Category: The Lost Screenplays

(SCENE START)

INT. UWM FILM DEPARTMENT OFFICE – DAY

A gray, overcast afternoon in October. The office is quiet, save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the nervous energy of students rushing in to submit their mid term projects. DR. SKOLLER sits behind his desk, looking marginally less weary than usual, accepting the thick, bound screenplays.

JEFF (O.S.): So far this semester had brutalized us. We’d been forced to confront structure, conflict, and the horrifying truth that our personal philosophies didn’t automatically translate into a sellable plot. But we finished our mid term project. The scripts, bound in plastic and filled with the DNA of our compromises, represented not just a project completed, but a permanent, painful shift in the way we saw the world.

LEONARD approaches DR. SKOLLER”s desk, holding his script, “The Ovoid Obsession,” bound in a plain black 3 ring binder with no graphics.

LEONARD: DR. SKOLLER, sir. It is done. Arthur successfully replaces the defective potatoes. The ending, however, is not a triumph. He realizes that even his act of subversive rebellion is merely an act of fleeting pattern disruption in an infinitely chaotic universe.

DR. SKOLLER: (Accepting the script) Good, Leonard. I’m pleased you maintained the profound sense of futility, even while incorporating a second-act vegetable heist. Progress.

CYNTHIA slides her script, “The Algorithm of Ashes,” across the desk. It’s bound in a stark white 3 ring binder.

CYNTHIA: The senator succeeds. The bureaucratic machine implodes under the weight of its own flawed paperwork. The resolution is a void, DR. SKOLLER. A total, beautiful, quiet collapse.

DR. SKOLLER: I expected nothing less, Cynthia.

STANLEY bursts in, clutching his script, “Fast Track to Fame!”, bound in a glossy gold three ring binder, nearly knocking over a trash can.

STANLEY: Submitted! The final resolution involves my protagonist realizing that the only way to achieve true cinematic glory is to reject the Hollywood machine and come back to Milwaukee to make his authentic film! It’s a full-circle, triumphant arc!

DR. SKOLLER: (Massages his temples) Excellent. So, he ends up right where he started, but with better self-esteem. Very marketable.

DEBORAH and MARVIN approach the desk together, submitting their scripts. Marvin’s, “The Antique Washer,” bound in brown leatherette 3 ring binder, and Deborah’s, “Fasteners of the Heart,” in a soft blue cover 3 ring binder.

DEBORAH: The relationship survives the suburban crime ring, DR. SKOLLER. The final scene is them realizing the biggest MacGuffin wasn’t the washer, but the lack of communication they let contaminate their love.

MARVIN: My resolution is a bit more concrete. The hero gets the girl, gets the washer, and uses it to fix a leaky faucet. A practical, functional ending.

DR. SKOLLER: (He actually smiles faintly) A practical, functional ending. That is, arguably, the most radical resolution of all. Congratulations, team. You survived the narrative structure.

The students gather their belongings and head out into the hallway.

STANLEY: I feel reborn! I feel ready for the next level! Who wants to read a synopsis of my sequel, “Fast Track to Financing”?

LEONARD: I need a long, dark room to contemplate the moral implications of forcing my character to commit a felony for the sake of plot momentum.

CYNTHIA: I need a quiet place to smoke. And then perhaps I’ll burn the remnants of my idealism.

DEBORAH: (Linking her arm through Marvin”s) We did it, Marvin. We wrote a thriller and a rom-com, and we didn’t break up in the process.

MARVIN: (Looking at her, a genuine, content expression) The script needed the manufactured drama. We didn’t. I’d rather sort nuts and bolts with you than fight a thousand lock washers.

JEFF (O.S.): We survived the first half of our junior semester. The abstract filmmakers were now, for better or worse, storytellers. We learned that narrative demanded stakes, even if we had to invent them. But the real victory belonged to Marvin and Deborah. Their love story, written in the quiet moments between takes and the careful phrasing of their dialogue, proved that sometimes, the most compelling story of all is the one you deliberately choose to keep simple and true. They faced the chaos of the semester and chose the practical, deliberate act of sticking together. And that, I realized, was a pretty great ending.

(SFX: The heavy front door of the film building shuts with a final, echoing CLUNK.)

(SCENE END)

(SCENE START)

INT. UWM FILM DEPARTMENT CLASSROOM – DAY

The classroom is brightly lit, but the atmosphere is heavy with the stale air of a hundred previous lectures. Five students sit around a large, battered seminar table. DR. SKOLLER, an older professor with a neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard and the weary eyes of a man who has read too many student screenplays, stands at the head of the table.

JEFF (O.S.): Dr. Skoller had the look of a man who’d been promised cinematic poetry and instead was given a lifetime subscription to bad metaphors. His job was to strip away our artistic pretensions and teach us the cold, hard truth of storytelling. It was brutal. It was necessary. It was the moment we realized the shift from abstract imagery to three act structure was going to hurt. Our first sacrifice was our dignity, laid bare in the form of the logline.

DR. SKOLLER: Welcome. This semester, we abandon the comfort of the abstract. We trade philosophical musings for the unforgiving tyranny of narrative structure. Your task is to pitch your feature film screenplay idea to the group. Tell us the logline, the basic three act structure, and most importantly, tell us why anyone should care. Who wants to face disaster first? Stanley? Your shirt screams high concept.

STANLEY: (Springing up slightly, performing the pitch) Dr. Skoller, sir, I call this: ‘Fast Track to Fame!’ Logline: A relentlessly ambitious, but secretly inept, film student from Milwaukee bluffs his way into the highest echelon of Hollywood. Only to discover that true success means learning to direct his own life.

DR. SKOLLER: (Raises a skeptical eyebrow) That sounds suspiciously autobiographical, Mr. Stanley.

STANLEY: It is an aspirational autobiography, sir! Act One: The audacious lie. The plane ticket to LA. The coffee-running internship. Inciting Incident: He overhears a real producer complaining they need a script tonight! Act Two: He desperately fabricates a masterpiece, juggling his lies and nearly losing his soul to the Hollywood machine. Act Three: The lie collapses, but his authentic vision emerges. Resolution: He returns to Milwaukee, humbled, but with a real, marketable script. It’s a tale of triumph over… temporary setbacks.

DR. SKOLLER: (Nods slowly) So, a familiar Hollywood formula wrapped in the crushing reality of Milwaukee winters. Interesting. Next? Leonard? Please tell me you haven’t written a script about a goldfish.

LEONARD: (Adjusts his glasses, his voice shaking slightly) No, sir. This is far more potent. It is entitled: ‘The Ovoid Obsession.’ Logline: A neurotic man, desperate to impose order on a chaotic world, becomes obsessed with finding the perfectly spherical potato. Driving him to the brink of madness.

DR. SKOLLER: (Massages his temples) And the conflict? Does the potato speak?

LEONARD: The conflict is entirely internal. Act One: The search begins, fueled by philosophical need. Inciting Incident: He finds a potato that is almost perfect. A frustrating, tantalizing near-perfection of a potato. Act Two: The descent. He alienates friends, loses his job, and spends all his money on rare varieties of potatoes. Act Three: He realizes true perfection is impossible and the search itself was meaningless. Resolution: He eats the almost perfect potato, weeping gently.

DR. SKOLLER: It sounds like a ninety-minute anxiety attack, Leonard. But perhaps that’s the point. Cynthia? Let’s bring the mood down further.

