The Study of Leonard Hughes
8.06.2020
About a month ago Chad Einwalter and Mike Moehtar, the cinematographer and AC behind "Pantomiming" and "The Subject" contacted me with the idea of coming up with a new project for the three of us to work on together. Chad, still pleased with the working atmosphere on "The Subject", believed that we had begun to find a working stride, and he asked me to try and develop a new story to direct, with him and Mike behind the camera. Instead of simply coming up with a new idea for myself to direct, I suggested the three of us do a lengthened piece, broken into three acts and based around a specific theme, and that each of us take an act and run with it. By running with it I mean, write and direct. Chad took it a step further and suggested that we each do a piece that could be viewed seperately if so desired, but that would fit together to create a more complete story (much akin to the Glass saga as written by Salinger). When this idea was settled upon the three of us set to work to write our portion of the film. My assignment was Act II, which was projected to run at about 8-10 pages. Mike's assignment was Act I, projected to run around 5-7 pages. And Chad's assignment was Act III, coming it around 3-4 pages. I slacked on my portion of the story for the two weeks the three of us were supposed to be "working", but over the weekend I got my act together, did my prewriting work and came up with a story that had been germinating inside my head over the "work" period. The original draft of this story was absolutely horrible. I don't want to show it to anyone ever. But, I think it has improved since then. Just so you know, the theme of our film is "loneliness".
Never published post by Brock.
- posted by Brock @ 1:33 PM 0 comments
12.08.2005
Autumn Rain
Locked up inside, autumn rain torrent, forced in front of a TV screen
Viewing Japanese cartoons of violence. We saw in each hero, hard
Drinkers with eyes
Like puddles.
In the overexposed house, we glanced outside and caught
Among the darkness, dirty rainwater, rivers in our river rock bed,
A Radio! From the 1940’s.
Orange faceplate, brown wooden structure, arched like the pope’s hat,
A bit of warmth in the blackness of autumn’s menopausal downpour.
It was drowning. Wood bubbling with the water sprinkling.
Our black coats went on.
Hurry.
Outside, shoe skins boldly pressing on wet concrete and dirty oceans,
In the curbside groaning. Alone, like a solder’s corpse, we found it,
Bound it,
Lamented over it,
Chattered of varnish, polish, and returning it
To former glory.
No man left behind, no radio through which Orson Welles’ voice
Once breathed,
Left unaided.
We took it up, took it home, and cursed the artless souls of those,
Who originally trashed it.
Our eyes were keener, more refined. We strapped the radio into
The truck bed of our best friend, smiled, knowing we had saved it from,
autumn rain,
The Curbside of
Forgotten. The Radio we saved.
It lay in the back of his truck bed,
We never bought any varnish.
- posted by Brock @ 8:41 PM 2 comments
12.01.2005
A Porcelain Microwavable Drug Peddler
The mug is a sinister bastard,
Loitering on kitchen counter.
How can you trust something so hollow?
The mug’s white porcelain skin shines like veneer,
Wrapped round the mug’s porcelain exterior.
Painted pink flowers and swirls of red hearts,
The mug’s art,
Like a suit worn by a drug peddler.
Foremost among his sinful contents,
The mug holds in drunkenness, which you sip with
Your lips open wide. A million untold secrets jut out,
Giving birth to embarrassments,
Made of broken painted glassware. You do have self-control,
It should keep you on the narrow road.
Yet! (Sometimes) the mug,
Gives you the other drug.
This one perks your heavy lids right up.
Adrenaline gush begin,
As your heart ramps, spinning,
Like a computer tower fan.
On the countertop at night,
Painted pink and hearts clash against the dark,
Picked out like glowing fish,
On that sandy bottom of hid sea. You with the frosty mug,
Brew at that breakfast nook table.
Meanwhile in Columbia,
The white suited drug lord rushes amongst the Trees.
He hopes the marines
Don’t steal his expensive white powder.
He runs from bullets, but his death rattle comes from sanctions,
Signed in congress (twice every hour).
And the porcelain peddler,
Topped with hops, chemicals and barleys,
Goes on to rip a black hole,
Through your once virgin liver.
