I know . . . and
interacting with friends and really
anyone who cares about these things.
(beat)
This is my iron lung, my respirator for
the day-to-day disappointments that
must be endured . . . and rationalized
. . .

The boy's enthusiasm undulates much like a plot diagram

with crescendo at the climax, but sputtering into the
ending with resolution absent. All that remains are pieces
of what seemed like knowledge, that now are no longer
intelligible and do not have a trusted place in reality.
The boy feels resentment and disgust outlined in despair.
The sun is beating down on the boy and girl prominently.

CAMERA: from the rear, relative to the boy and girl; the
sun is the background to their foreground.
(silence)

(silence)

BOY
Erm…How bout you? What's your food?

GIRL
(looking at him, but breaking
intermittently)
. . . Not nearly as clear as yours. I
guess some days I’m not even sure what
it is I’m eating.
(no longer looking at him)
But it keeps me alive . . .
(with an almost scientifically sterile tone,
she stares out into the sea)
I have been passive to the difference
between myself and the world around me.
The world has given to me. I haven't
given to the world. Except in
passivity, except with my acquiescence.
(beat)
I have accepted the limitations of the
time. My Historical Particulars . . .
haven’t expected much from anyone.
Isn't it torturous expecting people to
be like you? I don't know how you do
it . . . I mean, I gave up almost
immediately . . . but I usually like to
call it “adaptation.”

BOY
(laughing)
Well . . . that’s the difficult
question, isn’t it? To adapt or remain
steadfast? Should the behavior and
beliefs of others affect our conception
of our core self, what we value?
(silence)

BOY
(laughing)
I don’t know of course . . . but it's
easier to live with myself if I just go
out into the world, with my pieces for
a different puzzle, and be the best
person I can be, try to put together
the puzzle I'm in. Not want to be in.

Being conscientious, and courageous in

my convictions. Compassionate.
Reasonable. Loving passionately but not
indiscriminately. You’re right,
(no longer looking at her)
disappointment will surely come . . .
and it has.
(oscillating emotions and looks back at her)
But let it be some other ingredient of
the equation. Not me. I'm putting forth
the effort . . .

(silence)

BOY
So, I guess I don’t care if other
people are like me; I just ignore it.
As much as possible.

(silence)

There is a quickly emerging wide grin on the girl

face; if the rate of acceleration with which her
mouth moved from neutral to smile were to be
graphed it would be an incredibly steep,
ascending, exponential curve.
 GIRL
So, ignorance is bliss, wrapped up in
an argyle sweater??

BOY
(big laugh but not long - not cracking up, a
slight scoff)
Not at all. That would require bliss!
There is perpetual disappointment in
this stance. Warring standards with no
bridge . . . I didn't mean to imply I
was motivated by pleasure. It's an
ethical issue and my standard views
pleasure maintenance as . . . well
. . . a disgusting waste of my
freedom . . . if pleasure was the end
towards which I acted in most
situations . . .
(a sort of mutter)
but I do believe in willed ignorance
. . . and sensual pleasure . . . to
some degree . . .

The girl is watching the boy with a determination more than

a focus. The boy is somewhat unnerved, not by the release
of some big secret or bottled up thought, but from her
question's power, his convoluted answer, and from the sheer
power of her gaze: it startles and confounds. The girl's
face is conflicting and complicated. It wears an
evaluating, bemused amusement; as if: "Ok. Sweet sensitive,
neurotic routine but:

GIRL
I see. I see . . . So, how does all
this relate to my beautiful voice? Is
it a soaring violin accompanying the
final step onto Everest's peak or a
. . . gentle harp, comforting as a
slight breeze on a muggy summer night???

BOY
(laughing)
Damn it, I committed! I left the
matzoball dangling. Is there no return
from here?
(exaggerated look to the heavens)
Can't I just leave the pinata hanging
with all the kids revved up expecti-"

GIRL
(impatiently, clears throat)
Nope. You can't. Stop with the verbal
rain delay already!

