Outlines
Opening montage:
18th century ball. Something hyper-classical, a symphony masquerading
as a waltz. Cameos, followed by actor names scrolling across faces,
like Spencerian feathers, but the actors aren't ticklish in this case.
Pandemonium, reservedly. Actors should be painfully beautiful.
Voiceover: "I heard somewhere that if you fall seven times, get up eight."
Fade to black.
the 1st fall: Jesus falls the first time on the path to Calvary. Dusty
hill. Jesus. Big cross. Period dress.
the 2nd fall: Masturbation, thinking about classmates on the soccer
team. Ejaculation. Actor's note: make sure it is clear what "shame"
looks like, but not obviously so. Make the audience feel shame without
a particular facial cue. Play with it.
the 3rd fall: Jesus falls for the second time on the path to Calvary.
Simon comes along, played by a man named Andrew. On a block in suburbia this time. Andrew is hot, so, of course, he's shirtless.
the 4th fall: A samurai cuts a blood red rose. It bleeds in petals against the snow falling in the background. Shakuhachi playing in the background - too much?
the 5th fall: candlelit interior of a church. The stations of the cross. Incense. Rosaries in the hands of old women. Cinematography note: screen appears blurry, as if walking around drunk. Incensed, perhaps.
the 6th fall: Andrew and the main character make love. Andrew leaves the next morning, to play as Mary Magdalene, BC. Obviously for another project that our protagonist didn't know about. Music plays in a minor key. Something that evokes midnight, a train, and Georgia. Perfect.
the 7th fall: the face of Jesus is wiped by Veronica. Veronica, played by a man named Andrew. Jesus, played by the main character. The face of Jesus that appears doesn't look like Jesus' face.
the 8th fall: Cigarettes falling into an ashtray. Glowsticks. Light show. Embers and glitter.
Wait, where did Jesus go?
Closing montage:
A man with a walking staff, in a car, without a map, without a sound, in Hungary, in Ireland, in England, in San Francisco, in Birmingham, in Madrid, in Auckland, in Tokyo, on the dirt, on the road, on the earth, on the path, by the sea, in the forest - steps out - a drafty filigree lace armor against the cold.
And in that alone, with a sack, a briefcase, a saddlebag alone, finding by his wits alone, a singular solace in alone. The day rises and falls, heaves and breathes, and still he walks. The seasons shimmer and wane, the moon changes and falls, and still he walks. The lantern, the flashlight in the abandoned towns, the urchin-crusted,
black-tarred streets of the metropolis, the vibrating clusters of trees, the roar of the seas, all audience to his passing through - a gypsy without a caravan.
Jubilation.
Voiceover: "I guess I just got up."
The flash of a match.
Ignition.
Michael de los Reyes is a history student in San Jose, CA. While handing coffee across counters, he dreams about where he'd travel to if he could manage his tips.