The mug does it without ever a shot,
Yes, he does it without the slightest of a doleful glower.
- posted by Brock @ 7:51 PM 3 comments
11.29.2005
Ode to the Bay Area
In the second story of the
City Lights bookstore,
I am surrounded by Kerouac’s marijuana and
Ginsberg’s pronouncements of opium,
When I begin this poem. I look out the window.
In San Francisco,
The streets are congested.
Hindu, Maltese, Lebanese and Northern Italian
In leather. I inhale sharkskin from the Cuban
Walking next to my friend. The Spanish
Are spewing obscenities in the streets,
Steaming where the French under gas-lamps are laughing.
I am gawking at blacks with teeth like white meat in the dim
Bazaar. I see Russians in black coats, buttoned so tight that
Lenin’s corpse might be buttoned inside,
Whispering to all passersby.
Take in SBC Park,
A brick stack, smoky and metallic,
Structurally skeletal with gaps in its skin,
Showing clumps of fans cheering,
They are organs pulsing within.
Picture Alcatraz,
Where memories of con artist, bootleggers, Tommy
Gun squeezers and raincoat escapists once breathed.
I’m told that in the 1920’s,
Magicians visited this place frequently.
They liked to be locked in shackled aquariums
Filled with water,
Have needles shoved down their throats,
And for top dollar,
Throw up fire.
I’m on Columbus Street!
The smells peak in,
Garlic burning sweet and foul,
Mixed with artichoke like cologne in a bar prominent
With gin. Herein, the wine is woody, the diner’s conversation
Abrupt, violent.
I have to walk out to the misty streets for silence.
Chinatown. Take a whiff and try
Not to drown in soy.
Instead of chicken, I order the broth,
Getting tentacles and wide-eyed heads.
Best of all, the eels.
Eat their skin, my friends tell me. A rare delicacy!
It peels.
I am interrupted
(thankfully)
By a trumpet blubbering. Outside the street is cleared,
Where a limo follows behind a marching band.
A black suited Buddhist throws out strips of papers,
Prayers scattering the streets like black pepper on steak.
In the second story of City Lights,
Where I hide from my native urbanity,
My comrade asks me if
This metropolis has rewarded me
With some stimulation. Why sure, I exclaim!
Just read this poem.
- posted by Brock @ 1:10 PM 8 comments
8.29.2005
by Brock H. Brown
FADE IN:
The sound of a jet engine ROARS into existence.
SMASH CUT TO:
INT. BOXING RING – STANTAFORD MATCH
A DEFT PUNCH TO THE JAW! GREGG STANTAFORD goes down like a ton of bricks. Standing over him is BOLIE ROBINSON (25), a chiseled man oozing formidability and radiant anger. The drunken SHOUTS of the crowd obviously favor him.
KNOCKOUT! Ladies and gents, your champ –
Bolie Robinson, THE EVERLAST!
CUT TO:
Bolie is still in the ring. In front of him stands a NERDY REPORTER and at his side is his striking, curvaceous GIRLFRIEND. She obviously doesn’t want to be there.
Bolie, you’re young, rich and have a
fantastic career. 5-0! Your next opponent,
“Dancin’ Jackson Lavigne” is a firebrand.
Thoughts on the outcome?
Bolie smiles like this is the question he’s been waiting for.
Look at me. Look. Two things separate me
from Lavigne, two things that I will now
rattle off to you so you can print them
in your little paper. One – Dancin’ Jackson
doesn’t like hurting people. The difference?
I do… In fact, I wish the gloves weren’t
there so I could feel the blood on my bare
knuckles. Decadent.
Bolie’s Girlfriend tugs his arm embarrassedly.
Bolie – Please…
He shrugs her off.
Two – When this fight is over, I will be
remembered. Dancin’ Jackson will not.
Why? Simple: I have the drive to live
forever. That’s something my father
bestowed to me when he died, forgotten by
my all too soon remarried mother. I don’t
want to suffer that. It sickens me. I am
unbeaten in the ring, “The Everlast”. When
I’m dead, there will be two constants in
this world: My legend…and Time itself.
