EXT.IRISH COAST.LATE AFTERNOON
From atop the cliff the ocean stretches out endlessly before us. Below we see white flecks of surf, darting shapes of diving gulls and the mesmerising glimmer of the silver sun on the waves, like a galaxy of twinkling stars. In the middle of the swell a small boat bobs defiantly through the heaving waters. Aboard, a MAN stands upright, steadfast as the blue bosom rises and deflates around him. He is one with the boat, the rudder an extension of his arm, his feet rooted to the deck.
In one swift motion he shifts to the side of the craft and hauls in a net of gleaming fish, then tosses it down at his feet, barely registering the bountiful catch — this is his normal; his day to day. This is his life.
The boat cruises into the shelter of a quiet cove, home to a small pier. Mooring the vessel expertly, the man slings the day’s catch in a bag over his shoulder, then starts along the zigzag path up the cliff.
EXT.PUB.THE MAGIC HOUR
The pub is perched on the edge of the towering cliff, overlooking the golden waves, glittering below. From a path to the right we see the man, silhouetted by the setting sun, making his way over the horizon towards the building.
Inside, the pub is warm and inviting. Nautical instruments and faded pictures adorn the walls telling salty tales of hardy men. An elderly man, who looks as though he has a few tales of his own, stands behind the bar.
Our man enters and takes off his cap.
Pint o’the blue shtuff please, JOHN.
He hands John a bundle of fish wrapped in tattered newspaper as payment, which John disappears behind the bar, reappearing, as if by alchemy, with a large bottle of Blue WKD and a pint glass. He fills the glass slowly, allowing the fizz to subside — he’s done this before — then places it on the bar in front of the man.
Pint o’the blue shtuff.
The man stares into the glass at the impossibly blue liquid, tracing the swirling currents within, the reflection in his eyes sparkling like the sea. He raises the glass to his lips and takes a deep gulp. It’s fresher than an ocean breeze; more invigorating than the feel of the spray on his face; sweeter than his first kiss… We see all of this in his expression, and more, as he places the pint back down — a lifetime of hardships washed away in an instant, leaving only an unguarded tenderness.
Our man fumbles in his breast pocket, unfolding a small, worn piece of paper — a photograph of a young woman standing outside a house, smiling. He holds it gently, carefully caressing the faded edges. A single tear rolls down his cheek.
Everyone’s got a WKD Side.
It’s a portrait of a woman. She has a handsome face and dark features. Below her waist is hidden but she seems to be sitting; her right hand crossed over her left wrist, gripping it slightly. She has brown, shoulder-length hair covered by a very thin veil, peeking just over her crown. She’s dressed in a dark green, silk robe which leaves the top of her bosom exposed. The background is an impression of a rural landscape. In the distance are some shapes resembling trees, surrounding what appears to be a lake. Behind the woman, to her left, is a winding path. Over her right shoulder is the outline of a far-off bridge.
The picture isn’t immediately striking, but there’s something about it… Something you can’t quite put your finger on. It might be the way she’s staring at you; the way her eyes seem to follow you around the room… Then it hits you — it’s her smile. It’s a subtle smile. A faint contentment registered on the upturned corners of her mouth. A gentle satisfaction. It’s the kind of smile that might form when one’s thinking of a loved one. Or when they’re stirring their tea, remembering the time the vending machine gave them two Snickers when they’d only paid for one. Or it could be a secretive smile; an I-have-a-secret-but-I’m-not-telling-you-teeheehee smile; a playful smile. Or maybe it’s the smile one makes when a photographer tells them to smile before they take a picture. An obligatory smile. An I’m-just-smiling-because-someone-told-me-to-smile smile.
It’s an enigmatic smile to be sure. The kind of smile that one could spend a lifetime contemplating; the kind of smile one imagines scholars have debated for years. It’s a glass half empty smile; a glass half full smile. A Rorschach test smile, its perceived meaning reflecting the impliers intentions back upon them. A mirror smile. It’s the kind of smile that movies are made about. Movies which star Julia Roberts and Julia Stiles. Not to mention Maggie Gylenhall and Kirsten Dunst. Movies which you haven’t personally seen, but upon further research are about feminism in the 1950’s. Movies which critics are calling “a formulaic Roberts vehicle that isn’t without its charm” and “the female variant of Dead Poets Society.” Movies which will remain in the cultural consciousness for many years to come.
As you stare at the picture you begin to feel uneasy. The smile combined with her piercing gaze leaves you feeling naked — like she can see straight through to the true you; like she’s plumbing the depths of your soul.. And she’s slightly amused by what she’s found there… It could be the memory of the time you you farted in front of the whole class; or when you passed out at that party and wet yourself. Or she could be diving deeper still, down to the bedrock of your being. It’s like she knows all of your secrets: the things you do when no one else is around; the things you think about late at night; how many seasons of Suits you’ve watched. It’s like she’s Judge Judy (there’s definitely a resemblance) and she’s scrolling through your internet search history, smiling all the while, savouring the power she holds over you. You look away, but still feel her eyes burning your body. You leave the gallery in a sweat, but they persist, tracking you all the way back to your home; into your bedroom; into your dreams. Whenever you close your eyes you see them. Unblinking. Your sanity begins to fray. Then it hits you, just as her smile did weeks before — the only way to be free of this ocular imprisonment is to bare all for her.
You return to the gallery, determined to confront her once more, then, looking her dead in the eye, you strip butt-naked and begin to shout, “IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT??? TAKE A GOOD LOO—” You stop mid-sentence, having noticed something new. It’s her smile — it’s different somehow. You’re not sure how you got it so wrong.. It’s not a judgemental, malicious smile; it’s a benevolent, compassionate smile… As though she’s expressing sympathy for the time you farted in front of the whole class; or when you passed out at that party and wet yourself. Or maybe she feels sorry for you right at that very instant. Standing naked in a crowded gallery. You drop to you knees sobbing, giving yourself up to her completely. She is now your god.
Another notable feature of the picture is its antiquity. The tangible sense of history in every brush stroke. The colours faded by time. What became of the woman in the picture? Who was she? She reminds you of your friend Gabby, from school. Gabby was the Charlotte of your group, and from this revelation you form a kind of composite personality for the woman: a mixture of your friend Gabby (ie. Charlotte) and Judge Judy; a chirpy, no-nonsense, regal kind of character. Who works as a judge. In olden times. You imagine what it would be like to hang out with her, your daydream taking the form of an episode of Sex & The City, only set back then. Like, it’s still about a group of empowered women, but instead of cocktails, they drink the equivalent of whatever cocktails were back then — who knows — maybe they had cocktails back then, there’s no possible way of knowing that — I mean, you’re not even sure when “back then” was. Though you imagine it had a lot of castles and banquets and horse pulled carts. Not dissimilar to Disneyland Paris. Anyway, at some point your daydream takes a turn for the dramatic when you’re falsely accused of killing the king. After that it turns into more of a Judge Judy/Suits style crossover? You think it might make a great pitch for Sex And The City 3: Back In Time. Or it could be called Sex And The City 3: The Return Of Carrie But Also The Thing That Happened With The —
Oh, that’s a thousand words? Sweet — that should paint a pretty good picture, so… I’m out. Peace.