THE WELL-LIT HOUSE by Anna Thomas
PLAYERS:
HE, assistant marketing coordinator with a past.
SHE, the chip on his shoulder.
SETTING:
Detached house on the end of Kennington Road, London. Around 2020.
NOTE:
This film must be photographed on black and white 35mm negative.
Aspect ratio: 1.19:1 Odds: 1:1
Audio mix: Mono
TITLE: THE WELL-LIT HOUSE
EXTREME WIDE SHOT: Blinds down in the north-facing kitchen. THE OVEN LIGHT flashes. THE HOOVER blasts. A productive Thursday. 1pm.
Sweating, HE casts a mean glance to the IPAD that rests on the side by the bubbling, hot stove: “A Manual for Working Abodely”
He curses the manual:
HE
Son-of-a-bitch.
Wiping the bead from his eyebrow, he picks up his phone. What’s the date? The HOOVER noise grows louder. SHE appears and catches him as if he were idle. HE turns.
HE
Tis’ hot. Did you -
SHE
Do yer duties, love.
HE
What’s the need in’t. Tis’ midday, and so time to lunch.
SHE (softening)
Be day two, day two, I suppose ...
HER eyes alight on a bottle of merlot (open) by the stove. Wouldn’t pair well at all.
MUSIC CUE: Weird, haunting, ancient.
SHE
And time for drink? Ye must ‘av worked to a parch?
HE
Tis’ for the stew.
SHE
‘Tis all-times when the workin’ stops and yer twixt meetin’ and call.
HE
HE defies the manual. Communication is essential.
--
SHE (CONT’D)
Doldrums. Doldrums. Eviler than the Devil. Idleness makes men to bastards. Bastards, y’hear! Crumplin up yer mind to rot on
these here blue square tappy icons while yer whingen’ groanin’ lily-livered raggin’ on yer wheedlin’ job.
HE
An’ for ye to rag at me on’t?
HE picks up the IPAD and reveals her TWEETS. He reads aloud:
HE (CONT’D)
HE slept late again. Left mugs upstairs.
Swipes through the page.
Drunk at three. Blamed internet speed.
Skips several good ones.
HE(CONT’D)
Partner missing. Given to habitual ‘self-care’ in the shower.
A few more scrolls.
HE(CONT’D)
Yer trying to mock me?! I’m a hard worker! I am! I work as hard as any Man!
SHE
Ye lie, honey. We’re to keep each other ... accountable...
As she says ‘accountable’, the CAMERA zooms into her face as it distorts.
QUICK CUT TO
HE watches her unlock the door with the largest KEY. Seizing the recycling, she pops outside. An enticing rectangle of light leaks over the floor. Phallic.
She returns and his head snaps back up.
SHE
Yer watchin’ me?
HE
No, dear.
SHE
Fooled me.
SHE slams the door and locks it from the inside.
He looks at the outside. The LIGHT grows brighter. A tear falls from his eye.
QUICK CUT TO
He is standing at the hot, bubbling stove. He has arrived at an understanding. He decides to communicate.
HE (turning to face SHE)
Don’t ye like my chickpeas?
SHE
--
HE
... I grew ‘em, cooked ‘em from ... merest kernels.
HE shovels more salt into the boiling pot. MOOD IS TURNING!
(Glowering)... Yer fond of me stew, ain’t ye?
SHE
—
HE (facing SHE, brandishing a spatula. Phallic)
I seen it. Were fuller than a sick cat on my stew. Times ‘a New York that stew be. A-li-son Roman. Ye had only kindest sycophancy for me stew then. An’ it’s fibrous, too-
SHE (interrupting)
I wanna stayke!! a rare blooddy steak! Enough! Yer stockpiled shite steamed til bloody sulfur reeks up to the high stinkin’ attic god al-fukin’ mighty tryin’ for trouble.
SHE turns on the convection fan. A clear demonstration of power.
SHE (sinister) (CONT’D)
Why not a delivery, aye? A blessed, merciful, freely given doorstep dropped ... delivery? It’s been six weeks! Chickpeas chickpeas chickpeas! Cupboard staples?? Drivin’ me ... mischief... drivin’ me mad ... I’ll staple my ‘ead!
HE turns towards the sink and drains the legumes, which erratically bounce out of the sieve. The world is falling apart.
SHE pushes in front of him and begins washing her hands. The soap makes soapy noises and froths everywhere. It is Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.
MUSIC CUE as the slapping fades to an eerie yet rhythmic silence.
SHE (whispered)
Why’d y’spill yer beans?
HE
--
What was’t ye uttered?
SHE
Why’d y’spill yer beans?
QUICK CUT TO
Clinking glasses. They laugh. They drink.
QUICK CUT TO
SHE (echoes)
Why’d y’spill yer beans?
INT. STAIRS DOWN TO THE DOOR - MOMENTS LATER
The LIGHT slinks around the doorframe. Is it the shape of a woman? The DOOR slams.
QUICK CUT TO
SHE (shouting)
Why’d y’spill yer beans?
HE turns, contorted. He speaks with more force than any Lear, Aragorn or Matt -- A man possessed. He calls out towards the neighbours, rousingly.
HE
Hark, Simon, hark!
Ye drains ‘em else four-score foul flatulent fumes shall garb round ye till yer blue and bloated an’ starved yer brain of breath and blood til burstdom comes!
Yer insides all over yer outsides.
SHE
Yer a man possessed.
They laugh. They both sip from the merlot, it stains their teeth a dark purple, which is black on black and white 35mm negative in aspect ratio: 1.19:1. It’s the secondy sixths bottle. The stew is still sober.
QUICK CUT TO
They laugh. They drink with headsets on, talking to no one. Circular. The glasses engorge. Phallic. They are suckling the black-red wine like piglets.
SHE HE
How long have we been in this
place? We’re outta drink! Gon’ cleaven’ hoards t’god Majestic
Five weeks two days? Where are we? Wine?
Go out? Go where? Why
All figments. All figures. anywhere? All barred. Where? Where?
All bar one - Hark! yer job! is it even real?
Were ye at work or in yer kitchen? - who bars? Bars?
They rush to the stove. The chickpeas have disappeared into a clear solution. The aquafaba is hydroalcoholic gel. They scoop it into their mouths. It’s alcoholic, and so it evaporates. They become frenzied and begin to suck on their hands. It is gratuitously graphic.
QUICK CUT TO
They laugh, clink glasses.
SHE HE
Happy friday! A good start!
QUICK CUT TO
HE starts trembling, jittering - he’s terrified of what he has seen...
SHE is asleep on the floor, surrounded by broken kitchen implements and laptops. Slipperless, HE creeps down the stairs, until he reaches the front door. Caressing the lock, he opens the door with the KEY. His hands are disgusting. The light spills onto his feet. The film exposes, lighter and lighter until all that is visible is his pupils. Two little black dots, a suitable distance apart.