In Shanghai, a screenplay

TITLE OVER BLACK: “IN SHANGHAI”

FADE IN:

EXT. SHANGHAI SKYLINE - NIGHT

A bird's-eye view of nighttime in Shanghai. The lights and neon billboards gleam in the darkness. The buildings are black silhouettes eclipsed against the setting sun. Cars speed toward intersections, and traffic lights change from red to green. This is a city that is constantly moving.

EXT. STREET CORNER - NIGHT

Two prostitutes stand on a busy street corner, their long legs crossed and waiting for business. Cars zoom past them and streetlights change.

CUT TO:

EXT. PARK BENCH - NIGHT

A homeless man sleeps on the steps of a convenience store, his mangy dog tied to a pole. The dog is sniffing in a pile of trash.

CUT TO:

EXT. OUTSIDE OF OFFICE BUILDING - NIGHT

A businessman, harried and tired-looking, hails a taxi. The taxi stops and the man gets in the car.

EXT. OUTSIDE OF APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT

A deteriorating apartment complex in a bad part of town. The building is decorated with dying plants, litter, and the underwear of its tenants drying on clothes lines. We hear a MAN and a WOMAN shouting.

The MAN and WOMAN argue stand outside of their car. They argue passionately in Mandarin, voices standing out against the quiet darkness. Through the noise, we hear the faint sound of a CHILD CRYING.

CUT TO:

INT. HAN’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

A small boy lies on his bed, crying. This is YOUNG HAN (4). Throughout the film, the actors speak in Mandarin, with English subtitles.

HAN (V.O.)

There once was a very greedy king...

A woman, dressed in a dirty nightgown, enters the room. This is MAMA(32). She picks up Young Han and sets him in her lap.

HAN (V.O.) 

...Who hid the sun from all the people of the world.

Mama begins to comfort Han. We hear her voice beginning to tell the story. Han hiccups and stops crying.

HAN (V.O.)

All the children who were afraid of the 

dark were frightened. The world was 

filled with blackness.

EXT. STREET CORNER - NIGHT

A car stops by the two prostitutes. One of them leans into the open driver’s window, smiling.

HAN (V.O.)

But one day, a brave man decided to talk to the king. 

The man climbed to the top of a hill and he asked if the 

king would share the sun with his people.

The prostitute gets into the car and waves good-bye to her friend. The car drives away, and more cars pass by.

CUT TO:

EXT. PARK BENCH - NIGHT

The homeless man’s dog finds a chicken bone in the pile of garbage. It begins to gnaw on the bone, while its owner turns in his sleep.

HAN (V.O.)

The Sun King saw how desperate the 

man was, so he made him a deal.

A man walks by and drops a bill into a cup set by the bench.

CUT TO:

EXT. OUTSIDE OF BAR - NIGHT

The taxi pulls up to the sidewalk outside a bar. From inside the building, we can hear the sounds of drinking and yelling. A moment later, the businessman emerges. He looks at the bar for a second, and then enters.

HAN (V.O.)

Instead of letting him have the sun, the king 

gave the man a bag filled with light.

CUT TO:

INT. HAN’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Young Han watches as Mama animatedly tells the story. She uses her hands, building the story in mid-air. He laughs.

HAN (V.O.)

So the man took the bag, and with it he 

climbed the tallest tower in the world. 

When he got to the top, he opened 

the bag. The light escaped, and it scattered

 into a thousand stars. The man had 

done this, so none of the 

little children needed to be afraid 

of the dark anymore.

FADE TO BLACK.

OVER BLACK we hear the sounds of machines whirring, a man yelling.

INT. SNOWGLOBE FACTORY - DAY

Han's hands constructing a snow globe. It is an Eiffel Tower snow globe. His hands are dirty, his fingers nimble. He lets them linger on the plastic Eiffel Tower as he is constructing it.

FADE UP to his face. This Han is older, he is now 12. He is skinny and dirty, black hair messy and unkempt.

FADE UP to see that Han is surrounded by many other children - some older, some younger - all doing the same monotonous task.

CUT TO:

INT. BUS - NIGHT

Han's head nods against a window. He is wearing a dirty white T-shirt and a red sweatshirt that is many sizes too big for him. The bus hits a bump, and Han looks up, wearily.

CUT TO:

EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT

Han walks home from the bus stop, hands in his pocket.

Two dressed-up party girls walk in his direction. He lowers his eyes. They pass him and giggle, making gestures as they laugh at his clothes.

