PIERRE and the AMBIGUITIES – A Filmscript - 4. Part 4 – Scared

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[Part 4 – Scared – I: Dappled Shakespeare]

EXT. ABOVE PEAK OF SLIDE MOUNTAIN – MORNING – TRACKING

A traveling aerial shot hovers on the smoky-blue peak in the near distance. As it slows and tilts down, the flat stone of the summit is bathed in spiky shadows from the nearby trees. Two figures in loose clothing crest the mountain top.

 

EXT. PEAK OF SLIDE MOUNTAIN

RENSLOW LEPINE looks collected as he inspects the flat stone of the summit and the view. He wears a light linen suit and a straw hat. REDBURN, dressed the same but with his jacket slung over his shoulder and shirtsleeves rolled up, follows with a picnic basket.

 

DISSOLVE TO:

PASSAGE OF TIME:

 

The day and its warmth comes to fullness as BIRDSONG and insect CALLS enter into siesta stillness.

 

EXT. PEAK OF SLIDE MOUNTAIN – NOON

A picnic cloth is spread. RENSLOW LEPINE and REDBURN lounge on it with bare feet and heads, and open shirts in the full sunshine. Redburn uncorks a bottle of red wine and pours a glass for both of them. He hands one to his guest.

 

REDBURN

Offer a toast, my country swain.

 

LEPINE

To…. To perfect days, like those captured

in literature.

 

They clink; drink; settle. Redburn tosses a roll to Lepine, who catches it, then extracts dishes full of snack items from the basket.

 

REDBURN (CONT’D)

(distracted)

Do you like it here?

 

LEPINE

After the strenuous hike up Slide’s slopes, this is ideal.

 

Both men recline, nosh and offer shy, sun-squinted smiles to one another.

 

LEPINE (CONT’D)

Would it be boorish or bold to speak of writing at a moment like this?

 

REDBURN

That depends – whose writing?

 

LEPINE

Yours.

 

REDBURN

Then, neither boorish nor bold – but – boring. How about the Bard?

 

LEPINE

Not so quickly, Guy. I wanted to ask what women mean in your books.

 

REDBURN

Women?

 

LEPINE

It seems to me your female characters all exist as analogy. Fayaway as an idealized young woman; Yillah as your muse, your calling to create; while Hautia is the specter and menace of society’s demand on men like us to conform and produce fleshy offspring, and not immortal ones in the guise of art.

 

REDBURN

(swallows)

You amaze me, Renslow Lepine. No one has ever summarized my work better to my face.

 

LEPINE

Yes, even secrets provide all keys to understanding. Your male characters seem much more developed and nuanced.

 

REDBURN

You feel my women lack soul?

 

LEPINE

Not ‘soul,’ but then again, your sea novels are about the life of men on ships and leaning upon one another on hostile South Sea islands. It’s only natural that in such settings, the feminine sex is shown in more abstract terms.

 

REDBURN

(smiles)

Nice way of speaking you have, Renslow. Truth is, I think you are correct, that’s why my new book is set on land, and heavily peopled with women.

 

LEPINE

Country women, or city women?

 

REDBURN

Ah-ha! You ask the most astute questions, for in this new book I wish to juxtapose bucolic ‘innocence’ against urban ‘suave.’ I hope the contrast strikes a balance in the reader’s mind.

 

LEPINE

Fascinating. However, speaking of ‘urban suave,’ what about Felix Akker?

 

REDBURN

(nearly defensive)

What about him?

 

LEPINE

Does the man love you?

 

REDBURN

I believe – no, correction – I know that Felix is possessive of me, but he is a collector, and sometimes I feel about as interesting to him as one of his mounted specimens; I’m just another beetle with his pin in my back.

 

LEPINE

He is a powerful man to be ‘collected’ by, but I fear you have studiously avoided answering the obvious next question of mine.

 

Redburn shows self-protectiveness via a cunning smile.

 

REDBURN

And how can a man avoid a question not

yet asked?

 

LEPINE

(drops the bull)

Do you love him?

 

REDBURN

(smile goes; honest)

I did at one time, but where there is no equanimity, no room for love is left.

 

LEPINE

(sly glance at his glass)

So, your heart is currently unspoken for?

 

REDBURN

(swallows)

Currently. Is yours?

 

LEPINE

Yes, currently it’s free. But perhaps, not

for long.

 

Lepine rises on his knees and refills Redburn’s glass. Renslow and Redburn's love theme MUSIC is introduced and slowly gains momentum through the following scene. ^[5]

 

LEPINE (CONT’D)

Your turn for a toast.