THE NARRATOR (V.O.)
Enter Bolie Robinson, a man and his foolish
challenge.
We pull out to THE NARRATOR standing just outside the ring. A smile rests upon his face – yet, unlike Bolie’s ego-borne grin, this smile seems borne of foreknowledge. The Narrator gestures to the ring behind him.
What Bolie fails to understand is that
his own arrogance will cost him the very
thing he seeks out, the very thing he
lusts. He may be the greatest fighter in
the world, but out there lurks a figure most
unique, a figure with an even greater record
to his name. Yes, Bolie is about to learn
what a real match means.
BLACKOUT
Bolie’s entrance into the ring WIPES the black away. He prances around on the balls of his feet like a conqueror already vindicated.
Before him stands DANCIN’ JACKSON LAVIGNE (26), a wad of a man who glistens with sweat and fear. His lip twitches and the two touch gloves. They walk to their corners… the bell RINGS! The match begins. Dancin’ Jackson turns around from his corner to face Bolie, only, he is Dancin’ Jackson no more. In his place resides a STRUNG OUT, SINEWY and wry YOUNG MAN with a devilish grin playing upon his face. He is clearly no match for Bolie.
Bolie does a double take. Shaking his head, he approaches the center of the ring. The Young Man does so as well. Confused, Bolie can only dance away from the Young Man’s playful swipes. Oddly, he is toying with Bolie. After a few seconds, Bolie gets sick of it and goes in for the K.O.
EXTREME CLOSE UP – BOLIE’S FIST
He PULLS BACK for the kill. He lets it RIP!
With a deft SMACK, the K.O. punch comes to rest in the Young Man’s stomach. Sweat utterly EXPLODES around them! –-
But the Young Man remains standing. Bolie BLANCHES! The Young Man’s own wrist snaps back for the follow-up. Only, with his action, time itself seems to speed up, to blaze forward like grease lightning. A rocket, his uppercut squarely nails a defenseless Bolie on the side of the face.
EXTREME CLOSE UP – POCKET WATCH
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time moves forward.
CUT TO:
Bolie is down for the count. He tries to shake the blow off. This is when he reaches up to the side of his face to look for blood and finds none. Instead, a jagged scar rests upon his once blemish-free face.
Oh man! That was tough to watch. Bolie
Robinson hasn’t seemed to recover from
his fight years ago with “Dancin’ Jackson”.
The once undefeated champ now seems sluggish
against foe “Bobby One-Two”. Sad to say, his
age is showing.
As we can see, Bolie is indeed older. A new opponent stands over him now, grinning. SUPERIMPOSED over this new opponent though is the visage of the Young Man. He grins knowingly to Bolie underneath layers of muscle and flesh. Bolie twists his head around the ring frantically searching for a familiar face. Next to the ring, his girlfriend shakes her head sadly. Still beautiful, age is starting to show on her as well.
Bolie gets up and dances back a little bit. He tries to get space between himself and the Young Man, who has now resurfaced in place of the Opponent. The Young Man prowls across the ring like a jungle predator. He traps Bolie against the ropes and goes in for a FLURRY of punches. FLASH BULBS GO OFF WITH EACH PUNCH! A final smack keeps Bolie against the ropes.
EXTREME CLOSE UP – POCKETWATCH
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time marches on.
CUT TO:
The REFEREE has pulled the Young Man away from Bolie. Bolie is reeling.
I tell ya folks this breaks my heart.
Bolie Robinson, once a legend in the ring,
now chases after lost glory. With an assault
like that, it shouldn’t be long before time
catches up with him.
By the ring’s side, his girlfriend’s eyes glisten with tears unshed. She has now aged considerably. And Bolie has as well. Older, sagging, he is no longer the formidable man we once knew. Defeat is imminent.
On the other side of the ring, The Young Man catches his breath. Oddly, with each breath he sucks in, time seems to speed up. The world darkens. And then with each exhale comes the overcrank –- things slow down. A glow is re-infused in the surroundings. The world seemingly breathes with him. Bolie shakes his head dizzily as The Young Man strides up to him.