Han passes a Western businessman yelling on his cellphone.

Han reaches the gate to his apartment and lets himself in.

CUT TO:

INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT

Han, washing his hands, looks at himself in the cracked mirror. He looks down at his sweatshirt.

CUT TO:

INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT

Han washes clothes in a red basin. He takes out his sweatshirt, now soaked, and looks at it.

CUT TO:

Han is making dinner. He stirs a pot of porridge and ladles it into a bowl. He takes a bottle of pink pills and selects two.

INT. MAMA’S ROOM - NIGHT

Han brings the bowl in to his mother. She is asleep, her face wearing the grey, ashen look of the dying.

HAN

Mama?

Mama shifts in her sleep, and Han touches her shoulder.

HAN (CONT’D)

I brought you supper.

Mama sits up, half-asleep. She takes the pills with water and lets Han spoon the food into her mouth.

INT. HAN’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Han sits on his bed. In front of him is a tin box, open. The contents of the tin box - a postcard of the Eiffel Tower and a stack of bills - are laid out on the bed.

HAN'S P.O.V. - Han counts through the stack of money. He looks at the postcard, and then puts the items away under his bed. He turns off the light.

CUT TO:

INT. SNOWGLOBE FACTORY - DAY

Han sits working on another Eiffel Tower snow globe. An envelope is placed on his station, and he glances up at a disgruntled-looking man carrying an armful of paycheck envelopes. The man glares at Han before moving on to the next station. Han hurriedly puts the envelope in his pocket.

CUT TO:

INT. BUS - NIGHT

Han sits straight upright, nervous. He is not tired today. He fingers the money in his pocket with a tense expression on his face.

INT. MAMA’S ROOM - NIGHT

Han lets himself in. He is holding another bowl of porridge and the pink pills. He sets the bowl on a bedside table and leans in close to Mama.

HAN

Mama.

Mama opens her eyes wearily. She places a limp hand on Han’s arm.

MAMA

Han.

HAN

I got it, Mama.

He gives Mama her pills and a glass of water already set on the bedside table. Mama takes her medicine.

Han watches her, expectantly. Mama’s smile falters.

HAN (CONT’D)

For the Eiffel Tower trip, I have the money...

MAMA

Oh...

HAN

We’ll bring pillows, blankets. I’ll 

make you as comfortable as I can.

MAMA

I’m sick.

Han’s expression is blank. He does not understand.

MAMA (CONT’D)

A few more weeks, we have left together.

Han’s face crumples. He is about to cry.

MAMA (CONT’D)

Staying here... it would be enough. 

HAN

But we won’t have any other chances.

MAMA

I won’t. You will.

HAN

It was our story. Ours.

MAMA

A story is a story. You take the money, save it. 

When I’m gone, go to a good school. Get a 

good job. Travel there with your own 

children. If there is a heaven, I will be waiting.

Han does not respond. He looks at Mama, and then leans in and kisses her forehead.

He feeds her dinner.

CUT TO:

INT. HAN’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Han paces across his tiny bedroom. He is agitated, furious. Suddenly, he pushes himself into the wall of his bedroom. He reaches under his bed for the tin box and throws it across the room, where it ricochets off a wall. The postcard and the bills fall out. Han curls up in the corner, face pressed into his knees.

INT. MAMA’S ROOM - NIGHT

A THUMP from Han’s room. Mama wakes up, alarmed.

MAMA

Han?

CUT TO:

INT. HAN’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Han lifts his head from his arms. His face is tear-stained and emotionless.

MAMA (O.S.)

Han?

Han does not answer. He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes.

INT. MAMA’S ROOM - DAY

Han enters the room wearing his red sweatshirt, now clean.

HAN

I’m leaving for work.

No response. Han gently touches Mama’s shoulder. She doesn’t move.

HAN (CONT’D)

Mama?

He touches her again. No response. Han begins to get worried.

HAN (CONT’D)

Mama?

FADE TO BLACK.

OVER BLACKNESS Han keeps saying “Mama?” over and over again.

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY

Mama is in a hospital bed. Han stands and watches her, expression blank. He is carrying his tin box. A DOCTOR, young and stern, enters the room.

DOCTOR

You’re the son?

HAN

Yes.

The doctor sighs and places his hand on Han’s shoulder.

DOCTOR

Her heart gave out.

Han looks at the doctor for a long time. He nods.

DOCTOR (CONT’D)

I’m sorry.