BOY
-Candy..Wow.
(narrating)
“She’s on to me so soon, he thought
with an inaudible chuckle.”

GIRL
(laughing)
Others are more than willing to let you
ramble?

BOY
(nodding vigorously)
Yep. Usually. That whole "give em
enough rope to hang himself', I suppose
. . .

GIRL
(assessing him)
Yeah, I can really see that being
continuously entertaining.
(beat)
Ok. So, my voice: beautiful . . . could
start wars
. . .

BOY
Hey! I never promised warfare . . .
I clearly remember that!
 GIRL
Ok. Well, I suppose I can concede the bloodshed.
It's not a deal-breaker.
(sizing the boy up)
I guess I can take the subjective
musings of what seems to be a fairly
sensible dude.

BOY
Why, thank you, my dear!

(silence)

(silence)

BOY
Ooooh . . . too soon? Too soon with the
generic-yet-affectionate name
substitution? I've long suspected that
to be some sort of fatal flaw . . .
(put on anchorman, Stone Phillips gravitas)
"He was too familiar, too soon."

The boy and the girl laugh.

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)
 BOY
"It’s a huge gust of warm wind in the
Arctic. A beautifully realigning slap
in the face. It's the sound that
satisfies an unspoken, intangible . . .
inchoate desire I've felt for the
better part of a decade . . . or more
. . . mischievous. Curious. Refreshing.
That ‘shining’ spine Jeff Tweedy sang
about . . . 'No automaton present here,
General. House is clear.'
(a kind of half salute)

(silence)

The girl begins to to speak, then attempts to clear her

throat: she is bone dry. The girl passionately grabs the
boys head with her right hand and kisses him as if the
force herein would deter even Custer at Big Horn.

GIRL
(eyes darting, making her way from sea to
sky to him to ground to him)
Yeah . . .
(clears throat, mumbles unintelligibly)
. . . I was really parched . . . and
there was no water handy . . . the
saliva in your mouth seemed the most
appropriate place to quench my thirst."

The mood is mildly awkward since, of course, the boy and

girl have just met. Intense connection or not, time still
must have its way. The girl is wearing a 1/2" grin. The
boy, purely metaphorically, has appeared to have pissed
himself, as well as reached nirvana, or its base, truly
been eye-to-eye for the first time with everything he
imaginatively theorized must/should be true which is very,
very different than actually knowing through experience.

GIRL
(laughing in an attempt to make light of
something that is anything but light)
 That was literally my thought process
there . . .

BOY
(giving the international signal for "don't
shoot")
Oh . . . you'll find no judgment here
. . .

The boy and the girl laugh.

(silence)

(silence)

GIRL
(still visibly, physically stunned)
So all that in the first 30 seconds you
knew me?!?!

BOY
Well, no, most were from difficult to
distinguish language/voice reads later
on, but . . . two were there at that
point: the autonomy, the strength of
character . . . and the knowledge . . .
that your voice was so . . . in tune
. . . with a set of internal,
intangible standards I have felt and
battled for years . . . and just
recently been able to articulate and
understand on even the most fundamental
level.

GIRL
How can this exist, this capacity, this
power to judge and accurately feel my
truth through my voice?

Or anything so ethereal?
It’s pretty much superhero empathy!

BOY
(medium-sized self-deprecating belly laugh)
I don't claim that answer. I don't claim many
answers. My only claims are rational argument,
theory, synthesized with a spattering of feeling
and experience. I believe they call it The Gut.

GIRL
(laughing)
Well, what's your theory then?

BOY
My theory on this feeling borne of my
incredible dearth of experience?

GIRL
Yeah. Give it to me. Why such faith??