Tick tock Bolie. Heh, heh…
Bolie’s eyes widen.
It was then Bolie realized that this was
no ordinary opponent. Time had caught up
with him. And his humbling wouldn’t be far
behind.
Bolie jerks forward in a final assault against the eternally young man, against TIME. Blow after blow lands on that smirk. But with each hit Time remains, and Bolie gets a little bit older. TIME finally pushes Bolie away and snaps back for the K.O. Things slow down. The ring darkens. Time glows with the halo of photograph snaps. Then, he unleashes the hit.
EXTREME CLOSE UP – BOLIE’S EYE
The glove approaches!
BOLIE’S P.O.V.
The ring spins around dizzily.
EXTREME CLOSE UP – POCKETWATCH
…TICK…
INSERT: Bolie stands over a defeated opponent.
EXTREME CLOSE UP – POCKETWATCH
…TOCK… We spin away from the watch towards…
SMASH CUT TO:
Bolie lands with an OOMPH against the ring floor. The match is over. His weary eyes stare up at the ceiling.
Bolie Robinson. “The Everlast”.
EXT. RING – NIGHT
A broken and aged man exits the ring. His girlfriend is nowhere to be seen. At the far end of the street, a gang of kids HOOP and HOLLER for the latest up and coming boxer to defeat Bolie. Bolie takes this in somberly. The Narrator casually steps next to him. Bolie doesn’t notice.
(gesturing to Bolie)
Time taught Bolie a lesson in that match;
he taught him that no man can outlast
the effects of age, of the years that
eventually pile themselves on.
Time steps out of the building and hails a Taxi. Bolie watches him with hungry eyes as the car pulls away. Out of his side window, Time/The Young Man, smiles at Bolie, cruelly.
No man can outlive Time, even in legend.
Bolie Robinson, “The Everlast” learned that
in his match against Time. He had defeated
some of the greatest boxers in his youth,
but it was his age that defeated him.
The Narrator steps away from Bolie. The Match is truly over.
- posted by Brock @ 1:08 PM 1 comments
5.28.2005
"IL DIRITTO UOMO"
(THE STRAIGHT MAN)
By
Joshua J. Provost
Fade In:
EXT. ITALIAN CITY – LATE AFTERNOON
A charming Italian city is bathed in golden light as the sun descends towards the horizon. The old world and the new reside in harmony.
EXT. OUTDOOR café – LATE AFTERNOON
The café patio is surrounded by vines meandering through lattice work. The lush growth and striped awning reduce the hustle and bustle of the city to a dull rumble. Golden light cuts through the lattice, casting long crossed shadows of lattice mixed with dancing wistful shadows of vines swaying in the gentle afternoon wind.
In a shaded corner, a lone man lounges peacefully, hands clasped on his stomach, resting his eyes, teetering on the edge of sleep. PIERRO, age 62, is dressed in the finest ivory suit and matching fedora. A crimson handkerchief adorns his breast pocket; an exquisitely maintained moustache graces his upper lip.
A WAITER, clad in black and white, stands attentively by the door. A tall, slender man enters the café. LEONARDO, age 35, wears a dark blue suit, impeccable pressed, lacking even a single wrinkle.
Leonardo chooses the seat opposite Pierro, more directly exposed to the dimming sunlight that chases low across the patio. As Leonardo sits, the chair scrapes against the brick surface, awakening Pierro. Righting himself, he smiles at the sight of the younger man.
PIERRO
Leonardo, e voi. Buon giorno. Buon giorno. (Leonardo, it's you. Good day. Good day)
Leonardo is respectfully amiable, yet staid. His demeanor is no match for the gregariousness of old man, who seeks to accommodate the new arrival.
PIERRO (TO WAITER)
Espresso. Due espressos. (Espresso. Two espressos.)
Pleasantries completed, Leonardo crosses his legs and allows his thoughts to drift. He appears to study his surroundings, as though counting the checks of the tablecloth, or the wooden slats of the lattice, yet his thoughts are far removed from this place.