CYNTHIA: (Flicking her invisible cigarette ash) My project is ‘The Algorithm of Ashes.’ Logline: A brilliant but profoundly cynical senator realizes all hope for political change is dead. So she orchestrates the most elaborate and beautiful act of political sabotage the world has ever seen.

DR. SKOLLER: Sabotage. Go on.

CYNTHIA: Act One: The slow, soul-crushing realization of futility. Inciting Incident: The senator sees definitive proof that the entire political system is rigged by a self-correcting, indifferent algorithm. Act Two: She meticulously plans the takedown, recruiting other disillusioned citizens. Act Three: The explosion. Not literal, but structural. The system is exposed and collapses. Resolution: The resulting chaos is not hope, but a more honest, profound emptiness.

DR. SKOLLER: Profound emptiness. Very UWM, Miss Cynthia. Thank you. Marvin? I assume yours involves something mundane becoming sinister.

MARVIN: (Speaks in his low, steady voice) ‘The Antique Washer.’ Logline: A quiet hardware store employee must track down a rare, stolen antique brass washer that holds the secret to a decades old crime spree. It leads him into the dangerous world of suburban organized crime.

DR. SKOLLER: Suburbia is rarely dangerous, Marvin.

MARVIN: This one is. Act One: Sorting bolts and meeting the girl. Inciting Incident: An old ledger reveals the washer’s history and the dark reasons it was originally stolen. Act Two: The hunt. He uses his knowledge of hardware inventory to track the piece across Milwaukee. He finds bullets stored in mason jars and bloodstains on galvanized pipes. Act Three: The confrontation in the back room of a rival store. Resolution: He recovers the washer, solves the crimes, and decides that focusing on the small, precise details of life, like a good relationship, is the only way to avoid the life’s larger chaos. (Deborah smiles at the last line.)

DEBORAH:(Leaning forward, genuinely excited) That leads perfectly into mine! Mine is called ‘Fasteners of the Heart.’ Logline: An earnest film student, searching for meaning in the world, finds a surprise romance with a cynical hardware store worker, forcing them both to trust in simple human connection instead of abstract philosophy.

DR. SKOLLER: And the conflict, Miss Deborah? Is it the difference between hex bolts and lag bolts?

DEBORAH: The conflict is vulnerability. Act One: They meet, drawn together by shared dismay at their other friends’ abstract ideas. Inciting Incident: They share an unexpected, deep conversation about life while sorting rusty fittings. Act Two: Their relationship blossoms, but they both fear commitment. Marvin hides behind cynicism, and I, well, my character hides behind idealism. Act Three: A crisis. A misunderstanding threatens their connection. Resolution: They choose each other, realizing that love is a practical, deliberate act, not a sweeping epic.

DR. SKOLLER: (Takes off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose) Fascinating. So, Stanley gives us cliché. Leonard gives us despair. Cynthia gives us justified anarchy. And Marvin and Deborah give us… relationship goals set against a backdrop of nuts and bolts. Welcome to narrative structure. This semester is going to be painful. (DR. SKOLLER drops his glasses onto the table with a CLACK.)

JEFF (O.S.): The gloves were off. Dr. Skoller had cracked the whip of conventional storytelling, forcing us to try and fit our messy lives and wild philosophies into the neat confines of a screenplay. Stanley was already picturing the red carpet, Leonard was mentally calculating the spherical error of his protagonist’s life. Cynthia takes another drag on her imaginary cigarette. And for Marvin and Deborah. Their love story officially had a clear three act structure that they had to adhere to. Both on and off the written page.

(SCENE END)

(SCENE START)

EXT. UW-MILWAUKEE STUDENT UNION MALL – DAY (FALL)

The campus mall is a vibrant mosaic of green grass, red brick, and the bustling energy of returning students. The late August sun is bright and warm, but a crisp, new-semester breeze hints at the Fall to come. Students mill about, greeting old friends and hauling backpacks.

A small, circular stone table outside the Student Union is occupied by MARVIN and DEBORAH. They are sitting close, a comfortable, shared quiet between them. Deborah smiles, resting her chin on her hand, watching Marvin as he sips from a coffee cup.

JEFF (O.S.): Junior year. The cinematic gauntlet was thrown. Abstract art house pretensions were out, and the crushing weight of narrative structure was in. We’d survived the summer, and now we had to survive the semester’s first test: The Screenplay. It felt like a betrayal of all our previous artistic manifestos. But, if the summer had taught us anything, it was that even amidst the rust and the mundane, life somehow manages to find its plot.

DEBORAH: I can’t believe we’re actually back. It feels like just yesterday I was trying to figure out the torque setting for a stripped bolt.

MARVIN: (A small, soft smile plays on his lips) You know, you got pretty good at sorting those carriage bolts from the machine bolts. That’s a valuable life skill.

DEBORAH: I blame you. You made the hardware store sound… romantic. Well, “interesting,” at least. My parents were convinced I’d lost my mind. “You’re going to a hardware store, dear? To study screws?”

MARVIN: It was a good summer. Quiet. (He reaches over, briefly squeezing her hand where it rests on the table.)

DEBORAH: It was more than quiet, Marvin. It was… a first draft. A really good first draft.

(A flash of movement catches their eyes as STANLEY bounds toward the table, his arms thrown wide, a bright Hawaiian shirt clashing with his heavy tweed backpack.)

STANLEY: My darlings! My cinematic collaborators! Behold! Stanley has returned! The prodigal son of Hollywood’s outer periphery has graced your presence!

DEBORAH: Stanley! You’re back! How was the pilgrimage to La La Land? Did you hobnob with any actual stars?

STANLEY: Hobnob? I permeated the atmosphere of cinematic greatness! I told you, I had a connection! A glorious four-week internship running coffees for an assistant who worked for a junior agent. I absorbed the creative energy! I saw an actual, working slate! And, most importantly, I learned that they value narrative! Clean lines, clear arcs, no exploding bagels unless they advance the plot! It was a revelation!

MARVIN: So, you made coffee.

STANLEY No, Marvin. I made connections. And the coffee was organic. It’s all research for the screenplay, my friends! I’m going to write a sweeping epic about a troubled but brilliant young filmmaker who conquers Hollywood with sheer, unadulterated panache!

(LEONARD walks up, carrying a textbook the size of a paving stone, looking predictably weary.)

LEONARD: Stanley, you look like a walking tropical fever dream. Did you ever find the meaning of existence amongst the palm trees? I spent my summer staring at the dust motes in my childhood bedroom. They danced in the morning sun, a beautiful, fleeting metaphor for our insignificant lives. My goldfish, Bartholomew, remains unimpressed by the dust motes.

STANLEY: The meaning of existence, Leonard, is a three-act structure! I learned that, too! You need a clear, inciting incident! We are no longer making films about philosophical goldfish, we are making films about goldfish who must overcome a personal tragedy!

LEONARD: (Sighs, sitting down) And what is your screenplay about, Marvin? The existential despair of a loose spring?

MARVIN: I’m thinking about a horror film. About a couple who falls in love working at a rusty hardware store. Things get weird. (DEBORAH playfully elbows Marvin in the ribs.)

DEBORAH: I think my script is going to be a coming-of-age story about finding your voice. A young woman obsessed with existential dread finally learns to talk to the quiet, observant boy she likes. It’s a comedy.

