1 INT. MORROW GALLERY, LOS ANGELES. PRESENT DAY. EVENING. 1

Red frizzy hair flies across our screen in slow motion.

Glimpses of tinsel, and a transparent peignoir momentarily

hide a large pair of sagging breasts swinging from side to

side and bouncing up and down. Dead silence as the movement

gradually speeds up to real time. We slowly pull back to

reveal that our image is that of a giant nude woman dressed

in nothing but tiny bits of glitter, white vinyl boots and a

small tulle cape. She is gyrating madly and flinging her head

around in some sort of windstorm. As we pull back further we

come to understand that what we are looking at is an art

installation:
a floor to ceiling LCD screen.

The sound of breathing. A close up of a woman’s eyes now

fills our screen. SUSAN MORROW, 42, handsome. Sleek. There is

a very slight hint of panic on her face as she stares across

the crowded, brightly lit room.

Abruptly our sound snaps on at a deafening decibel level as

we hear what seems like a thousand voices screaming over each

other.

The screens cover the four walls of the gallery and the

effect of wall to wall, floor to ceiling breast and ass

jiggling is oddly impressive. The obese women on the LCD

screens are nude but dressed in bits and pieces of Americana:

one is playing the part of a cheerleader with red tinsel pom

poms, one a majorette twirling a baton while another wears a

beauty queen’s ribbon and waves small American flags. They

taunt us and tease us.

On raised plinths scattered around the room are incredibly

life like sculptures of seemingly the same corpulent women on

our video screens. These women appear to be dead and are

lying face down. Nude except for jewelry, shoes and small

bits of tinsel wrapped around their ankles and waists.

The room is jammed with people laughing and talking. The

crowd is a collection of what passes in contemporary Los

Angeles culture as the chic and fashionable. Photographers

track several of the guests as the flash of their cameras

heightens the excitement in the room.

OUR CAMERA GLIDES HIGH ABOVE THE ROOM CAPTURING THE CROWD AND

THE WOMEN ON THEIR PLINTHS.

2.

2

EXT. FREEWAY, LOS ANGELES - HIGH ABOVE THE TRAFFIC. EVENING2

-- CONTINUOUS.

OUR CAMERA HOVERS HIGH ABOVE THE CROWDED FREEWAYS OF LOS

ANGELES.

WE CUT BACK AND FORTH FROM OVERHEAD SHOTS OF THE NUDE WOMEN

ON PLINTHS TO OVERHEAD SHOTS OF THE CROWDED FREEWAYS OF LOS

ANGLES AS NIGHTFALL SLOWLY OVERTAKES THE CITY.

3

INT. MORROW GALLERY, LOS ANGELES. NIGHT -- LATER. 3

Silence. The gallery is now empty. A small crew of men in

white shirts and dark ties clear away the last traces of the

party. Susan is sitting on one of the plinths deep in

thought. A nude sculpture lying face down is behind her. The

women on the screens continue to gyrate on all four walls.

4

EXT. FREEWAY, LOS ANGELES - HIGH ABOVE THE TRAFFIC. NIGHT 4

-- LATER.

Susan’s car weaves it’s way through the night.

5

EXT. MORROW RESIDENCE, LOS ANGELES. NIGHT -- MINUTES LATER.5

Susan pulls up to a pair of large stainless steel gates. The

glare of her headlights reflects off of the gates and

temporarily blinds her as she shields her eyes. She hits the

remote and the massive gates glide open. She drives in as the

gates close behind her.

As the gates lock in place, another car pulls into the

driveway. The glare of the headlights blinds us so that we

cannot make out anything but the silhouette of the driver. We

see clearly however from the large logo on the hubcap that

the car is a vintage dark brown Mercedes. The car door opens

as the driver lowers his foot onto the gravel drive.

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