EXT. CHICAGO – EARLY MORNING
Aerial view of the organism that is, was, Chicago. The arteries and veins that usually teem with life lie frozen and desolate in the winter light, silent save for a distant wind. Macro shrinks to micro as we witness it firsthand –
MONTAGE OF DEAD CHICAGO
– A rusty L-TRAIN, motionless in its yard.
– A pair of TOURIST BINOCULARS, standing lonely sentinel.
– A room, just dark enough to obscure its contents.
– Silhouetted against the morning light, the shape of a body lying on a bed, worryingly still. The room a disaster.
– A MURAL OF WINGS, meant to be finished by a body standing between it.
– The mouth of a subway station, a faint pattern of sound emanating from within. We follow it.
INT. SUBWAY STATION – CONTINUOUS
Unusually dark, the pattern cuts through clearly now – CLICK, FZZT, CLICK. CLICK, FZZT, CLICK.
Wending our way to the source, a LIGHTER held by a Man-In-Rags, bathed in an eery light. Eyes closed, he sits on a stack of upturned buckets, cutting a distinct, almost bored pose – right palm supporting chin, right leg crossed over left, left hand toying with the lighter all the while. A POSTCARD lies on the ground, its text “WISH YOU WERE -” cut short by the man’s foot.
CLICK, FZZT- The chatter of the lighter ceases. The man tilts his head, straining to hear something. He opens his eyes, blinks, and sees us. He gives us the barest of nods then tilts his head to look behind us, searching for… something in the darkness. His eyes trace a line upwards and then, as if responding to a question, he nods, amused.
He stretches, stows the lighter in favor of a PAIR OF DRUMSTICKS. He stands up, taking the topmost bucket off of the stack he sits on and still upturned, places it on the ground in front of him. He cracks his knuckles, takes a breath, and starts beating out a slow rhythm – DUM, DUM, DUM – each beat pushing us back up and out to-
INT. KURVITZ STUDIO ROOM D – MORNING
Close on the face of the stretching woman from the studio, SENA PAEK, late-20s, our crime of heaviness. She takes deep, desperate breaths and even behind eyes closed tightly it appears as if something is causing her great pain. Then-
Her eyes open. She looks upwards at the ceiling above, searching for something, anything.
Finding nothing.
Pull back to discover her in the center of the semi-spartan studio space, locked into a pose: one arm behind back, hand curled into a fist, the other arm mirrored in front. Despite her head straining as up as her neck will allow, the rigidity of her posture is vaguely reminiscent to that of the attention stance of a soldier.
Gradually, she lowers her head and finds in front of her a wall, smothered by thick, black curtains. (We will find this wall of curtains present in each studio room, always functioning as the spiritual “north,” always closed unless noted otherwise.)
She releases the pose, walks to the back of the room, and picks up a water bottle. Before taking a sip, she discards the bottle and angrily stalks back to the center, assuming a position.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale-
In perfect synchronicity, music and body burst into life.
CUE: SALTARELLE OP. 74 (0:14 – 0:40) / BUSK BY ASZURE BARTON (1:30 – 1:56)
To a Gregorian male chorus chanting French in rapid tempo, she moves with technical grace.
Flowing from restrained tight positions to unconfined large ones, she executes grand battements, jetés, interspersed arabesques. She travels across the floor in sudden stops and sudden starts.
More often than not, her hands remain locked behind her back but intermittently they sweep out with her legs, her body unfurling like a sail catching wind.
EXT. CHICAGO – EARLY MORNING
Aerial view of the organism that is, was, Chicago. The arteries and veins that usually teem with life lie frozen and desolate in the winter light, silent save for a distant wind. Macro shrinks to micro as we witness it firsthand –
MONTAGE OF DEAD CHICAGO
– A rusty L-TRAIN, motionless in its yard.
– A pair of TOURIST BINOCULARS, standing lonely sentinel.
– A room, just dark enough to obscure its contents.
– Silhouetted against the morning light, the shape of a body lying on a bed, worryingly still. The room a disaster.
– A MURAL OF WINGS, meant to be finished by a body standing between it.
– The mouth of a subway station, a faint pattern of sound emanating from within. We follow it.
INT. SUBWAY STATION – CONTINUOUS
Unusually dark, the pattern cuts through clearly now – CLICK, FZZT, CLICK. CLICK, FZZT, CLICK.
Wending our way to the source, a LIGHTER held by a Man-In-Rags, bathed in an eery light. Eyes closed, he sits on a stack of upturned buckets, cutting a distinct, almost bored pose – right palm supporting chin, right leg crossed over left, left hand toying with the lighter all the while. A POSTCARD lies on the ground, its text “WISH YOU WERE -” cut short by the man’s foot.
CLICK, FZZT- The chatter of the lighter ceases. The man tilts his head, straining to hear something. He opens his eyes, blinks, and sees us. He gives us the barest of nods then tilts his head to look behind us, searching for… something in the darkness. His eyes trace a line upwards and then, as if responding to a question, he nods, amused.
He stretches, stows the lighter in favor of a PAIR OF DRUMSTICKS. He stands up, taking the topmost bucket off of the stack he sits on and still upturned, places it on the ground in front of him. He cracks his knuckles, takes a breath, and starts beating out a slow rhythm – DUM, DUM, DUM – each beat pushing us back up and out to-
INT. KURVITZ STUDIO ROOM D – MORNING
Close on the face of the stretching woman from the studio, SENA PAEK, late-20s, our crime of heaviness. She takes deep, desperate breaths and even behind eyes closed tightly it appears as if something is causing her great pain. Then-
Her eyes open. She looks upwards at the ceiling above, searching for something, anything.
Finding nothing.
Pull back to discover her in the center of the semi-spartan studio space, locked into a pose: one arm behind back, hand curled into a fist, the other arm mirrored in front. Despite her head straining as up as her neck will allow, the rigidity of her posture is vaguely reminiscent to that of the attention stance of a soldier.
Gradually, she lowers her head and finds in front of her a wall, smothered by thick, black curtains. (We will find this wall of curtains present in each studio room, always functioning as the spiritual “north,” always closed unless noted otherwise.)
She releases the pose, walks to the back of the room, and picks up a water bottle. Before taking a sip, she discards the bottle and angrily stalks back to the center, assuming a position.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale-
In perfect synchronicity, music and body burst into life.
CUE: SALTARELLE OP. 74 (0:14 – 0:40) / BUSK BY ASZURE BARTON (1:30 – 1:56)
To a Gregorian male chorus chanting French in rapid tempo, she moves with technical grace.
Flowing from restrained tight positions to unconfined large ones, she executes grand battements, jetés, interspersed arabesques. She travels across the floor in sudden stops and sudden starts.
More often than not, her hands remain locked behind her back but intermittently they sweep out with her legs, her body unfurling like a sail catching wind.