(CYNTHIA approaches the group, wearing all black, naturally. She places a single, wilted sunflower on the table.)

CYNTHIA: I have embraced the futility of it all. I spent my summer attempting to learn a dead language. It seemed an appropriate tribute to the inevitable decay of all human endeavor. My screenplay will be a harrowing modern tragedy. A critique of the capitalist machine that turns our dreams into meaningless, marketable commodities. It will be entirely in black and white, and the dialogue will be minimal.

STANLEY: Minimal dialogue? Cynthia! We need verbal action! We need snappy patter! We need…

CYNTHIA: Stanley, your Hollywood dreams are a bourgeois fantasy. Mine is a nightmare of societal collapse. A much more compelling narrative, wouldn’t you agree?

LEONARD: (Nodding slowly) I agree with Cynthia. The only honest screenplay is one that reflects the horror of being. Mine is about a man who spends his life searching for a perfectly spherical potato. It will be called, ‘The Ovoid Obsession.’

DEBORAH: (Leans in, her voice low and earnest) My dream for this semester is to actually finish something. Something real. Something that connects with people. Not just with abstract concepts, but with feelings. And… to keep what we started this summer going. (She glances at MARVIN. He meets her gaze, his expression warm and settled.)

MARVIN: My dream is to stop making films about exploding bagels. And to make something that sticks. Like a good weld.

STANLEY: Fasteners of the Heart lives! You see, Cynthia? Even the most dour among us yearns for a good plot! My dream is to have my screenplay optioned before the end of the semester!

CYNTHIA: My dream is that the optioned script will be a metaphor for the slow, agonizing death of the human spirit.

LEONARD: My dream is that Bartholomew will finally recognize my artistic genius.

JEFF (O.S.): So there we were. Junior year. The pressure was on to trade the abstract for the actual. The philosophical goldfish for the well-structured plot. It was a sun-drenched, optimistic start to a semester that would force us all to look a little closer at the stories we were really trying to tell and the ones we were living.

(SFX: General campus sounds, a distant bell rings.)

(SCENE END)

JEFF (O.S.): The Student Union Gasthaus. A dimly lit sanctuary where the weary students of higher learning could drown their intellectual anxieties in lukewarm beer and questionable pizza. Our five filmmakers, having survived another grueling semester, had gathered to celebrate… or perhaps just to numb the pain of impending summer vacation and the terrifying void of unstructured time.

(SFX: Murmur of college students, clinking of glasses, faint jukebox music)

LEONARD: (Nursing his beer, looking morosely at a slice of pizza) You know, when you really think about it, pizza is just a temporary distraction from the fundamental meaninglessness of existence. A circular illusion of satisfaction.

STANLEY: (Taking a large bite of his pizza) Meaninglessness? Nonsense, Leonard! This pizza is a masterpiece of culinary artistry! The confluence of cheese, sauce, and dough… it’s practically a cinematic experience in your mouth! Think of the close-ups we could do! The glistening mozzarella… the vibrant tomato…

MARVIN: (Quietly chewing his pizza) It’s greasy.

DEBORAH: (Smiling at Marvin) I think it’s… comforting. After all that editing, it’s nice to just… relax. What do you think, Marvin?

MARVIN: (Shrugs) It’s pizza.

CYNTHIA: (Raising her beer glass with a sigh) Comfort is a bourgeois construct designed to lull us into a false sense of security before the inevitable descent into oblivion. Cheers.

(SFX: Clinking of glasses)

LEONARD: Speaking of oblivion, what are everyone’s plans for the summer? I’m facing the terrifying prospect of returning home. My parents, bless their well-meaning but utterly philistine hearts, will undoubtedly want to discuss… my career prospects. As if there are teeming hordes clamoring for experimental filmmakers who specialize in philosophical goldfish.

STANLEY: I, my dears, am heading to Los Angeles! I’ve made contact with a… a connection. Someone who knows someone who once shared an elevator with a producer’s assistant! This is my moment! Hollywood, prepare for the cinematic tsunami that is Stanley… something-or-other!

CYNTHIA: I plan to embrace the sweet embrace of melancholy. Perhaps I’ll stare blankly at the ceiling for three months. Maybe I’ll take up competitive staring. The futility of it all is rather… appealing.

DEBORAH: (Looking at Marvin again) What about you, Marvin? Any exciting summer plans?

MARVIN: Probably work at my uncle’s hardware store. Sorting nuts and bolts. The universe in miniature.

DEBORAH: (Her voice a little softer) Oh. Well, that sounds… practical. You must see a lot of… interesting things. Different kinds of screws, and… washers…

MARVIN: (Takes a swig of beer) They’re mostly just rusty.

LEONARD: You know, the ancient Greeks believed that the cosmos was ordered by numbers. Perhaps the arrangement of nuts and bolts holds a hidden mathematical truth about our existence. Or maybe it’s just rust.

STANLEY: Rust? We need glamour! We need sunshine! We need… romance! Has anyone had any… romantic entanglements this semester? Any muses inspiring our cinematic genius?

LEONARD: My last romantic entanglement ended when she discovered my extensive collection of lint. She said it was… unsettling. Apparently, my dedication to preserving the ephemera of daily life was a sign of… deeper issues.

CYNTHIA: Love is a fleeting illusion, a desperate attempt to find meaning in a meaningless world. It inevitably ends in heartbreak and the crushing realization that you’re still alone, just with more baggage. Figuratively and sometimes literally.

DEBORAH: (Looking intently at Marvin) Have you… have you been seeing anyone, Marvin?

MARVIN: (Takes another sip of beer, avoiding her gaze) There was this girl… she liked taxidermy. It didn’t really… take off.

DEBORAH: (Trying to suppress a giggle) Taxidermy? Well, that’s… unique. You must have had some… interesting conversations.

MARVIN: Mostly about the proper way to stuff a squirrel.

STANLEY: Squirrels? We need passion! We need grand gestures! I once dated an actress who insisted on reciting Shakespeare during… well, never mind. The point is, love should be like a sweeping epic! Full of drama and… and close-ups!

LEONARD: Mine was more like a poorly lit student film with bad sound.

(SFX: Deborah laughs softly)

DEBORAH: You’re funny, Marvin.

MARVIN: (Looks up at her, a flicker of something in his eyes) Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?

DEBORAH: (Blushing slightly) Definitely… ha-ha. So, about those rusty nuts and bolts… do you think there’s any… philosophical significance to their varying sizes?

MARVIN: (Considers this, takes another drink) Probably just determines what they can screw into.

CYNTHIA: The only thing certain in this life is that everything eventually gets screwed. Figuratively and sometimes… well, you know.

STANLEY: We need a love scene in our film! A passionate embrace against the backdrop of… of a really compelling piece of street art! Or maybe in front of the exploding bagel footage! Juxtaposition!

LEONARD: Perhaps the love scene should be between the protagonist and Bartholomew. A silent understanding that transcends the limitations of interspecies communication.

DEBORAH: (Leaning slightly closer to Marvin) You know, maybe I could visit you this summer. At the hardware store. I could… help you sort things. Learn about… nuts and bolts.

MARVIN: (Looks surprised) You’d… want to do that?

DEBORAH: (Smiling warmly) Sure. It sounds… interesting. And maybe we could… get some less rusty things to look at afterwards.

