and sealed, blocks one loading bay at the right in middle-b.g. Puddles of water shine down the entire length of the alley. It has just been raining hard, and the dumpster lids are soaked, the cartons wet. Ominous clouds scud across the lowering sky; no moon; shoot almost FILM NOIR, gritty and shadowy, à la 1930s B films.
SHOOT FROM LOW-ANGLE down the length of the alley, giving a sense of enormous distance. The alley should be at least 50-60 feet wide, giving sharp perspective. ANGLE OF CAMERA should give us warehouse tops, fire escapes if possible, and the sky.
HOLD ALLEY for several beats as INTENSE CHASE MUSIC RISES and we HEAR the sharp sound of RUNNING FOOTSTEPS OFF-CAMERA. (This in black & white) as exciting pursuit music reaches a crescendo and ARKY LOCHNER jumps OVER CAMERA and INTO FRAME, landing right in front of us so we see his legs. He runs from CAMERA POV into FULL FRAME, splashing through puddles in frantic flight.
Arky runs fifteen feet from CAMERA and, as he leaps over a puddle, he looks back over his shoulder in terror and we:
FREEZE FRAME.
Still in black & white, CAMERA MOVES IN on Arky frozen in mid-leap. HOLD at MEDIUM CU as we HEAR NARRATION OVER:
NARRATOR
(Over)
As certain as death and taxes, we are told, "the meek will definitely inherit the Earth."
(beat)
Perhaps.
(beat)
But not always. Consider, if you will, frozen in terror, Mr. Arky Lochner, (pronounced Locic-ner ) a well-known petty crook, sidebar six-for-fiver shylock, registered coward, and owner of a yellow streak so vivid it could be slathered on a hot dog.
(beat).
Mr. Lochner was written out of the will when the meek were guaranteed their inheritance. And just now he's trying to avoid another kind of payoff; a soulful payoff in that off-track betting parlor where the viggerish is a matter of life and death.
Arky Lochner is in his late thirties, early forties. He has the beady little eyes of a marmoset, the twitchy thin face of a weasel, and the slim build of a street purse-snatcher. He wears a suit that looks as if he's been sleeping in it since they locked him out of his hotel room; a cheap, paper-thin yellow plastic rain slicker (the kind you can buy in a turnpike gas station's men's room, folded into a tiny square, for a dollar); a dirty Borsalino now jammed at a cockeyed angle on his head; and he seems to have lost a shoe while running. As VO NARRATION ENDS we segué FROM BLACK & WHITE to COLOR and
UNFREEZE FRAME:
As Arky's feet hit the filthy wet blacktop and he dashes away from CAMERA, still looking over his shoulder in panic.
2 - REVERSE ANGLE - THE ALLEY - SHOOT UP-ANGLE FROM GROUND
TO ARKY as he rushes toward us. Above and behind him, at mid-b.g, we see an ominous cloud hanging in the air at the second storey level. The cloud is boiling. It is rushing after him (suggest SFX time-lapse photography of clouds a la Louis Shwartsburg at Energy Prods.) and crackles of lightning dance through and around the cloud like a Van de Graaff Generator run amuck. As it rolls down the alley after him, Arky stops, spins, pulls a .45 from his belt and fires four shots into the cloud. It has no effect, but from the cloud comes a thunderclap and the roar of a demon voice that fills the alley like a SWAT-team bullhorn:
VOLKERPS OVER
(filter FX)
Cease your flight, you four-flushing pismire!
Arky does not hesitate. The demon voice only serves to panic him more. He turns back INTO CAMERA and takes two running steps toward us, his foot-without-a-shoe slips in the water, he flies forward INTO CAMERA and lands on his stomach, sliding in the filthy passageway. CAMERA HOLDS as he scrabbles to a crouching position, staring up at the cloud hanging over him now, as the demon VOLKERPS emerges from the top of the cloud. As he materializes, Arky falls backward, staring.
Volkerps is huge, immense, enormous. A massively-muscled upper torso that makes Schwarzenegger look anorexic,
SHOOT FROM LOW-ANGLE down the length of the alley, giving a sense of enormous distance. The alley should be at least 50-60 feet wide, giving sharp perspective. ANGLE OF CAMERA should give us warehouse tops, fire escapes if possible, and the sky.
HOLD ALLEY for several beats as INTENSE CHASE MUSIC RISES and we HEAR the sharp sound of RUNNING FOOTSTEPS OFF-CAMERA. (This in black & white) as exciting pursuit music reaches a crescendo and ARKY LOCHNER jumps OVER CAMERA and INTO FRAME, landing right in front of us so we see his legs. He runs from CAMERA POV into FULL FRAME, splashing through puddles in frantic flight.
Arky runs fifteen feet from CAMERA and, as he leaps over a puddle, he looks back over his shoulder in terror and we:
FREEZE FRAME.
Still in black & white, CAMERA MOVES IN on Arky frozen in mid-leap. HOLD at MEDIUM CU as we HEAR NARRATION OVER:
NARRATOR
(Over)
As certain as death and taxes, we are told, "the meek will definitely inherit the Earth."
(beat)
Perhaps.
(beat)
But not always. Consider, if you will, frozen in terror, Mr. Arky Lochner, (pronounced Locic-ner ) a well-known petty crook, sidebar six-for-fiver shylock, registered coward, and owner of a yellow streak so vivid it could be slathered on a hot dog.
(beat).
Mr. Lochner was written out of the will when the meek were guaranteed their inheritance. And just now he's trying to avoid another kind of payoff; a soulful payoff in that off-track betting parlor where the viggerish is a matter of life and death.
Arky Lochner is in his late thirties, early forties. He has the beady little eyes of a marmoset, the twitchy thin face of a weasel, and the slim build of a street purse-snatcher. He wears a suit that looks as if he's been sleeping in it since they locked him out of his hotel room; a cheap, paper-thin yellow plastic rain slicker (the kind you can buy in a turnpike gas station's men's room, folded into a tiny square, for a dollar); a dirty Borsalino now jammed at a cockeyed angle on his head; and he seems to have lost a shoe while running. As VO NARRATION ENDS we segué FROM BLACK & WHITE to COLOR and
UNFREEZE FRAME:
As Arky's feet hit the filthy wet blacktop and he dashes away from CAMERA, still looking over his shoulder in panic.
2 - REVERSE ANGLE - THE ALLEY - SHOOT UP-ANGLE FROM GROUND
TO ARKY as he rushes toward us. Above and behind him, at mid-b.g, we see an ominous cloud hanging in the air at the second storey level. The cloud is boiling. It is rushing after him (suggest SFX time-lapse photography of clouds a la Louis Shwartsburg at Energy Prods.) and crackles of lightning dance through and around the cloud like a Van de Graaff Generator run amuck. As it rolls down the alley after him, Arky stops, spins, pulls a .45 from his belt and fires four shots into the cloud. It has no effect, but from the cloud comes a thunderclap and the roar of a demon voice that fills the alley like a SWAT-team bullhorn:
VOLKERPS OVER
(filter FX)
Cease your flight, you four-flushing pismire!
Arky does not hesitate. The demon voice only serves to panic him more. He turns back INTO CAMERA and takes two running steps toward us, his foot-without-a-shoe slips in the water, he flies forward INTO CAMERA and lands on his stomach, sliding in the filthy passageway. CAMERA HOLDS as he scrabbles to a crouching position, staring up at the cloud hanging over him now, as the demon VOLKERPS emerges from the top of the cloud. As he materializes, Arky falls backward, staring.
Volkerps is huge, immense, enormous. A massively-muscled upper torso that makes Schwarzenegger look anorexic,
Similar Books