BOY
(chuckling)
Language and reason have tremendous
power in identifying truth . . . but
there are areas outside their
jurisdiction requiring resolution from
a sister court . . . in the forum of
Emotion and Intuition where language,
reason, science are unable to discern
reality with any kind of the accuracy
they achieve within their natural
homes. It's like . . . instead of being
run through just the reason filter or
just the emotion filter . . . the
thought runs through some hybrid
filter, encompassing all thought."

GIRL
So, its not an abandonment of reason;
its just good ole highly calibrated and
refined intuition, the product of a
 fully assimilated "I?" But what is so
special to you about the voice? What
separates it from . . .

(silence)

BOY
Voices are like eyes . . . and hands
. . . they are windows, extensions of
the words we utter and the actions we
take . . .
they compose the skeleton of the themes
and motivations that lie beneath and
extend through our actions like
vertebrae. However much words or action
may serve as a curtain . . .
the sun, or darkness, from an eye, a
hand, or . . . a voice . . . shines
through . . . and is clearly evident to
the person willingly to look . . .
Truth-in-Action, in Words, Logic, or in
subconscious physical mannerisms?? I'll
take the truth from my voice read
. . . here today, up against Einstein's
relativity, Ghandi's hunger, Godel's
Incompleteness Theorem, Hendrix's Red
House: none is more real than the
others.

GIRL
I'd say you're putting quite a bit more
pure faith into that conclusion than
all of them . . .

BOY
(laughing)
Yeah . . . maybe. This is a form of
faith. Acknowledged. I'm not afraid to
say it. But what doesn't require some
extension of hope, some constructed
sun. Even science is built on a
foundation of faith, and mine isn't
completely unregulated, tyrannical
 dogmatic faith. It comes from a purer
place, much more empirical and
reflective…open to change . . . I
assure you.

The girl and boy exchange a look acknowledging the boy’s

mini cop out. The boy moves on, heart ahead of his feet.

BOY
. . . and it's faith in you. And people
like you. That I'm not alone, we're not
alone, and maybe the future isn't
partly cloudy with a strong chance of
thunderstorms and golf ball hail. That
maybe our conversation here today isn't
a dream, an aberration, a sick reminder
of squandered possibilities.

EXT – PIER - CONTINUOUS

CAMERA: a slow pan back amid silence, circling, ZOOMED in

on: the nearby tide coming in, somewhat violently against
apparently the same pier the boy and girl were at but much
further down. It fills the screen: the variable wave
crashing its will into the fixed and determined pier. The
waves are crashing furiously from the middle of the sea
into the side of the pier. The pier appears to extend miles
out and is remote.

INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT

(black)

Blackness to the boys eyes and eyes alone. CAMERA, ZOOM on

his mouth where a grin resides. Panning out, the boy's head
swivels, looks around in the darkness. His face twists in
anguish, fury, and bitter disappointment. The conversation
is a dream, the boy's dream, a dream in framework he has
dreamed far, far too many nights. In the darkness he
stumbles, furthering his misery (kind of a play on
Radiohead's 'There There': in pitch dark/ I go walking
through your landscape/broken branches trip me as I speed);
he cries out while continuing his path to the bathroom as
he falls into his computer, exposing a computer screen with
iTunes open. The artist: The Beatles; the song: Happiness
is a Warm Gun; it is on repeat. (In a perfect world this
would be playing as the boy woke up, starting just around
the title refrain) The boy is huddled above the toilet
bowl. The boy is vomiting, sweating profusely, and
spitting. He drools a long continuous globule of 1/3
saliva, 1/3 bile, and 1/3 food chunks. The boy attempts to
compose himself, gets up, and looks in the mirror. He
hovers, shaking above the sink.

BOY
(exasperated exhale, mutters, looking eye to
eye, seeing his pale-faced, sweaty-haired,
blood-eyed, tear-stained reflection)
Pfftsh:
(spitting a loogie into the sink)
The good dream is the real nightmare.

(black)

"Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together;

sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately
without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk -- real
straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every
moment is precious." - Jack Kerouac