CYNTHIA: (Muttering into her beer) The siren call of shared drudgery. How romantic.

STANLEY: This is it! This is the inspiration we need! A summer romance amidst the hardware! The gritty reality of nuts and bolts juxtaposed with the blossoming of… of human connection! We’ll call it… ‘Fasteners of the Heart’!

LEONARD: Or perhaps ‘The Existential Weight of Washers.’

MARVIN: (Looking at Deborah, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips) Maybe.

(SFX: The murmur of the Gausthaus fades slightly as Deborah and Marvin exchange a brief glance. The jukebox plays a melancholic jazz tune.)

JEFF (O.S.): And so, fueled by cheap beer and the faint possibility of something more than shared cinematic misery, the summer stretched before them. A vast, uncharted territory where exploding bagels and philosophical goldfish might just give way to the unexpected allure of rusty hardware and the quiet, understated charm of a man who knew his nuts from his bolts. The meaning of life remained elusive, but for Deborah, at least, the summer suddenly held a slightly less meaningless proposition.

(SFX: Jukebox music fades out slowly.)

(SCENE END)

Scene: Friday Convocation – Fine Arts Building Assembly Hall

INT. BACKSTAGE – FRIDAY AFTERNOON

JEFF (O.S.):The air backstage is thick with the nervous sweat of artistic ambition and the lingering scent of cheap coffee. LEONARD, his glasses perpetually threatening to slide down his nose, fidgets with his notes, a collection of barely legible scribbles on lined paper. Across the cramped space, GWEN, a young woman with intensely dramatic eye makeup, recounts her cinematic triumph to a bored-looking STAGEHAND.

GWEN: …and the juxtaposition of the flickering Super 8 footage of the abandoned amusement park with the mournful cello solo, it’s meant to evoke the ephemeral nature of joy, the inevitable decay of memory… a commentary on the post-industrial malaise that permeates… Well, everything, really.

LEONARD: (Interjecting, adjusting his glasses with a nervous twitch) The ephemeral nature of joy. Yes. Like finding a twenty-dollar bill in an old coat pocket, only to realize it’s counterfeit. A fleeting moment of optimism cruelly snatched away by the harsh realities of… fiscal irresponsibility. Did you consider the symbolism of the rust on the carousel horses? The slow erosion of… childhood dreams?

STAGEHAND: (Without looking at her) Just try not to trip over the dolly tracks.

Across the stage, BRENDAN, a young man sporting a pretentious scarf indoors, holds court with another student.

BRENDAN: My film is a deconstruction of narrative linearity. It unfolds backwards, each scene a fragmented memory leading to a primal, unspoken trauma. The graininess of the 16mm is deliberate, a visual representation of the unreliable nature of… consciousness.

LEONARD: (Nodding thoughtfully) The unreliable nature of consciousness. Indeed. Like trying to remember why you walked into a room in the first place. A profound mystery, really. Does your protagonist grapple with the inherent subjectivity of… reality? The unsettling notion that what we perceive as truth is merely a… flawed interpretation?

BRENDAN: Mostly, we just ran out of film and had to shoot the ending first.

A frazzled STAGE MANAGER claps his hands together wearily.

STAGE MANAGER: Leonard! You’re up! Try to keep it under ten minutes. My therapist charges by the hour.

Leonard gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in a turbulent sea. He shuffles towards the stage entrance.

INT. ASSEMBLY HALL – CONTINUOUS

STANLEY leans forward dramatically towards MARVIN.

STANLEY: Leonard and the goldfish. This has the potential to be… Bergmanesque. Or perhaps early Fellini. Imagine! The silent suffering of a creature confined to a small, watery world! A metaphor for the human condition!

MARVIN: (Leafing through a dog-eared paperback) I’m picturing more of a wet pet.

DEBORAH: He’s actually quite bright. I’m sure he has a compelling vision. Maybe he’ll explore themes of isolation, the yearning for connection in a… well, a fish-eat-fish world. Figuratively speaking, of course.

CYNTHIA: (Exhaling an invisible cloud of smoke, a weary sigh escaping her lips) The yearning of a goldfish. Truly the stuff of epics.

STANLEY: But the exploding bagel! He mentioned it! It could be a brilliant surrealist touch! A sudden, jarring moment of… breakfast-related anarchy!

MARVIN: Maybe the fish eats it and… expands.

DEBORAH: Perhaps he’ll discuss the challenges of anthropomorphizing a creature with… limited facial expressions.

CYNTHIA: (A wry smile) The existential angst etched on a fish’s… face. I can hardly wait.

INT. BACKSTAGE – CONTINUOUS

ANOTHER STUDENT (on the verge of tears) …and then the lead actor quit halfway through filming because he said my artistic vision was “making him question his life choices.”

LEONARD: Questioning one’s life choices. A fundamental aspect of the human experience. Did you explore the actor’s… inner turmoil? The… the existential void that led to his… dramatic departure?

STAGE MANAGER: Leonard! Go! Before they all start requesting refunds.

Leonard stumbles onto the stage, blinking owlishly under the bright lights. He looks utterly alone and exposed.

INT. ASSEMBLY HALL – CONTINUOUS

LEONARD grips the microphone stand as if it’s a lifeline in a sea of expectant faces. He clears his throat, the sound echoing through the hall.

(Leonard stands on stage, blinking owlishly under the bright lights, nervously adjusting his glasses.)

Um, hello. So, the goldfish. My film. It’s… it’s about a goldfish. And, you know, they say goldfish have a memory of only three seconds. Which, if you think about it, is probably about the length of time most people will remember this presentation. Ha.

(Silence. A lone cough.)

Right. Well, the filming mostly took place in my sink. My roommate wasn’t entirely sympathetic to the artistic process involving… fish scales in the drain. But, you know, Bartholomew, the fish, he’s not just a fish. He’s a metaphor. For that feeling you get when you’re at a party and you don’t know anyone, and you just hover near the cheese platter, pretending to be deeply interested in the various textures of the brie.

(A few chuckles.)

But the real metaphor, you see, is for my crippling fear of pigeons. It’s not rational, I know. They’re just… feathered rats with tiny, dead eyes. But they’re always watching. Always. And what are they thinking? Are they plotting? Are they silently judging my inability to parallel park? Because, I have to be honest, I can’t. I’ve tried. I’ve seen people do it with such grace, like a ballet of spatial reasoning. I just end up doing this elaborate, three-point turn that ends with me on the curb, staring into the existential void that is a poorly parked Honda Civic.

(The audience is laughing now.)

And it’s all connected, you see. The fish, the pigeons, the parking. It all leads to my ongoing philosophical debate with myself about the proper way to pronounce “Nietzsche.” Is it “NEET-shuh”? “NEE-chee”? Or is it a silent “t,” like “Knee-uh-shuh”? The weight of this question… it’s an intellectual burden. It’s like trying to find the missing piece “A” when you’re assembling a bookshelf made in Sweden. It’s all just… a complete lack of intellectual curiosity. Or maybe a lot of intellectual curiosity that leads to… this.

(Leonard gestures vaguely at himself, and the audience erupts in laughter.)

I can’t quite decide.

JEFF (O.S.): And so, Leonard, the intellectual with the perpetually bewildered expression, had stumbled upon a universal truth. That sometimes, the most profound connections are made not through carefully crafted pronouncements, but through the messy, neurotic honesty of simply trying to make sense of a world that often makes no sense at all. Especially when you’re trying to make a film about a goldfish.

