SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #1

Gorman Bechard

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, films, books, songs, TV programs, universities, cities, politicians and incidents, in other words EVERYTHING depicted in SLOW FADE TO BLACK: is fictitious, or use fictitiously. The events in this work of fiction are not real, nor are they intended to be so interpreted. For example, any quotes, speeches, thoughts, newspaper headlines, histories, anything and everything contained herein is completely a product of the author's imagination and there is no intention to imply that any of it is real.

if it's a mystery,

then it must be for Kathy

I've been looking for a savior

in these dirty streets,

looking for a savior

beneath these dirty sheets...

- Tori Amos

FADE IN:

ACT ONE

I'M READY FOR MY CLOSE UP, MR. DEVILLE

INT. MASTER BEDROOM SUITE - NIGHT

The room is lavishly decorated in mahogany and antiques.

CLOSE ON VARIOUS ITEMS: a turn-of-the-century brass clock, a small Rembrandt painting, a Ming vase filled with fresh cut flowers, and...

On the middle of a large perfectly made bed, a black leather-bound book, and on top of it a gleaming .45 caliber automatic pistol, and...

A video cassette case, bound in rich black leather, and embossed with a large "X" on the front cover, and nothing else. It sits on top of one of the many bureaus. It is open, and empty.

SOFT WHIMPERING can be heard.

CLOSE ON WILLIAM NEELY, mid-40's, tall, thin, with a head of thick but slightly graying hair, sits on the edge of his king-sized four-poster bed.

Neely is the source of the whimpering. He doesn't look well. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his clothing is disheveled, his face unshaved, his hair uncombed. Something is very wrong.

He holds a VCR remote control in his trembling hands. He stares straight ahead, as if in a drugged-out daze. He attempts to avert his eyes from a large color television and VCR that sits atop the antique dresser, but really, he cannot help himself. He has to no choice but to look.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN. A freeze-frame of a WOMAN's face fills the screen. She is obviously beautiful, though her face is contorted in ecstasy...or, perhaps, agony.

CLOSE ON NEELY. Sniffling, wiping his nose with the back of his free hand, he takes aim with the remote control and...

CLOSE ON REMOTE as Neely's thumb presses the PLAY button.

MUSIC UP: Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5, opus 47

The very loud music is coming from the TV.

WIDEN

Neely's eyes go wide as he stares at the TV with a mixture of revulsion and desire.

NEELY: (whispering) So beautiful...

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as the image pulls back from a close up of the woman to a wide shot that reveals that she is wearing a girl's blue-ish plaid catholic high school uniform, which looks as if it has been ripped partially off. Her arms are tied to a metal bar over her head, her legs are likewise tied to a similar bar. She struggles against her binds, but to little avail.

Suddenly, a hand enters the frame. It reaches out to stroke first her face, stopping to force a thumb into her mouth.

The woman tries to pull away, but cannot.

The hand moves down to her neck, and rips away more of the uniform, exposing one of her nipples. Pinching the nipple, the hand then moves to a bizarre pendent that dangles between her breasts.

MOVE IN to close up of pendent. It is an engraved gold elephant, with diamond tusks and three brilliant emerald eyes. The hand fondles the pendent, rubbing its thumb over the gold, the tusks, the three eyes, almost as if buffing it.

CLOSE ON NEELY, whose breathing becomes hard, static. He sucks in a long breath, then again aiming the remote, he hits the FORWARD SCAN button, the MUSIC becomes high-speed gibberish.

He hits PLAY, the MUSIC continues at normal speed.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as the owner of the hand is revealed to be a SKI-MASKED MAN. He pulls something from the back pocket of his pants and gives it a sharp flip. A glint, a flash of sharpened steel...it is a switchblade knife.

CLOSE ON NEELY.

NEELY: Forgive us...

He runs his free hand over his mouth, and takes a few deep breaths.

NEELY: ...father...

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as the ski-masked man runs the tip of the switchblade down the woman's neck, and across her breasts. He circles her nipples with the point of the blade, suddenly a drop of blood appears, then another, and another...