 

Lepine sets the bottle down and resettles right next to his host. Redburn pretends to look the landscape over for his inspiration, but his gaze settles easily on Lepine.

 

REDBURN

To…. To a quote and a song:

’The poor soul sat sighing by a

sycamore tree….’

 

LEPINE

‘Her hand on her bosom, her head on

his knee….’

 

REDBURN & LEPINE

‘So, sing willow, willow, willow, all of ye.’

 

They clink and sip with eyes locked. Redburn blushes and grins.

 

REDBURN

I am sorry. There is something about being in a place like this, with a great heart like yours, that puts me in mind of poetry.

 

LEPINE

Of Shakespeare?

 

REDBURN

Of Shakespeare.

 

LEPINE

There are many fine quotes from Othello….

(strokes Redburn’s cheek)

‘The robbed that smile, steals something from the thief….’

 

REDBURN

‘He robs himself that spends a

bootless grief.’

(removes Lepine’s hand)

A smile is the vehicle of every ambiguity.

 

LEPINE

(saddened)

Do you think I am ambiguous?

 

REDBURN

Sometimes I feel very sad. Our society crushes even the clearest references of men loving men into a heterogeneous set of lies. The Bard wrote his love sonnets to a man, dedicated them to Mr. W. H., edited and published them in his lifetime, and yet, they must obfuscate and make up crazy mistruths that all men wrote to their ‘girls’ as if young men! They say they like simplicity, they say they like the obvious solutions, but when it comes to us and whom we love, they will move heaven and earth to explain it away as a ‘mistake.’ When will they believe us? When will they stop crushing our love in the vice of their own self-hatred?

 

LEPINE

Is that the sort of thing you think of on a day such as this?

 

REDBURN

I am sorry. Is it too sad?

 

LEPINE

Very sad, but provocative too. You make me think of Iago. Why else would that man betray and want to destroy Othello? There seems only one plausible reason, but they won’t let it be seen or discussed in the open of day.

 

REDBURN

He betrayed The Moor because his deep love for the man turned cancerously into betrayal.

 

LEPINE

(whispers; lost in himself)

Betrayal – is that not the fear at the heart of every man who loves another as he?

 

Redburn gently takes his hand.

 

REDBURN

Country lovers like us do not betray one another. ‘The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans….’

 

LEPINE

‘Her salt tears fell from her and softened

the stones….’

 

REDBURN & LEPINE

‘So, sing willow, willow, willow,

all ye tones.’

 

A HIGH SHOT

Slowly rotates and descends from over their heads. As they proceed to quote and woo one another with Shakespeare, the men make a series of ever more intimate movements: they interlace the fingers of both hands, outstretch their arms, move around slowly so they can kneel face to face, let their hands drop and allow their torsos to come into contact; their hands go behind waists, and faces draw together.

 

LEPINE

‘This look of thine will hurl my soul

from heaven.’

 

REDBURN

‘Demand me nothing: what you know,

you know.’

 

LEPINE

‘This sorrow’s heavenly; it strikes where

it doth love.’

 

REDBURN

‘There’s magic in the web.’

 

Their cheeks brush against one another’s; lips turn to be only millimeters apart.

 

LEPINE

‘They met so near with their lips, their breaths embraced.’

 

Redburn brushes his mouth against Lepine’s.

 

REDBURN

‘Tis within ourselves that we are thus

or thus.’

 

He kisses Lepine tenderly, and does not stop. Soon, passionate heat arises as they continue. Hands grip shoulders, backs and slip down to waistlines. Redburn’s touch roams the small of Lepine’s back and pulls his shirt out of his trousers. Lepine slackens his hold on Redburn, but Redburn pulls him in tightly. In another moment, Lepine begins to drop his hands by his side and go limp. Redburn carefully loosens his hold and uses his hands on Lepine’s shoulders to push that man back a bit. He sees unspeakable sadness on Lepine’s face.

 

REDBURN

Are you scared?

 

LEPINE

Yes…. I never….

 

REDBURN

It’s all right. Oh, it’s going to be all right.

 

Redburn pecks Lepine’s lips, then guides that man to lay his head on his shoulder. Redburn rocks him and soothes his hair like a child to let the man know he is safe. A tear falls from Redburn’s eye as he shushes the crying author in his embrace.

 

[Part 4 – II: Isabelle’s Guitar]

EXT. ROAD TO SADDLE MEADOWS VILLAGE – EVENING

PIERRE stalks up the road with purpose. With a cloak and broad-brimmed hat, he appears nervous about being seen. The young man’s disheveled; exponentially more stressed than in the morning after his sleepless night.