He is brought back to reality when the waiter arrives at the table and sets the concentrated coffee beverage down, first before Pierro, then before Leonardo. Pierro slides a BROWN FOLDER across and descends to seriousness of his companion. It sits untouched in the center of the table.
PIERRO
Se non potete raggiungere un uomo, raggiungere suo famiglia. (If you cannot reach a man, reach his family.)
Indeed, Pierro betrays his capacity for great congeniality, and for utter ruthlessness. He retrieves a PLAIN BROWN ENVELOPE from his inner suit pocket and places it atop the folder. Leonardo gazes intently at Pierro before pulling the folder and envelope closer to him. He nonchalantly tucks the envelope in his inner suit pocket, briefly revealing a holstered handgun. He remains silent.
Leonardo reaches for the espresso. His large hands dwarf the tiny cup. He sips and turns his attention to the lattice work once again.
LEONARDO (V.O.)
My parents named me after Leonardo da Vinci. Like da Vinci, I often practice my art at the bidding of others.
FADE TO:
INT. CAR – NIGHT
Leonardo is behind the wheel of a stylish, yet not flashy EUROPEAN CAR. It cannot be determined if he is intently focused on the road, or utterly unaware he is operating a motor vehicle.
LEONARDO (V.O.)
Each contract I accept is an opportunity to apply the principles of fine art. Light. Color. Form. Texture. Detail. The execution of each contract is influenced by all of these things.
Leonardo shifts his attention to the butter cream leather passenger seat. On it sits the BROWN FOLDER. As he drives, he flips open the front cover to reveal a BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPH paperclipped to a dozen or so other documents. The photograph is of a radiant young woman, with dark, curly hair. She is smiling.
Leonardo closes the folder and turns back to the road. He is empty.
FADE TO:
INT. HOTEL ROOM – NIGHT
Leonardo sits alone at a desk in his near-dark hotel room. His clothing has been pared down to a simple ribbed tank-style undershirt, a tan leather double-holster, and his suit pants. Moonlight trickles through a sheer window covering, but it is a dim lamp that illuminates the materials laid before him on the desk.
Leonardo shuffles the documents before him, moving around the maps, blueprints, and reports as though assembling a puzzle. All things having been arranged to his satisfaction, he pauses to look at the totality of his work. It is then that he notices an edge of the PHOTOGRAPH protruding from behind a street map.
LEONARDO (V.O.)
When Medici contracted da Vinci to paint the Mona Lisa, da Vinci imparted subtle beauty and grace to an ordinary woman.
Leonardo draws the photograph to the center of the desk and observes it intently, as though he expects the young girl to guide his next step. He traces the playful curls of her hair and the graceful line of her neck.
LEONARDO (V.O.)
My contract involves a woman who already has all of these things. A masterpiece is not something to trifle with.
CUT TO:
Leonardo is in the bathroom standing before the mirror. BARBASOL shaving cream covers most of his face as he shaves.
CUT TO:
Leonardo sits on the edge of his bed, cleaning his guns. He slams a clip into the gun, and tests the action.
CUT TO:
Leonardo is again in the bathroom standing before the mirror. He has put on a clean shirt. With great care and precision, he attends to his necktie.
FADE TO:
INT. CAR – NIGHT
Leonardo is again behind the wheel of the car. He looks intently at the road.
FADE TO:
INT. GROCERY STORE – NIGHT
From Leonardo's POV, we see the quaint, family-run grocery store. At the counter, the ATTENDANT looks bored, and looks up only occasionally to watch the stores only two customers, a MOTHER and her YOUNG SON.
LEONARDO (V.O.)
Da Vinci did not limit himself to paintings. He was a master of many forms. Sculpture. Science. Invention.
With great focus, Leonardo makes his way towards a door on the back wall of the store. With his left hand, he wrests the gun from its holster on his right side.
The Mother gasps at the sight of the weapon and grabs her son. She is struck with fear. Without hesitation, Leonardo brings his right index finger to his lips, insistent on silence. The Mother is assured and calmed by Leonardo's cool confidence.
LEONARDO (V.O.)
If I were free of contracts, I could practice my art in any form that I desired.
Approaching the door, Leonardo pulls the second gun from its holster. He kicks open the door.