It is now quite obvious that this is no ordinary x-rated film, and that these are not special effects, but that this is something dangerously real and thoroughly vile.

CLOSE ON NEELY, as he turns and reaches back toward the middle of the bed. His hand hovers over the pistol and book...

Taking a quick glance back at the TV, Neely places the gun aside, and snaps up the black leather bound book. Turning back to face the TV, he opens it as if in a panic, and begins to read aloud. His voice is but a whisper at first.

NEELY: For at the window of my house, I looked through my lattice, And saw among the simple, I perceived among the youths, a young man devoid of understanding...

CLOSE ON BOOK. In golden script the words "Holy Bible" can be seen.

NEELY: (a little louder Passing along the street near her corner, And he took the path to her house, In the twilight, In the evening, In the black and dark night...

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, the flash of sharpened steel making figure-eights and loop-de-loops in pinks and deep reds.

Neely continues to read from "Proverbs" as the action on the television continues.

NEELY: (OS) (louder, as if preaching) And there a woman met him, With the attire of a harlot, and a crafty heart, She was loud and rebellious, Her feet would not stay at home...

On the TV: a flash of teeth, a rip of clothing, the hand, terrified eyes...quick cuts likes the snap-snap-snap of erratic fingers.

NEELY: (OS) (his breathing hard, as if he were having sex) I have spread my bed with tapestry, Colored coverings of Egyptian linens, I have perfumed my bed, with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.

CLOSE ON NEELY, as he lowers the Bible onto his lap, and stares at the TV screen.

NEELY: Come, let us take our fill of... (the word sticks in his throat) ...love...until morning. Let us delight ourselves with love...with love...with love... with...

The words stick in Neely's throat, his voice reduced to nothing more than a guttural groan.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, the sharpened steel again, but not as shiny and new, but dulled almost...caked...

NEELY: (OS) With her enticing speech she caused him to yield, With her flattering lips she seduced him, Immediately he went after her, as an ox goes to slaughter...or... (exhaling loudly) ...as a fool...to the... (the words stick in his throat)...correction... of...the...stocks...

A close-up of a drop of blood, and its slow lingering trail down the women's leg, over her knee socks, across the top of her penny loafers, and onto the floor.

CLOSE ON NEELY as he averts his eyes from the TV screen, picks up the Bible from his lap, and delves back into the words, reading fast, furiously, as if the salvation of mankind lay upon his feeble shoulders.

NEELY: Till an arrow struck his liver, As a bird hastens to the snare, He did not know it would take his life... (takes a deep breath) Now therefore, listen to me, my children, Pay attention to the words of my mouth, Do not let your heart turn aside to her ways, Do not stray into her paths...

Neely looks up at the TV. His face blanches.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN. The woman's face, her head bucking forward in slow motion.

NEELY: (OS) (loudly, trying to drown out the TV sounds) For she has cast down many wounded, And all who were slain by her were strong men...

CLOSE ON NEELY

NEELY: ...strong men...strong... (places Bible back on his lap, whispering) ...Her house is the way to hell... Descending to the chambers of death...

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN. The woman's eyes glaze over.

CLOSE ON THE LEATHER VIDEO CASSETTE CASE.

CLOSE ON THE PISTOL.

CLOSE ON NEELY, as he stares straight ahead. Beads of sweat appear on his forehead, and upper lip.

NEELY: (as if forcing himself to believe) ...Descending to the chambers of death...

Holding the Bible in his hands, Neely stands suddenly, walks over to an old desk in the corner of the room, picks up a pen, and scribbles something down on a notepad.

Ripping off the sheet, he returns to the bed, places the Bible back on the center of the bed, next to the pistol. He delicately places the note on top of the Bible.

NEELY: (with less emotion) ...Descending to the chambers of death...

He moves his hand over toward the pistol, hovering it only inches above the weapon. He pauses for a beat, and finally snatches it up off the bed, then returns to his original seat on the edge of the bed.

CLOSE ON NEELY'S FACE, as he turns to look back at the TV screen.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as a close up of the gold elephant pendent fills the screen. But it is different from before. Now instead of resting against the flushed pink of the woman's cleavage, it lies in a puddle of her blood.