 

IN FRONT OF LUCY’S HOUSE

Pierre slows unconsciously, and looks for movement from the premises. Seeing none, he lingers his glance on the front windows. Here a stone and leaded-glass bay protrudes in Jacobean style. Deep window boxes are planted with curly leaf ivy, and some of the tendrils enter the house via absent windowpanes in the lower corners.

 

PIERRE

(mumbles)

Lucy….

 

Pierre lowers the brim of his hat and moves on.

 

EXT. ULVER FARM

From the road, the fenced-in property looks quiet. The dairy barn has a covered work area outside, and this buttery is scoured clean and dry. New tin wear glints like silver on hooks and racks against the wall. This work area has its white picket gate to the road, but PIERRE walks past and goes on to a similar gate before the path to the house. He glances over his shoulder and then up and down the road before opening it and moving quickly to the house. He pauses at the door but does not knock. He enters.

           

INT. ULVER’S FRONT HALL

PIERRE closes the door behind him and listens. His hands nervously come up and rub one another. He steps to the open parlor door.

 

INT. ULVER’S PARLOR

From ISABELLE’s perspective sitting on the sofa, PIERRE’s peek around the doorframe is shy, then his standing in the door. The young woman is visibly shaken; he looks formidable in his dark cloak and hat.

 

ISABELLE

You have come, brother.

 

He removes his hat and then his cloak, placing them on a chair near the door.

 

PIERRE

I have come.

 

Isabelle pats the seat next to her, and he slowly moves toward her.

 

PIERRE (CONT’D)

But – how could you and I be blood?

 

ISABELLE

My story is a mysterious one, but I will relay it plainly. Sit.

 

Pierre does, trying to keep his distance. During the telling, Isabelle reaches out to calm the continual roil of Pierre’s hands in his lap. The moment she touches him, his energy changes towards her.

 

ISABELLE (CONT’D)

At age eight, my maman died. Mysteriously, I was sent for to live in America. My mother had always told me my father was an important American; one who regretted leaving my mother for family obligations. She said he had loved her and I very much, and he bore that out. So, as a little girl I came to live in a large house with other children about twenty miles from here, and our papa would visit me about once a week. He would speak so proudly of you – of you carrying the Glendemming name.

 

PIERRE

Why do you not have our father’s name?

 

ISABELLE

(demurs)

Society will not allow it, and it makes me feel sad – it makes me feel incomplete and so alone in the world.

 

PIERRE

I know now I carry the name by happenstance only; that my father never loved my mother, nor she him; and though married by society’s will, it was a sham – it was a disgrace. But tell me, how came you to live here?

 

ISABELLE

Fate, fortune, I do not know which. Delly needed care as she grew heavy with child, and I was selected by chance from the orphanage to come live with her and care for her. But now I am frightened. There are whispers that she is to be sent away, and I do not want to go back to that madhouse again. And yet, even though I live with the Ulvers, I am isolated. It is just me and my guitar.

 

She gestures mysteriously to a dark corner of the room, and Pierre can just make out something leaning in the shadows.

 

BEGIN ‘ISABELLE’S BUYING THE GUITAR’ FLASHBACK:

■ During the following voiceover, Isabelle sees, buys and plays the guitar as described.

 

ISABELLE (V.O.)

One day there came to the house a peddler. On his wagon he had a guitar, an old guitar, yet a very pretty one. I bought it and took it back to my room alone. There, as I sat on my bed and laid it across my lap, a strange humming in my heart seemed to prophesy the hummings of the instrument. I murmured to it; I sung to it, very lowly, very softly. I could hardly hear myself, but I changed the modulations of my humming, and of my singings, and murmured low and soft. Presently I heard a sound: sweet and low beyond all telling was the dulcet, sudden reverberation. I clasped my hands; the guitar was speaking to me; the dear guitar was singing to me. Then I sung and murmured to it with still a different modulation, and once more it answered me from a different string. The guitar was human. The guitar taught me the secret of the guitar; the guitar learned me to play the guitar. No music master have I ever had but it. It sings to me as I do to it – we have made loving heart-friends of the other.

 

END ‘ISABELLE’S BUYING THE GUITAR’ FLASHBACK.

Pierre is astounded at this story and casts nearly frightened looks into the corner where the instrument lurks.

 

ISABELLE

It knows all my past history, and sometimes plays to me the mystic visions of the confused large house I never name. Sometimes it brings to me bird song from the air, sometimes it stirs in me rapturous pulsations, the feel and delight of which are both experienced and yet unknown to me.