When Leonard finally stumbles to a conclusion, the applause is deafening. A standing ovation. Stanley, Marvin, Deborah, and Cynthia rise with the rest, clapping with a mixture of shock and genuine appreciation.

STANLEY: (Muttering) I… I don’t understand it. But I… I think I liked it?

MARVIN: (A slight shake of his head, a hint of a smile) Well. That was… something.

DEBORAH: He was… real. In a way none of us expected.

CYNTHIA: (Taking a deep, imaginary drag) Go figure.

Leonard, flushed with surprise and a dawning sense of bewildered triumph, takes a bow, his glasses askew. He spots Stanley, Marvin, Deborah, and Cynthia and waves, a goofy grin spreading across his face, before shuffling off stage. The four friends stare at each other, a silent, shared question hanging in the smoky air of the assembly hall.

STANLEY, MARVIN, DEBORAH, CYNTHIA (in unison, a bewildered whisper): What the hell just happened?

(BLACKOUT)

Setting: Basement editing room at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee. A large dimly lit room with tables of various shapes and sizes randomly placed throughout the room. Each table has a 16mm film viewer and editor of various brands and conditions. Used 30 gallon fiber drum containers are scattered across the room each filled with discarded 16mm film strips. 

JEFF (O.S.): Weeks had passed, marked by lukewarm coffee, philosophical debates that circled like confused pigeons, and the persistent aroma of Marvin’s questionable snacks. The screenplay, a delicate ecosystem of neuroses and half-baked ideas, had somehow morphed into actual footage. Now, they found themselves in the dimly lit, slightly sticky confines of the college’s editing room.

(SFX: The low hum of editing equipment, the occasional click and whir)

DEBORAH: Okay, so I think if we cut from Bartholomew’s close-up – the one where he looks particularly burdened by the concept of eternal recurrence – directly to the shot of the overflowing ashtray…

CYNTHIA: (Without taking her eyes off her imaginary cigarette) It lacks a certain… despair. Maybe a slow zoom on a wilting houseplant? Symbolizing the decay of hope?

LEONARD: Or perhaps we intercut it with footage of rush hour traffic? The relentless, meaningless movement of the masses mirroring Bartholomew’s internal struggle against the tyranny of the aquarium.

STANLEY: (Gesturing dramatically) No, no, no! We need visual dynamism! What about a montage? Quick cuts! Bartholomew staring intensely, then a nuclear explosion (stock footage, of course), then a baby crying, then a close-up of a melting ice cream cone! It’ll be… Eisensteinian!

MARVIN: (Rummaging through a large, overflowing trash can filled with discarded strips of 16mm film) Has anyone seen the footage of the pigeon eating that discarded hot dog? I think it might… resonate.

DEBORAH: Marvin, we’re trying to establish Bartholomew’s profound intellectual crisis, not the culinary habits of urban wildlife.

MARVIN: But there’s a certain… existential dread in that pigeon’s relentless pursuit of processed meat. The futility of its desires mirroring… well, you know.

LEONARD: He might have a point. The base urges of the physical world juxtaposed with the lofty aspirations of the… ichthyoid intellect.

STANLEY: Absolutely not! We’re not making a documentary about vermin! This is about a Nietzschean goldfish! Think big! Think… Fellini, but with scales!

CYNTHIA: Fellini was depressing. At least the pigeon has a hot dog. A fleeting moment of greasy satisfaction in an otherwise bleak existence.

MARVIN: (Pulling out a tangled strip of film) Aha! Here it is. Look at the raw hunger in its beady little eyes. The sheer, unadulterated need.

(SFX: The whirring sound of film being pulled)

DEBORAH: Marvin, what else is in that trash can? Please tell me you’re not planning on incorporating outtakes of Stanley tripping over the microphone.

MARVIN: (Holding up another strip) Oh, this is interesting. It looks like… Mrs. Henderson’s cat chasing a wind up toy mouse. Remember that B-roll we shot for… I can’t even recall what scene.

LEONARD: The scene where the protagonist briefly considers the seductive allure of feline domesticity before reaffirming his commitment to intellectual rigor? We cut it. It felt… tangential.

STANLEY: Tangential? It was an affront to the very core of our cinematic vision! A fluffy distraction from the weighty themes of free will and… and fish philosophy!

CYNTHIA: Maybe the cat represents the protagonist’s subconscious desire for simple pleasures, a respite from the burden of existential awareness. The wind up toy mouse is the fleeting, ultimately unattainable nature of happiness.

MARVIN: (Holding up yet another strip) And this! This appears to be… static. Just pure, unadulterated visual noise.

DEBORAH: That was when the camera jammed. We lost a good ten minutes of Leonard’s intensely brooding close-up.

LEONARD: (Sighs dramatically) Perhaps it was a sign. The universe itself protesting against my attempts to convey the ineffable through the limitations of celluloid.

STANLEY: We can use the static! It represents the void! The terrifying nothingness that underlies all existence! We’ll call it… ‘Ode to the Abyss’!

CYNTHIA: Or maybe it just means someone forgot to check the film gate.

MARVIN: (Squinting at a particularly crumpled piece of film) Wait a minute… What’s this? It looks like… a close-up of an exploding bagel.

(SFX: A faint, crackly sound, like old film running through a projector)

DEBORAH: Oh, god. We filmed that? I thought we agreed that was a… a metaphor gone awry.

LEONARD: But the sheer randomness of it! The unexpected eruption of breakfast pastry! It’s almost… Beckettian!

STANLEY: We have to use it! It’s the perfect punctuation mark for Bartholomew’s descent into nihilistic despair! The bagel explodes, mirroring the shattering of his belief in… in fishy metaphysics!

CYNTHIA: It’s just an exploding bagel, Stanley. Maybe it just got too hot.

MARVIN: (Smiling faintly) You know, for a brief, chaotic moment, that bagel achieved a kind of… liberation. It transcended its bagel-ness.

DEBORAH: (Massaging her temples) We have to finish this film. We have a deadline. Can we please focus on the footage we intentionally shot?

LEONARD: But perhaps the unintentional footage holds a deeper truth. The subconscious of our cinematic endeavor revealing itself through discarded frames and exploding carbohydrates.

STANLEY: We’ll call it… ‘Bagel Ex Machina’!

CYNTHIA: I need another imaginary cigarette. This is giving me a real headache.

MARVIN: (Holding up the pigeon footage again) Just think about it. The pigeon. The bagel. Both striving, in their own way, for… something.

JEFF (O.S.): And so, amidst the discarded remnants of their artistic ambitions and the lingering scent of burnt sugar, they continued to tinker. The line between profound insight and utter nonsense blurred with each passing frame. The film, much like their collective sanity, hung precariously in the balance, a testament to the enduring power of existential angst and the surprising cinematic potential of breakfast gone wrong.

(SFX: The low hum of editing equipment continues, joined by a frustrated sigh from Deborah)

(SCENE END)

Setting: A cramped, cluttered dorm room at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, 1977. Posters of Ingmar Bergman and Bob Dylan compete for wall space.