CLOSE ON NEELY, as he raises the gun.

NEELY: (just saying the words) ...Descending to the chambers of death...

Neely forces the tip of the barrel into his mouth. It's as if he were acting out a scene, thrusting the gun past his clenched-tight lips, smashing it against his teeth.

CLOSE ON HIS LIPS, wrapped around the gun barrel.

CLOSE ON HIS FINGER, pressing against the trigger.

CLOSE ON HIS EYES, as they gaze at the television.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as the hand clutches the elephant pendent, and rips it from the now dead woman's neck, saving it from drowning in her blood.

CLOSE ON NEELY'S EYES, as the sweat pours from his brow, mixing and mingling with his tears.

CLOSE ON HIS FINGER, it squeezes the trigger.

A SHOT reverberates throughout the room.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN. The woman lies crumpled and bloodied on the floor. The shot very slowly MOVES IN from a full shot to an extreme close up on her left eye, frozen forever in death.

CLOSE ON THE LEATHER VIDEO CASSETTE CASE.

CLOSE ON BIBLE AND NOTE. Though splattered with Neely's blood, the words on the note can very clearly be made out.

It reads: "We are all fucked."

CUT TO:

OPENING TITLE SEQUENCE

ONE

The beep caught her off guard.

Why here? Why now? After six or so very long months of working the audition circuit, she had finally been called back. Finally, and for an underarm deodorant commercial no less, one for a new and supposedly vastly improved version of the nation's best-selling brand. Just think of the residuals.

Sure, there was the call back for that B-movie. Assault of the Killer Kall Grrls from Outer Space, or some such nonsense. But it really didn't count. It did at first, but then . . .

She actually thought, she actually believed, the producer was impressed by her reading, when it was really her legs that got her the attention. Those never-ending legs up to here.

"You have such a great body . . ." he said, during that second meeting, after almost everything was said and done. She had done a reading from Mamet's Oleanna. That always got to them. Always gave her a little solid footing from which to work. No producer would ever suspect that an actress reading from Oleanna would be willing to go to bed for a part.

She wasn't quite sure how to respond. According to the casting notice, nudity was not required for the part, which, likewise according to the casting notice, called for "an attractive, independent, intelligent, 20-something female." Then again, the ad also suggested bringing a bathing suit to the audition. Casting notices almost always suggested bringing bathing suits, as if auditions always ended with fab pool parties. Not once in her six or so months of auditioning, in her six or so months of acting classes, in her six or so months of waiting tables to pay rent, had she even been so much as invited to a pool party . . . not even by a sleazebag B-movie producer. Hell, this certainly was nothing like the Hollywood she had always heard so much about.

Maybe the Killer Kall Grrls producer was just coming on to her. Maybe he was this close to inviting her to a pool party -- not that she'd have gone, but it would have been nice to be invited. Though deep down she'd have bet most anything that the production assistant with the tight jeans and the t-shirt that proclaimed him to be a "boy-toy" was more the producer's speed. They seemed, somehow, right together. Whatever . . .

Finally he got to the point. "If only your boobs were, um . . ."

She made a face, and though phrases like jerk were immediately traipsing through her mind -- actually jerk was the kindest of the phrases traipsing anywhere -- what she volunteered was, "Bigger?"

"Actually, yes," the producer said. "Bigger."

"I like my breasts," she said.

"They're fine," he said, though she was sure he added in his head, if you like such things. "But a couple of inches, a couple of cup sizes, y'know, could pay off in the long run. Really . . . look at Anna Nicole."

She nodded. A sack of leaking silicone was not exactly her idea of a pay off. "I'll keep my 34-B's, if you don't mind," she said.

"Suit yourself," the producer said. "But I know my audience. And my audience wants boobs."

"And I'm sure you're the sort of guy who'll deliver," she said, standing, making her way toward the exit.

"They don't call me the King of the B's for nothing," he said proudly, before turning toward his "boy-toy" assistant, who responded with a smile, then called out, "Next!"

CUT TO:

Now here she was, with a legitimate shot at getting a legitimate role -- commercials counted as legitimate roles, didn't they? -- and her Goddamn beeper was having conniptions.

