Rebrand: Phase 3
12th April 2020



by Rory Bradley


A man is being chased by an unknown thing. An unknowable thing. A dark thing. He twists and turns through corridors, his breath shortening, a crescendo of gasps building towards a fatal climax. The thing is almost upon him, the darkness curling around the edges of his view.

At the end of this last corridor is a closed door. He falters momentarily, the dark thing rising behind him, blotting out all hope — and then — a heartbeat — he runs. The darkness floods after him, lapping at his heels, filling the space around him, eclipsing his view, enveloping all until — silence. Black. Nothing.

I thought I knew who I was.

Then light. A spotlight. The man at its centre. An electric guitar in his hand. We now see him in full. He is a real man: a man adorned with bangles and bandanas; a man’s man. He is Johnny Depp.

He begins to play some chords on the guitar. Very cool chords. Rock chords. We see him play these chords from multiple angles. For about a minute. A whole minute of very cool rock chords viewed from multiple angles.

Then a strangled twang. A broken string. The light shuts off. The warped note decays slowly. A heartbeat.

I thought I knew who I wanted to be.

A fresh note cuts through the silence, reaching into the dark. The light flickers fleetingly. Then another note, and another, the light growing brighter. The notes keep coming, faster and with more intricacy. A cascade of very fast, intricate notes forming a very fast and intricate guitar solo. The light burns brighter still, feeding off the music, illuminating the world beyond the stage: an audience of adoring fans roaring their appreciation, their volume increasing with the light. Johnny Depp’s solo reaches its zenith, the crowd before him seems to contract in anticipation:

I wanted to be ME!

He breaks into the same very cool chord riff from before — only it’s taken on a new life, bolstered by the energy of the crowd, who have now completely lost their absolute shit.

Out in the distance, a fleck of white; a flap of wings. A dove soars over the crowd, landing on the head of Johnny Depp’s guitar as he strums one last very cool rock chord. The reverb fades with the light, the world dimming until it’s just man and bird.

But who am I?

The dove opens its beak, as if to answer, but instead comes the ringing of a telephone — again and again and…

Johnny Depp’s eyes snap open. He reaches across the bed and picks up the handset, listens intently for a few seconds, then places it back on the receiver. He looks around the moonlit room; high ceilings and soft carpets, the long curtains swaying in the wind, the balcony door slightly ajar. He’s drawn out to the crisp night air, a stunning New York city skyline sprawled before him, the lights twinkling like a neatly stacked galaxy of stars. Out in the distance, a fleck of white. Then another. It’s beginning to snow.

Where am I?

The camera pulls away from the balcony, zooming out through the flurry of snow, revealing more and more of the city, until…

A young boy sits on his bed shaking a snow globe. He holds it up, watching the tiny plastic snowflakes float around a model of the New York city skyline. We rest on the scene for a moment before zooming out again: we now see a rooftop, then a town, then a land mass surrounded by ocean — we whiz through clouds, building speed until we see the whole of the earth which in turn shrinks to a pale blue dot. Soon the Milky Way becomes a collection of galaxies, that collection becoming part of a larger collection. We continue on like that, watching cosmic enormities expand and contract before us, the universe demonstrating its infinite nature.

Finally, without indication, we pass through a clear membrane, revealing the whole thing has taken place in a small bauble attached to the collar of a cat. The cat looks to camera…

Wake up Mr. Depp… Please wake up… MR. DEPP! WAKE UP!

We cut to the same New York hotel room as before, only it’s now a total mess: stained carpets, broken furniture, empty bottles. On the bedside table there are some lines of a snow-white powder. Johnny Depp is sprawled across the bed with his guitar beside him. There’s a man in a concierge uniform at the end of the bed.

Mr. Depp! Please wake up!

Johnny Depp writhes in the mass of covers.

Wha…? What happened?
You don’t remember?

Johnny Depp makes his thinking face; images begin to flash on screen — memories — Johnny Depp being chased down a corridor by a security guard — Johnny Depp drunkenly mashing a guitar towards some guests in the lobby — Johnny Depp talking to a pigeon — Johnny Depp holding said pigeon to his ear like a phone — Johnny Depp shaking a bag of cocaine and then staring at it for a prolonged time…

Yes… Well… I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the premises…
But… I’ve nowhere to go…
I’m sorry Mr. Depp, I truly am, but this is out of my hands.

We cut to the sidewalk outside the hotel where Johnny Depp is sat slumped on the curb, his bags piled beside him. The wind whistles through the New York streets, carrying a chill across the moonlit city, sending papers fluttering through the alleys. Out of the night sky, a single snowflake descends, landing in Johnny Depp’s outstretched hand. He studies it melting into his palm, a dazed expression clouding his face. Though the snowflake disappears after moments, he continues to stare, focusing intently on the spot of his palm where it had been. It’s as if he’s willing something to happen; as though he’s hoping for something to be revealed; as if he’s waiting to be woken from a dream…

Cut to fragrance bottle.

Blue, By WKD — Everyone’s got a WKD side.


This script is part three of my ongoing campaign to rebrand WKD. You can find the other parts here (1), here (2), and here (4).