(SCENE START)

JEFF (O.S.): The University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee served as an unlikely crucible for cinematic genius for five aspiring screenwriters crammed into a dorm room that perpetually smelled of lukewarm coffee and unfulfilled potential. This was the year that Stars Wars premiered, Elvis died and disillusionment simmered. And a group of students, united by their ambition and a shared fascination with a philosophical goldfish named Bartholomew, embarked on a creative journey that was as chaotic as it was compelling.

LEONARD: (Tapping a pen nervously) So, we were at the protagonist’s existential crisis, right? He’s just discovered that his pet goldfish, Bartholomew, believes himself to be Nietzsche reincarnated.

STANLEY: (Grandly) Leonard, darling, this is cinema! We need stakes! Bartholomew can’t just believe he’s Nietzsche. He has to act like Nietzsche! Imagine, a goldfish delivering pronouncements on the will to power! We’ll get Brando for the voiceover!

MARVIN: (Dryly) Brando’s probably busy arguing with his agent about the proper way to eat a sea cucumber.

DEBORAH: (Trying to sound positive) Okay, okay. Let’s not get sidetracked. The core of our story is about alienation in a post-industrial society, seen through the… unique… lens of a philosophical goldfish.

CYNTHIA: (Exhaling an imaginary plume of smoke) It’s all meaningless anyway. We’re all just fleeting moments in the vast, uncaring cosmos. Might as well have the goldfish join a punk rock band.

LEONARD: But the symbolism! The crushing weight of existence reflected in Bartholomew’s tiny, watery eyes!

STANLEY: Symbolism sells art-house tickets, Leonard. Explosions sell popcorn! We need a scene where Bartholomew, in a fit of nihilistic rage, blows up the fish tank!

MARVIN: How exactly does a goldfish blow up a fish tank? Does he swallow a tiny stick of dynamite?

DEBORAH: Maybe it’s a metaphor! For the protagonist’s inner turmoil!

CYNTHIA: Or maybe the goldfish just gets tired of the water. I know I am.

LEONARD: I was thinking more along the lines of Bartholomew having a profound dream sequence where he debates Schopenhauer.

STANLEY: Dream sequences are boring! Unless there are laser beams! Bartholomew could have laser eyes! He’s a super-Nietzsche-goldfish!

MARVIN: We’re supposed to be writing a serious screenplay, not a Saturday morning cartoon.

DEBORAH: Can we at least agree on the protagonist’s motivation? He’s… he’s feeling lost, right? Like he doesn’t fit in?

CYNTHIA: Join the club, sister.

LEONARD: Perhaps his alienation stems from the fact that he’s the only one who can understand Bartholomew’s philosophical pronouncements. He’s trapped in a world of philistines who just see a… fish.

STANLEY: That’s too subtle! What if he’s being chased by a shadowy organization that wants to weaponize Bartholomew’s intellect? Think James Bond meets… Jacques Cousteau!

MARVIN: I’m starting to think Bartholomew should just swim away. End of movie. Everyone goes home.

DEBORAH: No, no, we need a resolution! A moment of catharsis! Maybe the protagonist finally accepts Bartholomew for who he is, Nietzschean tendencies and all.

CYNTHIA: Or maybe Bartholomew realizes the futility of philosophy and just wants a bigger tank.

LEONARD: But the intellectual journey! The exploration of free will versus determinism!

STANLEY: We can have a car chase! With the protagonist and Bartholomew – in a little water-filled contraption – being pursued by black helicopters!

(SFX: Clatter of typewriter increases, then stops abruptly)

MARVIN: I’ve got it. The protagonist is making himself a bagel. He’s feeling particularly angst-ridden. He puts it in the toaster oven…

DEBORAH: Okay…

MARVIN: …but he forgets to take out the foil-wrapped cream cheese he’d stashed inside for later.

(SFX: A loud, unexpected POP followed by a splattering sound)

LEONARD: What was that?!

STANLEY: Did the goldfish finally achieve sentience and detonate?

CYNTHIA: Sounds like reality intruding on our pathetic little drama.

(SFX: Muffled groans)

DEBORAH: Marvin, what happened?

MARVIN: (Deadpan) The existential crisis just got a little… messy. Seems my bagel experienced its own form of explosive disillusionment.

LEONARD: (Sighs dramatically) Even inanimate objects are rebelling against the absurdity of existence.

STANLEY: This is brilliant! We can incorporate this! The exploding bagel is a metaphor for… for… the sudden, chaotic nature of truth!

CYNTHIA: Or maybe it just means Marvin shouldn’t try to toast cream cheese.

DEBORAH: (Wearily) Can we please just go back to Bartholomew?

LEONARD: Perhaps the exploding bagel is Bartholomew’s subconscious cry for help! He’s overwhelmed by the weight of Nietzsche’s philosophy!

STANLEY: We need slow-motion footage of the bagel exploding! With dramatic music!

MARVIN: I just need a sponge.

JEFF (O.S.): And so it went. Five college students, trapped in the amber of their own intellectual pretension, wrestling with grand ideas and exploding breakfast foods. The screenplay, much like their futures, remained a nebulous, slightly sticky mess. But in that cramped dorm room, amidst the angst and the bagel shrapnel, they were, for a brief, fleeting moment, artists. Or at least, they smelled like they were trying to be.  

 (SCENE END)

INT. ABANDONED WAREHOUSE – DAY

The air in the cavernous, dusty warehouse is thick with the smell of mildew and ambition. Motes of dust dance in the shafts of sunlight piercing the grimy windows. It’s a less-than-ideal film set, but it was free.

JEFF (V.O.) voice sighs, a familiar prelude to impending chaos.

JEFF (V.O.) Ah, the abandoned warehouse. The classic backdrop for cinematic breakthroughs, or in our case, the stage for a collective nervous breakdown. With Super 8 cameras clutched in trembling hands, our intrepid filmmakers were about to discover that translating grand ideas into actual imagery without the benefit of dialogue was, well, a silent scream in itself.

STANLEY wearing a slightly too-large director’s beret, is attempting to set up a rickety tripod, struggling with its obstinately disobedient legs. LEONARD paces a tight circle, muttering to himself, occasionally glancing at a small, tattered book. MARVIN leans against a graffiti-covered wall, arms crossed, looking utterly unimpressed. DEBORAH, ever the picture of organized chaos, consults a storyboard meticulously drawn on graph paper. CYNTHIA, meanwhile, is already deep into an imaginary cigarette, exhaling a visible cloud of nothing.

STANLEY (Frustrated grunt) This tripod has the structural integrity of a wet noodle! How am I supposed to capture the soaring spirit of man against the backdrop of urban decay with this… this contraption?!

DEBORAH (Calmly) Stanley, maybe focus on the narrative. My storyboard has a sequence here, frame 32, where our protagonist, representing the universal human struggle, gazes out at a desolate landscape. It’s meant to convey hope, or perhaps the yearning for it.

LEONARD (Stopping his pacing abruptly) But how do we convey yearning without a soliloquy? Or even a subtle sigh? Perhaps a slow zoom on his trembling lower lip? The visual manifestation of existential dread! It needs to be precise! We could use a slightly out-of-focus shot to symbolize the blurred lines of reality!

MARVIN (Without moving) Or you could just film him looking constipated. Pretty sure that covers most human struggles. And it’s universally understood.

Cynthia lets out a dry, silent chuckle, her imaginary cigarette nearly burning down to her fingertips.