And this was a casting agent who said nothing, not a word about cups sizes. Maybe boobs meant more to producers, gay, straight, or otherwise, she thought. Maybe boobs did give great box-office. Who knew?

"You're stunning," this casting director had said.

"Thank you," she answered, hesitantly.

"You look sort of like that model, Christy Turlington."

She nodded and swallowed hard once, knowing a little too well what was coming next. She had heard it enough over the past six months: you have the voice, the talent, the height, the mouth, the eyes, even the cheekbones. Everything . . . "Except for the nose, right?"

"Well, um, yes," she said. "Actually."

"Is it a problem?" she asked, thinking it's not really that big, then wondering if people really wouldn't be a tad more concerned with her arm pits.

"I don't think so," the casting director said. "You've got a great smile."

So smiles sold underarm products. Now she understood. "But if I should ever decide to get a nose job . . ."

"I could get you a commercial a week. Maybe two."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, knowing full well that she liked her nose, just as much as her breasts, or any other part, for that matter, and she'd be damned if she was about to change anything during this twenty-seventh year of life. I like me just the way I am, she thought, shuddering at the Billy Joelish implications.

She glanced down finally at the persistent beeper. It couldn't be a wrong number, not this once. Or something else altogether not so important. No, probably not. Make that definitely not. She pressed the scroll button and let out a long sigh. Sure enough, there was the drop-everything phrase, Zen Arcade, and the 800, toll-free number, which she unfortunately knew by heart.

She turned toward the only other person in the waiting room. The only other call back -- a fifty/fifty chance at getting the job. Christ! A pretty blonde with a crooked smile, but one of those picture perfect noses.

"It's all yours," she said, wondering if perhaps neither noses nor smiles sold underarm products.

The blonde turned wide-eyed and bushy-tailed.

"An emergency," she explained, patting the beeper lovingly, then standing, picking up her knapsack filled with headshots and books to read and tapes to listen to and other incidentals, and heading for the exit.

"Bye," the blonde said, a cautious little wave.

"Bye."

While waiting for the elevator, she popped four quarters into a nearby soda machine, and pressed the button for Coke. Sipping, side-stepping the ahh . . ., front-stepping into her mechanical ride, she pressed another button, this time the L for lobby, then pulled her Walkman out of the knapsack, donned the headphones, and pressed PLAY. L7 suddenly came alive in her head. She sang along, a slightly sexy, mostly off-key whisper, "Come on, come on, come on, come on," and walked out onto La Brea Avenue, where after only three attempts, she found a working pay phone, put aside the headphones momentarily, and dialed away.

"Zen Arcade," the pleasant sounding voice on the other end of the phone line answered.

"Wesley Selden, please," she said.

"May I tell him who's calling?"

"Tell him it's Turner," she said. "Special Agent, Paige Turner."

CUT TO:

TWO

He hated the cowboy hats and the cowboy boots -- badly counterfeited wranglers snapping their bullwhips, taming the wild Jaguars and savage Rolls Royce beasts. He couldn't tolerate the cold, the snow, the ski-racks and all the out-of-breath, meet-at-the-lodge, hot-tub sloppy sex promises they embraced. He despised the food, the bite-sized-nibble-nibble-diet-pill portions at fifty nine dollars and ninety-five cents a serving. He couldn't bear the phony smiles and compliments, the matching his and her silicone face lifts, hip nips, flab folds, and tummy tucks. He detested the gaudiness, the decorations, the Christmas spirit alive and well and cracking open the Humpty Dumpty egg of Mr. Claus three hundred and sixty-five fucking days a year. And Goddamnit, if he saw another fur coat he was sure he'd hurt someone.

So what the hell was he doing in Utah in late January, with his first feature-length film about to take home the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance United States Film Festival?

CUT TO:

That was a long story. One he had no desire to recall, at least at this moment. His first quiet time, down time, mind on PAUSE time, in what seemed like months, but in reality was only a week.