The doctor leaves the room. Han watches him leave, then turns back to Mama. At this point, his expression is still blank. He goes and stands by her side. He touches her arm.

HAN

Mama? I’m sorry.

Han puts his head on her shoulder and begins to cry.

INT. FUNERAL HOME - DAY

A FUNERAL DIRECTOR leads Han, still carrying his tin box, through a selection of urns. Most are very plain, but some are beautiful and elaborately made. He gestures to Han, his demeanor suave and businesslike. Han is only half-listening.

FUNERAL DIRECTOR

And over here we have the best, yes? Although you 

would be looking for a cheaper one?

HAN

I would like the best.

FUNERAL DIRECTOR

And where is that money going to come from?

Han hands him the tin box.

EXT. HAN’S BEDROOM WINDOW - NIGHT

Han leans out his open bedroom window, looking at the night. The sounds of city life roll by - dogs barking, people yelling, car engines starting.

HAN'S P.O.V. - He looks at the postcard of the Eiffel Tower, dangling from his fingers onto the busy street below.

Han retreats from his window.

INT. HAN’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Han walks over to a desk and pulls a chair across his room, back to the window.

He steps on it cautiously at first, as if testing his weight - then bravely, as he eases himself onto the window ledge.

EXT. HAN’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Han is framed against the window, his silhouette black against the burning lights. He is still holding the postcard.

Grasping the window frame with one hand, Han holds up the postcard to the sky.

HAN'S P.O.V. - Han’s hand holding the postcard against the dark night sky. All around the Eiffel Tower, stars wink and waver brilliantly.

Han smiles.

FADE OUT.

Caprice, a poem

He enjoyed playing God;
Relished dabbling his hands in the subordinate
Valleys of the mortals, sculpting with wet clay
The fates and vocations of his creations.
With his powers he was
Earth-maker, land-shaker, and he engraved his
Whims in stone.

The sun burned his fingers
So he dipped it in milk and
Rolled it in crystalline glass,
Hung it back in the sky and wove
Clouds like a veil around
Its filmy light.

The stars did not suit his folly;
Thus he drew a black shroud over the speckled dots
And buried their empty fluorescent bodies
Under layers of heavy night.

The trees poked holes in the moon;
He punished them by
Snapping their branches in two and
Crumpling the dry leaves in his smoky palm,
Staining the grass with the black litter of their blood.

The flowers were too sweet so he waved away
Their milky perfume with a bone-handled fan,
And trimmed down the rosebushes until
Crabgrass sprang through the dry earth.

The night was too blue
Hence he turned it into the sea
And the fish leapt too high
So they were banished from the waves
And died of asphyxiation on hot sand.

He led me back to the canvas and had me touch
My hand to the cracking texture of the paint;
“Do you see it?” he asked. “Everything is perfect.”
I took my hands away,
And my fingers were stained a heavy red.
Around me, lies breathed venom into the air,
The entire canvas a viscous shade of black.

Candy Crush, a film (director)

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Flew, a film (screenwriter)

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QC0yM901TRo

Contrition, a film (screenwriter and director)

http://www.schooltube.com/video/c7d6a0e8b282485bb9fb/Contrition

Les Miserables Review, a film review

     With his newest picture, director Tom Hooper takes the word film and wrings it dry of any vilifying Hollywood stereotype, beefs it up until every aspect is either a reflection or continuity of his vision, and creates one of the most moving and exquisite motion pictures of the year. Add to that gorgeous visuals, flying voices, and heartrending performances by a coterie of dedicated actors – not to mention the soul-searching score that has already moved generations of theater-goers – and you’ll get Les Misérables, a film whose every artistic department strives to surpass one another in aesthetic, be that vocals, costumes, or set design – Hooper’s magnum opus and nominee of a grand total of eight Academy Awards.

     Les Misérables, or “Les Mis,” as it is affectionately dubbed, weaves together the multifaceted stories of eight different people – young and old, rich and poor – into an amalgamated tale of despair and hope, struggle and defiance, all taking place upon the waving banner of the French Revolution.  
  