 

PIERRE

(confused)

The guitar…plays itself?

 

ISABELLE

Aye, Brother Pierre. More so, but for me – and perhaps for both of us – it reveals all wonders imaginable and unspeakable. Wonders translated by mysterious melody pulsing through the guitar. Bring it, and perhaps you will hear for yourself.

 

REDBURN (V.O.)

Entrapped, lost, as one wanders among moving innumerable dancing lights, Pierre heard the command: ‘Bring me the guitar.’ Starting from his enchantment, he gazed about the darkening chamber wondering where time had taken itself. He went to the shadow-laden corner and brought the instrument to the girl.

 

Pierre sits again, and Isabelle lays the guitar across her lap.

 

ISABELLE

Now listen. The guitar shall sing you the sequel, if ye are able to hear it.

 

REDBURN (V.O.)

The long dark showers of locks shadowed over the guitar in her lap. Her hands caressed the wooden parts. ^[6] Slowly the room grew populous with sounds: melodious, mournful and wonderful music like columns of smoke rising and twirling as fireflies alight through summer twilight. These were sounds whose glow and appearance to sight matched the music they made to the emotions.

 

PIERRE

Oh, girl of mystery, speak to me if you can. Speak to me if you be a thing that’s mortal.

 

REDBURN (V.O.)

In his heart, the refrain sang:

 

”Mystery of Isabelle,

Mystery of womanhood –

Mystery of mysteries!”

 

The guitar solo melds into passionate strains. Pierre pulls Isabelle up by her hands, the guitar is set aside and silent.

 

REDBURN (CONT’D – V.O.)

Pierre gripped Isabelle tenderly by both shoulders; the enchantment was broken. Isabelle looked up with large, enigmatic brown eyes. So then in the sound and silence of the twilight gathering about their heads. ^[7]

 

EXT. ROAD FROM SADDLE MEADOWS VILLAGE – NIGHT

PIERRE is on his way home again with his mind full of Isabelle’s sorrow.

 

IN FRONT OF LUCY’S HOUSE

Pierre slows unconsciously; perhaps he wants to go in. Instead, he stops and stares at the ivy vines where they enter the house.

 

BEGIN ‘LUCY’S IVY’ FLASHBACK:

 

■ INT. LUCY’S PARLOR – DAY

The room is jovial, with seating along the bay window. Pierre sits here fresh-faced and alone; happy sunlight animates dust particles in the air about him. He picks at the living and fully leafed ivy tendrils coming through the window and laughs, allowing his eyes to trace them down to the floor and over to where they wrap themselves around Lucy’s painting easel. It is set off to the side and at an angle to capture the natural light; her paints and pastels litter a worktable next to it, and ivy grows here too. A black cloth covers the work on the stand. Pierre glances to check that no one is coming, then he rises, walks to it and lifts a corner of the cloth. Some form of disbelief shakes him, and he slowly pulls the cloth off to revel a fine portrait of himself. The young man is struck by how much alike he and the chair portrait of his father are.

 

PIERRE

(softly to himself)

So like the man hidden away in my closet, it pains me to see you. Are we the same person, only separated by a generation?

 

END ‘LUCY’S IVY’ FLASHBACK.

 

Pierre stands on the road. A close up slowly cuts itself with shots of Lucy’s window.

 

PIERRE (CONT’D)

I know what I must do for Isabelle. Lucy is my muse of the natural world; the things extant for me. But Isabelle with her guitar is muse to my immortal longing, and my internally brooding world. The easel is blessed by Nature Herself, but the instrument of passion plays itself – and how mystical is consciousness playing at its own thoughts. My soul is touched by both, however, one must win me in this fickle world, and for Isabelle to succeed, it’s Lucy who must lose.

 

He turns on his heels and runs home.

 

[Part 4 – III: Lonely Writer]

INT. REDBURN’S COUNTRY HOME, BEDROOM – NIGHT

The door to his room is open, and REDBURN sits at his desk with a lit lamp.

 

A PANNING SHOT

Over his shoulder shows he is working on Pierre. He writes hurriedly, but legibly:

 

”Pierre’s night was a long and

sleepless one….”

 

Redburn is startled; SARA is standing right off to his side in her nightgown and shawl.

 

SARA

Forgive me. I called your name several times—

 

REDBURN

It’s all right. Do you need anything?

 

SARA

(sad)

I ask too many favors from you as it is…

 

Redburn stands, looks to see if anyone else is around.

 

SARA (CONT’D)

…I feel a burden to your psyche.

 

REDBURN

(honest)

Maybe it is due to the late hour of night, or to something unknown, but you show that you are a person of great feeling, and, of well, empathy.

