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
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
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.
EXT. FREEWAY, LOS ANGELES - HIGH ABOVE THE TRAFFIC. EVENING2
OUR CAMERA HOVERS HIGH ABOVE THE CROWDED FREEWAYS OF LOS
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.
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.
EXT. FREEWAY, LOS ANGELES - HIGH ABOVE THE TRAFFIC. NIGHT 4
Susan’s car weaves it’s way through the night.
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.