He took a long swig from the well-iced can of Tab he had brought with him from the mini-bar in his room at the Stein Ericksen Lodge, then glanced down Park City's quaint Main Street. What's a nice town like you doing playing host to assholes like this? he wondered, from his perch on the edge of the roof of the Grand DeVille Theater, the center of the film festival's activities. It was where the most promising movies were screened, where the most prominent stars were seen, and where awards to any combination of either of the aforementioned were presented, clutched and cherished.

It was where Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request was first screened only three days earlier.

Made for ninety-six thousand, three hundred, fifty-seven dollars and thirteen cents, the black comedy told, mostly through flashbacks, the rather off-beat story of a thirty-one-year-old woman's inability to leave a New York City hotel room, a room whose telephone never stopped ringing. It never stopped ringing.

It was a world premiere in every sense of the phrase. Even he hadn't had the time or opportunity to see the Goddamn thing up on the big screen, all the sounds and soundtrack in place. So he sat there, uncomfortably at first, then giving in, going along with the fourteen hundred, give or take -- probably give, because even standing-room-only had been sold out -- in attendance. Going along, and enjoying the ride.

And what a ride it was. Just long enough -- one hour and forty-one minutes -- and with some damn impressive scenery. Yes, even he had to admit it looked good. No! It looked fucking fantastic -- every penny of the film's budget was up there on the big screen. It was glorious. Glorious 16mm!

And it was funny, funny in all the right places. And that once, when the audience was supposed to cry, he could hear the sniffles. That's really when he knew it worked. Because, after seeing every second, every frame, of the movie countless times, too many times, over the past year -- a year he spent locked in a six foot by eight foot editing suite which he called home -- he too cried. He cried despite knowing every line, every phrase, every edit forwards, backwards, upside down, inside out, and sideways. He cried despite knowing that it would all work out in the end. He cried despite himself.

"Christ!" he mumbled, wiping away the tears.

CUT TO:

The voice was familiar.

"Gonna jump?" it asked.

It was Michelle Bialer, his agent, his friend, who came aboard after reading the Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request script, and who even invested a little of her own cash into the under-funded project. She was petite and striking, in her very late twenties -- she'd be thirty in a few months -- with jet black hair cut in a Louise Brooks' bob, and a strong chizzled chin, stronger cheekbones, and huge blue eyes.

He was still sitting on the edge of the roof, now rubbing at the bridge of his nose, attempting to eliminate something, maybe life itself. He scratched at the five days of stubble covering his chin, ran a bony hand through his shoulder-length hair -- the style was between-styles, it had been between styles for as long as he could remember -- then smiled.

"Y'know," he said, waving a hand down at the throngs on the street below. "In a parallel universe, all these people are in zoos, locked up in cages. to be gawked at, pointed at, laughed at."

"And where are you?" Michelle asked.

He laughed, just once, an audible exclamation point. "Inside as well, holding on to the bars, screaming, 'But I don't belong in here.' And that gets the biggest laugh of all."

He turned to face her. "I needed to breathe," he said, answering her original question.

She walked over to his side, and brushed some of that hair from his face. Michelle had always loved his hair. Though he did nothing but complain that it was too thick. Too thick, and much to wavy.

Grabbing his chin, she raised it, then bent forward, lowering her face so that they were eye-to-eye -- her baby blues versus his deep grays. She wanted to kiss him, but instead only said, "They're calling for you."

"I feel like they're calling for my head," he said.

"They love you."

He laughed. "Today."

She smiled warmly, wondering, as she had so many times in the past, why someone who despised the business so, would ever want to get involved, would ever work so damn hard only to be repulsed by the recognition he so deserved. "Today," she agreed, pulling away, straightening up.

He slapped the top of his knees, then stood slowly. He towered over her. Though at five-two most people towered over Michelle. He managed it by a foot, all lanky in ancient jeans and a Salvation Army brand sports jacket.

"Let's go," he said.

Together they crossed the tar-covered roof, toward the door that would lead them back into the old theater.

Halfway down the staircase, he heard the chanting Michelle was talking about. His name . . . over and over and over again.

"Can I throw up now?" he asked.

"Throw up later," she advised. "Now would be bad form."