 

SARA

As do you, but…

 

She leans in and places her cheek close to his.

 

SARA (CONT’D)

…I can only say sinfully-free that Emily is lucky to have you for a brother.

 

She kisses his cheek, then makes for the door where she pauses.

 

SARA (CONT’D)

I wish I could call you the same.

 

Sara exits. Redburn stands still a moment, touching his cheek, then slowly lets his gaze falls on the pool of light his lamp casts on his work. He inhales a deep sigh and returns to his chair. He pulls up, picks up his pen, and starts writing right where he left off.

 

[Part 4 – IV: Second Breakfast with ‘Madam’]

INT. SADDLE MEADOWS DINING ROOM – MORNING

MARY GLENDEMMING makes no attempt to read her book this morning, which is tightly pressed between the bottom of her hand and the top of the table. Instead she stares straight ahead at the closed door with a steely and determined look on her face. The door flies open, and a disheveled PIERRE with bags under his eyes stands in the portal. He looks dreadful, having crease lines on his face from worry, and rumpled clothes that he obviously slept in last night. Mary gasps.

 

PIERRE

A fine ‘good morning’ you offer me, madam.

 

He leaves the door open and glares at her as he saunters over to the sideboard. She rises as he fills his plate.

 

MARY

Have you been out all night?

 

PIERRE

All night! The moon was my bedmate; the gravel my mattress.

 

He turns with his plate and stands next to her at the table near his seat.

 

MARY

Speak you ‘madam’ to me?

 

PIERRE

(scoffs)

No more games, Mother…. I can see by your sneer that I have offended you on many counts, and perhaps I have frightened you too—

 

She slaps him. Now he gasps, and in the aftermath slowly sets his plate down.

 

MARY

Call you me not your sister, Pierre?

 

Pierre shakes his head, frightened. Mary smiles and evilly lays her head against his chest. She takes his hand and places it on her breast.

 

MARY (CONT’D)

Do not be hostile to the one woman in the world who loves you, despite all else. Close your eyes Pierre.

 

She slips her hand along the front of his trousers.

 

MARY (CONT’D)

Keep no secrets from me, and all will be well between us.

 

She looks up, expecting to see her son is some state of stultified rapture, but all she sees is steely contempt. He lifts his hands slowly up until they are above their heads, and Mary breaks off her hold. In another moment, Pierre picks up his plate, jocularly sits at his place and eats. He eyes her with a bobbing fork and nearly full mouth.

 

PIERRE

You want to reprove me, don’t you, Mother?

 

MARY

I don’t think I know who you are.

 

PIERRE

Don’t you?! I am my father’s son, that’s who.

 

MARY

Pierre! What has gotten into you?!

 

PIERRE

I have resolved myself to a solution concerning Father’s ‘unfortunate.’ It is a simple one too.

 

Mary slips into a simmering rage at her powerlessness.

 

PIERRE (CONT’D)

(scoffs)

You are too proud to show what you feel towards me at this moment, aren’t you?

 

With his folk full of food and midway in the air to his mouth, his mother leans down to speak softly into his ear.

 

MARY

Beware of me, boy. There is no one in the world you should fear as much as me.

 

Pierre drops his fork nosily on the china, sending food everywhere. He slowly rises with freely bared contempt for his mother.

 

MARY (CONT’D)

You will marry Lucy Tartan, the girl of my choosing, or you will be penniless.

 

PIERRE

I had no say in my birth; I have no say in my inheritance – but, I can have a say in putting a family wrong to right.

 

He shoulders past, exits and roughly closes the door on her.

 

 

INT/EXT. SADDLE MEADOWS GREAT HALL/PORTICO – TRACKING

PIERRE briefly pauses in front of the closed doors to the dining room and glares at the official portrait of his father. DATES comes in.

 

PIERRE

Dates, I have packed my things. Have some men take them to the Inn this afternoon. Have them sent to my cousin Glen in New York.

 

DATES

Sir?

 

Pierre comes to face him man to man. He extends his hand and forces the butler to shake it.

 

PIERRE

Do it, old sir. And, thank you.

 

Dates is left alone to watch Pierre stride out into the perfect summer’s day and it’s blue sky as framed through the open pair of front doors.

 

ON THE PORTICO

Pierre’s face is unsettled as he pauses at the handrail, drinking in the sights of his home estate for the last time. As he turns to bound down the steps, he notes the sound of SOBBING coming from the open dining room window. He ignores it, mostly, as he breaks into an all-out run across the lawn.

 

 

_