     Jean Valjean (Hugh Jackman) is a recently freed ex-convict stirred to change his thieving ways after being gifted a pair of two silver candle-holders by a kindly bishop. Years later we meet him, groomed and shaven, a factory owner and doer of good deeds. He meets the pitiful Fantine (Anne Hathaway), who has to resort to prostitution in order to feed her young daughter, Cossette (Isabelle Allen). Horrified, Valjean decides to find Cossette, all the while being pursued by the exacting and determined policeman Javert (Russel Crowe). Valjean discovers Cossette living in an unhygienic pigsty of an inn, under the care of Thénardier (Sacha Baron Cohen) and his wife, Madame Thénardier (Helena Bonham Carter). Valjean essentially buys Cossette away from her aunt and uncle, and treats her as his own daughter. As time passes Cossette grows into a beautiful young woman (Amanda Seyfried), who falls into a mutual love with left-wing rich-boy Marius (Eddie Redmayne), who in turn is oblivious to the advances of poor-girl Éponine (Samantha Barks). As the film unravels, each character’s story becomes intertwined with that of another until the entire film practically pulses with emotion, bearing the trademark sentiment and savory twang of literature’s most celebrated epics.

    First and foremost, Les Mis’s set production is one of magical proportions – interior, exterior, within and without we discover 18^th Century France as it’s never been revealed before. We fly down streets encapsulated by sloping apartments, climb up mountainsides capped with snow and grass, and sink inside abandoned ships dripping with dank and mold. Through the remarkable majesty of an antique age caught up in a raucous revolution, Eve Stewart and Anna Lynch-Robinson bring us a world of color and grandeur, where barricades line the streets and flags fly from every corner.

     Costumes are magnificent and orchestrated as ever, thanks to an exceedingly perceptive Paco Delgado. Delgado is remarkably in-tune with each character’s personality; each frill and layer is assigned to them in kind: ingenuous Cossette is frequently seen flying about in puffed sleeves while sweet Fantine sports a girlish, innocent pink.

     Throughout the film, Hooper and cinematographer Danny Cohen employ an ingenious technique of close-ups on actors during individual songs. This method creates an appropriate ambiance: the focus of the songs is the actors and the actors only. As an audience, we are held captivated by every streak of emotion that crosses Javert’s face, every tear that drips from Fantine’s eyes. Through this system Hooper exhumes a passion buried so deep that no stage production has ever been able to touch it before.

     There isn’t much to say for music, as the same tunes have been gracing theaters for decades. Minus the inclusion of “Suddenly” – a song written purely for the film and composed with so much regard to the original score that one would be hard-pressed to pick out which one was not the original – the same heartrending music and lyrics remain for the film. As for the singing, the cast is relatively decent for a band of Hollywood actors who, well, act for a living (of course, this doesn’t include hot-off-of-Broadway British prodigy Samantha Barks). For some of the cast (ahem, Russel Crowe), lack of singing ability is more obvious than others. Yet what lacks in voice is made up for in acting, and Crowe does this remarkably in his portrayal of Javert.

     Not the best of singers, Crowe certainly is the best of actors, and uses this ability to his advantage. His aptitude for playing the troubled and ambitious French policeman is extraordinary on a deep, human level. While watching his performance, the audience can practically perceive Javert’s emotions burrowing deep inside their psyche. And as for being the villain for most of the film, Crowe still demonstrates the propensity to jerk the tears from our eyes, and the sympathy from our hearts.

     Okay, Anne Hathaway. Probably going to win the BAFTA. Probably going to win the Oscar. And probably going to win a lot of other things, too. It’d be safe to call her performance the most heartrending of the entire film, and it’d be right (sorry, Hugh). Ms. Hathaway blew us all away, and “I Dreamed a Dream” just capped off the experience. Playing Fantine – possibly one of the most undeservedly abused and mistreated creature in storytelling history – Hathaway disappears entirely from her former princess persona and descends to a level so much darker and despairing than one we’ve ever seen her in before. She sings beautifully; she acts compellingly. She literally becomes Fantine, and she does so perfectly.

     In conclusion, if you pick ten members from an audience and ask them what they thought of Les Mis, you’ll probably get ten different answers. And that’s exactly what this film is. There are so many beautiful things hidden in this treasure-trove that no word can accurately sum up all it has to offer. It is simply, indescribably… magical. This exquisite picture is an emotional powerhouse of a film that will leave you exhausted… but wanting to watch it again, and again, and again – simply for that pure, ethereal thrill of falling in love with a good story.

    

Dear Vincent, a poem

When I hear your name,

I see yellow, blues but mostly

Yellow, not the artificial kind but

The one that charms,

That ladies wear, that dashes through the sky

When the crickets come out,

That splays across prickling cornfields

Like a carpet flush across the arid plain.