CYNTHIA I like the idea of the desolate landscape. Especially if it’s just a pile of discarded industrial refuse. That screams “yearning” to me. Or just “landfill.” Close enough.

STANLEY (Straightening his beret with a flourish) No, no, no! Desolation is good, but it needs a hook! Imagine: our hero, standing on the precipice of a vast, empty expanse, then… a single, golden disco ball, glinting in the distance! Symbolizing the fleeting nature of joy in a post-modern world! And then he points at it! With conviction!

LEONARD (His voice rising in pitch) A disco ball? Stanley, we are trying to convey the ineffable tragedy of the human condition, not choreograph a B-movie musical! The image must be sparse! Stark! Like a single, flickering candle flame in a vast, cold universe! To represent the fragile grasp on sanity!

DEBORAH (Trying to mediate) Perhaps we could blend elements. The desolate landscape, yes, but then a subtle gesture. A shrug. A turning away. The quiet despair of a soul adrift.

MARVIN (Eyes half-closed) Or just a close-up of a broken promise. Maybe a cracked coffee mug. Everyone gets that.

JEFF (V.O.) It became clear, rather quickly, that each of them was attempting to make their own Super 8 film, simultaneously, on the same strip of celluloid. A kind of cinematic discord, without the benefit of actual sound.

Stanley, now visibly frustrated, throws his hands up.

STANLEY This is impossible! How do you tell a story without telling a story?! It’s like trying to make spaghetti without noodles! Or a relationship without emotional baggage!

LEONARD (Suddenly still, a look of dawning horror on his face) Wait. Stanley, you might be onto something. Your disco ball… Cynthia’s escaping figure… Deborah’s yearning… Marvin’s broken promise… my… my crumbling sanity…

He looks around at the group, a new light in his eyes.

LEONARD It’s all… it’s all us. This film isn’t about some universal protagonist. It’s about our collective neuroses! Our disillusionment! Our anxiety!

DEBORAH (Slowly, understanding dawning) A silent narrative of… shared confusion. The imagery of us, trying to figure this out.

CYNTHIA (Nodding, taking a deep, satisfied imaginary drag) The endless struggle. The vague sense of not knowing what the hell you’re doing. Yeah. That’s a story.

MARVIN (A rare, almost imperceptible smile) And it doesn’t need sound. Because no one’s listening anyway.

Stanley, after a moment of stunned silence, snaps his fingers.

STANLEY Brilliant! A meta-narrative! We’ll film ourselves trying to make the film! The director, consumed by his own grandiosity! The intellectual, drowning in theoretical quicksand! The pragmatist, clinging to her schedule! The cynic, observing it all with weary amusement! The… the phantom smoker, perpetually anticipating the next disaster!

LEONARD (A glimmer of genuine excitement, despite his inherent nervousness) Yes! A visual symphony of ineptitude! We can start with a shot of the tripod collapsing! Symbolizing the fragility of our ambitions!

DEBORAH (Picking up her notebook, a new resolve in her eyes) And then shots of us pacing, arguing, looking utterly lost. The raw, unfiltered reality of an embryonic creative process!

CYNTHIA (Grinning faintly) And then me, lighting up. A little visual punctuation for moments of profound existential dread.

Marvin just nods, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. For the first time, all five of them seem to be on the same, slightly absurd, page.

JEFF (V.O.) And so, after weeks of existential angst and theoretical wrangling, they had their story. It wasn’t about a train, or a milkman, or even a nuanced exploration of feminism. It was about them. Five hapless souls, trying to make sense of a world that increasingly felt like a silent film, and realizing that perhaps the most profound narrative of all was the one they were living, one botched take at a time. The Super 8 camera clicked to life, ready to capture the glorious, unadulterated chaos of their first foray into filmmaking.

INT. STUDENT UNION – DAY

The Student Union is a buzzing hive of activity. Students mill about, some studying, some playing foosball. Our five main characters are huddled on a collection of mismatched, vaguely stained couches and armchairs in a corner. Half-empty coffee cups and discarded wrappers litter the small table in front of them. JEFF’S (V.O.) voice returns, a little more resigned this time.

JEFF (V.O.) The Student Union. A kind of intellectual purgatory, where grand ideas went to die over lukewarm coffee and the persistent aroma of stale pizza. After a week of academic immersion, or what passed for it, our fearless filmmakers were now grappling with their first existential crisis: the Super 8 project.

LEONARD meticulously wipes down his glasses, even though they look perfectly clean. STANLEY gestures wildly with a half-eaten Danish. MARVIN sips his coffee, utterly unperturbed by the chaos around him. DEBORAH, ever the pragmatist, consults a small, precise notebook. CYNTHIA lights up another imaginary cigarette, exhaling with a sigh that could curdle milk.

DEBORAH So, the Super 8 assignment. “A visual narrative without sound.” Professor Silverman was very clear about the imagery needing to convey the story. No cheating with title cards.

STANLEY (Leaning forward conspiratorially) “Visual narrative.” Exactly! This is where we separate the artists from the… well, from the people who just show up for class. I’m thinking a sweeping epic. A young man, trapped by the banality of suburban life, dreams of Hollywood glory. We see him packing a single suitcase, the light glinting off a framed photo of Orson Welles. Cut to him hitchhiking, the open road, endless possibilities!

LEONARD (Pinching the bridge of his nose) Stanley, it’s Super 8. And it’s due in two weeks. Are we talking about an actual film, or your therapy session played out on celluloid? Because frankly, the latter might be more achievable.

MARVIN (Without looking up from his coffee) Maybe the visual narrative is just him staring at the camera for three minutes, conveying the crushing weight of artistic ambition. Minimalist. Profound.

Cynthia lets out a soft, smoky chuckle.

CYNTHIA Or just the crushing weight of tuition bills. That’s a narrative I understand.

DEBORAH (Tapping her pen on her notebook) My idea is about a woman trying to find her place in a rapidly changing world. We could use reflections in windows to symbolize introspection, perhaps a shot of her walking against the flow of foot traffic to show her individualism. It’s subtle, but powerful.

STANLEY (Dismissively) Subtle? Debbie, darling, subtlety is for tax accountants! We need bold strokes! Like, a montage of her furiously disco dancing in a library! To show her rebellion!

LEONARD (Shuddering) Please, no disco. My ears haven’t recovered from the Gasthaus jukebox. Besides, if we’re relying solely on imagery, how do we convey complex emotional states? The inherent anxieties of a man trapped in a labyrinth of his own neuroses, for example? A tracking shot of his rapidly deteriorating hairline?

MARVIN (Taking another sip) You could just film a close-up of a blinking light. It’d convey the same thing. And it’s cheaper.

JEFF (V.O.) Marvin, in his own short succinct way, was often the voice of reason. A rather cynical, gravelly voice of reason, but reason nonetheless.

CYNTHIA (Exhaling an imaginary plume) I was thinking something about a person escaping. Just… escaping. We could show a series of mundane objects, like a chipped coffee mug, an overflowing ashtray, then cut to a shot of bare feet running down a road. No explanation. Just… the feeling of needing to get out.

Deborah nods slowly, considering this.

DEBORAH That’s actually… quite evocative, Cynthia. The ambiguity works.

STANLEY Ambiguity? Debbie, you don’t win Oscars with ambiguity! You win with grand gestures and a stirring musical score that makes the audience weep! Weeping! That’s the key!

