Screenwriting : any thoughts on the first act of my script GUNPOWDER? by James LO

LOGLINE:

Spanning 1995 to 2075, two women--one buying, the other sold--discover the purpose of robot companions.

INT. A "WILD" URBAN CAFE - DAY

ON BLACK

TITLE CARD: 2075

FADE IN:

"Dashing Don's Diner" is quiet - no playlist, no hush field

required. The breeze curls in through its doorless entrance.

PHOEBE (very old) nurses her tea on a sun-warmed bench.

Two other tables, in the patio, are occupied. On one table,

there are four backpackers, playing Uno. On the other, an

impossibly handsome blond young man is marking up a book

with a blue highlighter.

The cafe owner, DON (early 30s), English, goofy expression

on a face scarred with keloids, walks up bearing a bowl of

candied ginger.

DON

For the birthday gal.

(low whistle)

A hundred and five, izzit?

PHOEBE

(chuckles)

Don't say it out loud, Dashing.

A movement outside draws Phoebe's eye. A brown-skinned woman

in her 70s walks up to the young man seated outdoor - he

rises to kiss her on the cheeks, three times ('how

Continental'). Beneath a mask of lines like a riverbed in

drought, it's obvious that she was a striking beauty in her

youth - she's beautiful still. Phoebe realizes she's

staring, and turns away, to a loud hissing from the counter.

DON

That's just the steam-wand acting up.

'Burping up', Lou says - like it's

our baby.

There's Lou, sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Her chrome

forearms and the espresso machine reflecting each other. She

moves with surgical grace. Phoebe looks down to her teacup.

It had been broken before, and put back together with gold.

Across the square, a group of children play. They call to

each other in chirps and whistles, like birds.

FADE TO BLACK

INT. INNER-CITY APARTMENT - DAY

ON BLACK

TITLE CARD: 1995

FADE IN:

Hottest summer on record and the lift's broken - again.

KARIM (24) and Phoebe (20) lug their groceries up five

flights.

As he dead-bolts the door to their one-room apartment, she

starts to peel off her sodden dress.

KARIM

(mock-pleading)

Babe... it's too hot to fuck...

Phoebe pauses, like a flasher, panties bared. Arms up and

crossed at her shoulders, she flips Karim two birds. She

finishes her strip, rushes to the shower. He clumsily puts

cans into the pantry.

PHOEBE (O.S.)

Jeezus, the pipes are boiling!

Phoebe storms out of the bathroom wrapped in a too-small

towel, not remotely cooler. Clicks on their hulking desktop

PC to connect to the internet. The modem whistles shrilly,

over and over.

KARIM

Line's dead... remember?

Phoebe slams her hands on the wobbly kitchen table.

PHOEBE

Fuuuck. Does anything work here?

Karim turns on the TV.

TV (O.S.) "-Irish coast, an unprecedented mortality rate of

marine organisms from red tide-"

KARIM

(shrugs)

TV works.

TV (O.S.) "-recent years by pollution and temperature-"

Phoebe stabs the Off button.

PHOEBE

(bitterly)

Don't need to hear how else we've

fucked the world.

She drapes her wet towel on the back of the small sofa.

Karim shakes his head with a "Tt" - unmindful of her casual

nudity - and picks up the towel. She digs up a baggy t-shirt

from her 'wardrobe' on the floor ("Strike a Pose" - Madonna)

and, still bottomless, pulls that over her head. While Karim

goes to hang her towel in the bathroom, Phoebe grabs a Coke

from the fridge, and pulls up a window. It shrieks in its

rickety frame.

EXT. FIRE ESCAPE - CONTINUOUS

Phoebe carefully tugs the bottom of her t-shirt over her

bare ass to sit on the rusted fire escape. The haze presses

down, fuzzing the cityscape spread before her. Karim comes

to the window, holding a packet of frozen chapati to his

forehead.

PHOEBE

You really going up to DC?

KARIM

It's called the Million Man March,

Feebs - gotta do my part to make the

numbers. Take a stance.

PHOEBE

Yeah well I got a bad feeling about

it. How d'you know things won't turn

ugly.

KARIM

(sighs)

Gotta do my part.

(beat)

Feebs. When... if... we have kids, is

this the world you wanna leave'm?

They remain in silence for awhile.

PHOEBE

Mohan's wife, the three of you went

to Berkeley together?

KARIM

Stacy.

PHOEBE

Yeah. Her. Stacy. She's pregnant,

right?

KARIM

Yeah. Maybe. Or they're trying. I

haven't.

PHOEBE

Another couple gambling there will be

a future.

Below, a car alarm goes off, ragged and exhausted like

everything else. Phoebe stands. Karim reaches out his hand

to help her in.

MATCH CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT

Phoebe and Karim standing at the small sink. She's in the

same t-shirt, sweat rings under her arms. He's down to a

singlet and boxers. She's washing, he's drying. Karim hands

her back a fork.

KARIM

Yo, there's rice between the tines.

She snatches the fork from his hand and throws it back into

the water.

PHOEBE

(imitates his voice)

"Between the tines" - Jesus who the

fuck talks like that.

Karim raises his hands in protest.

KARIM

I was just- why you gotta react like

that, always?

They finish washing up. Phoebe sits back down at the wobbly

table, cleared now but for an empty bottle, and a filled

ashtray. She lights a cigarette. Karim makes a face, reaches

for a new bottle.

PHOEBE

Put that back. I don't want anymore.

KARIM

Well I do. And you should.

(under his breath)

Make you less mean.

PHOEBE

What? I'm a big old meanie now?

Because I point out that you use

anatomically correct terms for a

fork? C'mon - it's funny, you talk

like a robot.

KARIM

Like a-

(shakes head)

Nemmind, you just proved my point.

PHOEBE

Wow. Wish I'd done years of Debate

Club. Just so I can conclude my

argument with-

(in plummy accent)

-I rest my case.

Karim wrestles with the wine opener, cuts his thumb on the

sharp foil.

KARIM

Goddammit!

(mumbles with thumb

in mouth)

Debate Club...

Pours himself a glass, and keeps pouring.

PHOEBE

I see - this is how debaters prove

their point, with a triple serving of

Shiraz. I'm going to have another

shower - just don't bleed all over my

mum's tablecloToo late, Karim clumsily sets the bottle down over the cork.

It rolls, and falls, glugging out wine.

Phoebe leaps to her feet, her chair skitters backward. The

glass front of their cabinet shatters.

FADE TO BLACK

ON BLACK

V.O. CONT'D

KARIM

What the fuck!

PHOEBE

You're blaming me?!

SOUND FADES