I close my eyes on tired days

And I see you,

Standing in front of a canvas like a

Jockey stands before an

Unbroken mare, you have your sleeves rolled up and

Straw hat pulled low, firmly gripping brush and

Slashing, twisting and pulling on the taut fabric                                                    

With your unharbored insanity, pellets of paint staining

Your freckled arms, your nose,

The air thick with the yellow fumes of your

Feverish lust.

What was inside of your

Soul, Vincent –

Was it fire or

Ice?

Both can burn, you know

Both can sear the flesh from bone and crumbling marrow –

Turn fractured glass into a mirage of the human heart.

What was it like, Vincent,

To not know the slopes, the crooked angles

Of your own body and soul,

To be attacked by a sharp-toothed monster nestled

Deep inside your heart –

Was it frightening, when

It ate you?

Did you feel its gnashing teeth, its caustic breath,

Tearing your limbs into some contorted dance

At the mercy of a satanic puppet-master

With all the leisure in the world?

What were you thinking, Vincent,

When you pressed the silver blade to your ear –

Were your hands shaking, were they sweating?

Did you scream, thrash about like a fish slick from

A crescent fall of crimson river-water,

Or did you stare, uninterested, as you worked your way

Around the pink, exposed flesh, the mutilated cartilage,

Hands steady, with all the precision in the world?

A human is not a canvas, Vincent.

He cannot be molded, altered, changed to fit a purpose.

You forgot – temporarily, dear – that your

Skill lies in brushes and pots,

Not sculpture.

You know, Vincent,

Someone once said to me that

Good artists are quite like teacups,

Fine-boned china men with the fragility of roses –

And God, dressed in his Sunday-morning kimono

Eating a piece of burnt buttered toast –

He is the tea-maker.

Now us, the normal, the average –

We get half a cup, rarely more –

A fine Grey Earl or strong Japanese herb, if you prefer,

We are born with the influx of hot liquid into our bowels,

The dunking of

Tea leaves on our rims,

Souls sloshing around in the

Confines of our porcelain rib-cages.

Our lives are measured in sips between bites of toast

And the Sunday paper –

Life rises in the form of white steam,

We disappear between God’s lips,

Drained and gone.

Now good artists, now they are of an

Entirely different kind –

God is thirsting for caffeine, for a buzz

He pours some tea, then more, then more

Tea and soul and blood mix and spill in a fiery carnage

A kaleidoscopic outrage

Liquid splashes down the sides of these fragile glasses

Overflowing onto saucers, and embroidered dollies.

Artists need room, I’m told, they need space –

They paint their spilled tea onto the whiteness of a canvas,

The blankness of a page,

The yellow gleam of a solitary spotlight

Spouting their troubles into monologues and dances –

A good artist does not do good work,

A good artist turns himself into the masterpiece.

He frets over his imperfections, the cracks in his demeanor,

Wrings the blood out of a washcloth

And cries himself to sleep at night.

Did your teacup spill, Vincent?

Did your oolong flow down the sides of your thin china walls–

Until you forgot the color of dry?

That harsh, blinking simplicity,

Walls too fragile and too glass-like to withstand the

Imbalance within?

How does fire taste, Vincent,

When you forced the toxic paint down your throat.

Were you trying to fill yourself with

Color? Lavish blues and

Bloody reds,

Creamy yellows perfect enough to simply

Melt the soul?

Were you trying to turn

Yourself into the art?

To use the canvas of your

Intestines, the wraparound pearl

Of your stomach – to mix the base pinks of flesh

With the variegated shades of liquid poison?

Did it hurt, Vincent?

When you stepped into the yellow fields, when you

Pressed the gun to your chest –

Did it hurt?

No, I don’t mean the bullet,

The shattering of the ribcage into fine dust –

What I mean is,

What did you think, Vincent?

Did you see Theo’s face, in the sky?

Did your heart contort and twist itself into

An indistinguishable blackness,

A scorching ash, a human vessel with the weight of

Rusting iron?

When I hear your name, Vincent, I see

Yellow, blues but mostly

Yellow, I see the sun dripping through oak trees

In the summer, and honey glistening in a jar

I see yellow, the kind that charms,

That full-moon yellow that orbits the land,

The kind that resides in the bottoms of cornfields –

Rises like smoke through the petals of dying suns,

And that creases the sky when the crickets come out.

I see the yellow that lights a fire and then burns to a

Crisp –

Nighttime coming,

Drained and gone.

The yellow that leaves shadows,

And monsters, when it’s done.

Love,

(And yes, Vincent, there is such a thing

As love in the world) –

Your native beast