LEONARD (Adjusting his glasses for the hundredth time) But if the audience is weeping, Stanley, it’s usually because they’ve realized they just paid seven dollars for a film that features a milkman disco dancing.

Stanley slumps back, momentarily defeated.

STANLEY Fine. No disco milkman. For now. But I’m still convinced a long shot of me, silhouetted against a dramatic sunset, could convey existential yearning.

MARVIN It would certainly convey something. Probably just low blood sugar.

The group falls into a comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the Student Union a dull backdrop. They sip their coffees, each lost in thought about their impossible film assignments.

DEBORAH (Breaking the silence, a hopeful tone in her voice) You know, even if these first films are terrible… we’re actually doing it. We’re making something.

LEONARD (A small, tentative smile) Yes. The potential for catastrophic failure has never been so high. It’s… exhilarating. In a way that causes stomach cramps.

STANLEY (Perking up, a glint in his eye) Catastrophic failure is just a stepping stone to legendary status! Besides, we’re all in this together. A team! The next great American filmmaking collective!

Marvin raises his coffee cup in a silent, sarcastic toast. Cynthia gives a half-smile, exhaling another puff of imaginary smoke. The idea, outlandish as it was, settled around them like a comforting, if slightly absurd, blanket.

JEFF (V.O.) And so, the seeds of collaboration were sown amidst the sticky tables and the lukewarm coffee. They were a motley crew, to be sure. A neurotic intellectual, a Hollywood dreamer, a cynical observer, an earnest idealist, and a world-weary phantom smoker. They had no idea what they were doing, which, in the context of filmmaking, often meant they were exactly where they needed to be. The Super 8 cameras awaited, and with them, the glorious, and likely hilarious, beginnings of their cinematic careers.

INT. LECTURE HALL – DAY (SEPTEMBER 1977)

The lecture hall is old, the kind with tiered seating and creaky wooden desks. A flickering fluorescent light casts a sickly yellow glow. Students trickle in, a mix of bell-bottoms and flannel shirts. JEFF’S (V.O.) voice, dry and slightly world-weary, begins.

JEFF (V.O.) Nineteen seventy-seven. Disco was king, though nobody I knew actually liked it. Disillusionment was the prevailing intellectual fashion, even amongst those of us who hadn’t yet accomplished anything to be disillusioned about. And in the hallowed, or perhaps just humid, halls of the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, a new kind of delusion was brewing: the belief that we could make movies.

PROFESSOR SHELDON SILVERMAN (50s, tweed jacket, perpetually distracted) stands at the front, adjusting his notes. He clears his throat.

PROFESSOR SILVERMAN Alright, settle down, settle down. Welcome to Film History 101. A journey, if you will, through the celluloid dreams that have… well, that have been projected onto screens for the better part of a century.

LEONARD (20, hunched, thick glasses perpetually sliding down his nose) shuffles in, followed by STANLEY (20, slicked-back hair, wearing a too-tight leisure suit).

STANLEY (Whispering loudly) Film History. Sounds… epic. Like the history of empires, but with more close-ups.

LEONARD (Adjusting his glasses) More likely a litany of forgotten filmmakers and the socio-political subtext of early nitrate stock. Riveting.

MARVIN (20, longish hair, wearing a band t-shirt two sizes too big) ambles in, a look of profound boredom etched on his face. DEBORAH (20, bright-eyed, carrying a stack of film theory books) enters next, trying to appear organized. CYNTHIA (20, pale, perpetually inhaling and exhaling, though no cigarette is visible) trails behind.

They find seats in the middle, clustering together almost instinctively.

PROFESSOR SILVERMAN (Continuing) Today, we begin with the Lumière brothers. Pioneers! Thinkers! Men with a… a vision for capturing reality. Though their reality, I suspect, was considerably less… anxiety-ridden than our own.

LEONARD (Muttering) Try dealing with existential dread and a faulty camera, Professor. Then talk to me about anxiety.

STANLEY (Scoffs) The Lumières? Amateurs. They were making glorified home movies. Where’s the glamour? The sweeping scores? The love triangles?

MARVIN (Deadpan) Maybe the love triangle was between the camera, the tripod, and the roll of film.

Cynthia lets out a dry, silent laugh, a puff of imaginary smoke escaping her lips. Deborah nudges Stanley.

DEBORAH Stanley, be serious. This is foundational stuff. We need to understand the basics before we can, you know… revolutionize cinema.

STANLEY Revolutionize? Debbie, darling, we’re going to Hollywoodize cinema! Think big! Think spectacle! Think… my agent calling Spielberg!

A hand shoots up in the front row.

STUDENT 1 Professor Silverman, will we be discussing the Marxist interpretations of The Great Train Robbery?

Leonard groans softly.

LEONARD Oh, God. Here we go.

MARVIN (Under his breath) I’d rather discuss the actual robbery of a great train. At least that has some narrative drive.

PROFESSOR SILVERMAN (Adjusting his tie) Well, yes, we can certainly touch upon the… socio-economic implications of early narrative film. Though I find the lens of Freudian analysis equally… perplexing.

Another hand goes up.

STUDENT 2 Will there be extra credit opportunities? I’m already feeling a bit overwhelmed by the syllabus.

CYNTHIA (To herself, exhaling) Overwhelmed? Honey, you haven’t even lived yet. Try a lifetime of vague disappointment. That’s overwhelming.

Leonard snorts, trying to stifle a laugh. Stanley beams, sensing an audience.

STANLEY Extra credit? The only extra credit in this business is when your film makes a billion dollars! Then everyone wants a piece of your… genius.

Deborah sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

DEBORAH Can we just focus on the lecture? Please?

Professor Silverman drones on, oblivious to the miniature theatre of the absurd unfolding in the middle of the hall. Leonard catches Cynthia’s eye, a small smile playing on his lips. Marvin subtly nods in agreement with one of Leonard’s muttered sarcastic remarks. A shared sense of bewildered amusement begins to weave its way through the group.

The loud RING of the class bell echoes through the hall. Students begin to pack their bags.

PROFESSOR SILVERMAN Alright, that’s all for today. Next week, we delve into the groundbreaking… uh… techniques of D.W. Griffith. Don’t forget the reading! It’s… illuminating. In a dusty sort of way.

The five hapless souls rise, their movements still slightly awkward and uncertain, but a subtle shift has occurred.

DEBORAH: So, anyone want to grab some coffee? The Union should be… less depressing than this.

STANLEY Coffee? Excellent! We can discuss my ideas for a gritty, neo-realist musical set in a Milwaukee brewery! It’s got… passion. And polka.

LEONARD (Dryly) Sounds… plausible.

MARVIN As long as the coffee is strong enough to erase the last fifty minutes from my memory, I’m in.

Cynthia nods in agreement, taking a long, satisfying drag on her invisible cigarette. They walk out of the lecture hall together, a budding, unlikely camaraderie forming in the stale air.

JEFF (V.O.) And so it began. Five strangers, united by a shared delusion and a profound lack of direction. Little did they know, their journey into the world of filmmaking would be less about glamorous premieres and artistic triumphs, and more about lukewarm coffee, endless arguments, and the persistent feeling that they were all in way over their heads. But for now, there was coffee. And the faint, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t quite so alone in their haplessness.

EXT. UNIVERSITY HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS

The group walks down the crowded hallway, their voices blending with the general student noise.

FADE OUT.