CUT TO:
INT. STORE ROOM – NIGHT
The store room is dark except for a single bright light hanging in the center of the room. Pierro and his THREE SONS are startled by the disruption, and turn from their game of DOMINOS to see Leonardo with firearms drawn.
LEONARDO
Scuzi. (Excuse me.)
Pierro scrambles backwards, disturbing the table and dominos. His sons reach for their weapons. The surprise appearance has left them helpless. Without a hint of hesitation Leonardo artfully fires four quick shots. It is all that is required to kill all four men, who flail in a haze of flying dominos. They all fall to the ground as dominos bounce all around them.
SCREEN BLACK
THE END
- posted by Joshua Provost @ 11:44 PM 0 comments
5.03.2005
By Brock H. Brown
FADE IN,
EXT. DESERT – DAY
A hot, scorching desert: we pan up to see an UNKNOWN GUNFIGHTER running towards us. He holds his GUN out, constantly turning around as if someone were following him.
Finally, he trips up. Harshly, he lands on the ground. Hacking and wheezing, the GUNFIGHTER laughs silently to himself and looks up. Only now does he see buildings before him – a town!
EXT. TOWN – DAY
Inside, the town is deserted. The HOWLING of the wind gently whistles through the streets, seemingly underscoring the lack of human presence. The GUNFIGHTER strolls cautiously among the ruins.
INT. BARBER SHOP – DAY
He looks inside and finds no one.
INT. BLACKSMITH – DAY
The bellows are silent and the fire gently burns.
INT. BAKERY – DAY
Inside, gray ash and deteriorating brickwork is all that remains.
EXT. SHERIFF’S OFFICE – DAY
Finally, the GUNFIGHTER approaches the Sheriff’s office. With a deep breath he enters…
INT. SHERIFF’S OFFICE – DAY
…And surprisingly finds another man lounging at the Sheriff’s desk, enjoying a drink.
Howdy.
GUNFIGHTER
Hello. Where is everyone?
The Mystery Man smiles at this question.
Ain’t you ever heard the tale of this
here town?
The Gunfighter’s silence indicates that clearly, he hasn’t.
Weeeeelll…pull yourself up a chair and
share a drink with me. It all began ‘bout
a year ago. Folks round these parts were
being hassled. Hassled by a gang of bandits.
(BEAT)
These banditos, they were a cruel bunch.
Took the town supplies, raided the local
businesses, and took advantage the local
barmaids. They were nasty. Aaaaaaan…one
day, they got gutsy. One day they went
and blew the head off the blacksmith’s son.
Then they went and hung the Baker and his
wife, demanding that the town double their
supply requests from the other towns so the
bandits could have even more on their next
visit.
(BEAT)
The townsfolk came to their Sheriff…a real
stupid man – and asked for protection. He
was a cowardly man though, this Sheriff,
and he was hurt by the plight of the people.
The bandits and their cruelty taught him a
lesson though. He waited, waited for days.
Waited for the ruckus to quiet down. And
then –
BEGIN FLASHBACK
INT. BARBER SHOP – DAY
A shadowy figure stands at the door, aiming a gun.
INT. BLACKSMITH – DAY
In the blacksmith’s place, the shadowy figure emerges among the bellows with a gun in hand.
INT. METAL SHOP – DAY
The shadowy figure stalks among the equipment.
He killed everyone in this town.
END FLASHBACK
Why?
The Mystery Man smiles glumly and pours another round.
A town’s easier to protect dead then
alive. He just went ahead and cut off
the one resource the bandits needed to
get their supplies – a terrorized people.
The bandits were sickened. They left
and never returned.
The GUNFIGHTER leans in.
And the Sheriff? What of him?
The Mystery Man smiles and kicks up his feet on the table. We see the shinning STAR BADGE of the sheriff on his shirt.
BEGIN FLASHBACK
INT. BLACKSMITH – DAY
We pan up and see the Mystery Man holding the gun. He wrinkles his nose and pulls the hammer of the gun back.
He lived.
FADE OUT,
- posted by Brock @ 9:31 PM 1 comments
