On Monday 30 Pluviose year of grace 2009, after six weeks of pregnancy, your illustrious host L. is very pleased to announce the birth of her second child on Sunday 29, the vicinity of something like 18 hours or less accurate ( one or two meridians of Greenwich near ).
This proud fellow weighed ( and weighs always) some 180 pages, and his single father decided by mutual agreement with himself to named him "NOT A C DRE," and to make a poetic fable fantasy tinged romantic comedy centered on three themes in "A " linked to each other: Art, Love, Alienation ...
Suffice to say that the chances that that scenario may one day make her puberty, becoming a real movie ( three hours, a page equivalent to approximately one minute of film ) are close to absolute zero, especially on our beautiful yet territory. The kind of scenario that you killed a promising career in four seconds and eighteen hundredths ( we did not expect less of myself ) ...
But never mind!
For those who, incidentally, would be tempted ( e) s to make the attempt ( trainer, exciting and unique in terms of writing) , here are some useful links ( information is extremely difficult to find, even on the net ) to discover the main rules ( extremely strict ) that govern this type of exercise in style :
And besides " more," the presentation must be specific, I would strongly recommend you download the new version ' Open Office (freeware ) with its update (also free ) scheduled for this express purpose, which, after some necessary adjustments ( but easy, since I managed ) will save you 500 euro to slam into a software professional.
In my case, just to make you share my joy of young father, I will open the following pages from my family album and reveals both the pitch and the opening scene ...
C NOT A WFA
Synopsis
A life filled. Yet: a vacuum. Visions and feelings of déjà vu. The image of a woman. A foolish quest. A part of the world erased and the ultimate sacrifice for the rewrite. For the triumph of love this past love.
The story of a talented young painter who, after having long struggled to make themselves known, is finally living her smile acclaimed in artistic circles, his name became the rising star in the middle, the center of all attentions ... His paintings sell for gold, the reviews are glowing, its exhibits are real success. It has more friends and people who revolve around him. He was even recently a beautiful love story with a remarkable lady and magnificent, not even a year earlier, he would probably do not cast the slightest glance. Yet deep down, it feels like a lack, a void, an absence that is growing. His feelings seem locked in tight in the depths of his heart, as if only his right hand was still alive when seized a brush, as if her paintings were the reverse reflection of what he was deep in him, as if 'he painted only to ignore an injury that the torment or to find something he would have lost. One thing ... Yes, maybe. But which one?
Gradually, he loses the sleep, appetite, smile ... Something is wrong, he is convinced. He could not say what but it's more than a mere hunch. And then ... Because this intuition is constantly harass, increasingly strong, insistent, strange things begin to happen. First there is this blur, light, moving in her eyes, illuminates his nights when he lets his eyelids fall and can not sleep: a task shifting, shapeless, indistinct and sometimes seem almost human ... Then: sensations of deja vu, the words he seemed to have already heard - but in someone's mouth else - and impressions, situations he seems to have already experienced - but in other circumstances - but he recognizes places without having set foot ... People, too. A restaurant and a waiter, he knows the name when he comes here for the first time ... A couple of fifties he meets often, which would be lacking something ... The phenomenon continues to produce and reproduce again, little by little, his life becomes a puzzle he is trying to rebuild, slowly sinking into obsession, taking distance from its existence ideal to engage in endless introspection, long night walks, scenic landscapes, dating games, leaving his car to guide him along the white lines that do not lead anywhere. Soon, he even seems hear voices ... Or more accurately: A voice, always the same. A female voice ... But each time he returns, he finds no one behind him. ... As well as inconsistencies, flashbacks and visions, memories flashing through her back. He finally remembered a woman, a beautiful woman that is absolutely certain never to have known and whose face, however, it is so familiar that it is painful. His heart then seems to beat again. Day after day then linked together the scenes of her life with her: a dream life, he never lived, and yet, he misses much ... His laugh, his breath, his gentleness and generosity ... His way to encourage, to worry when it seemed too dark ... As if a new life in his head was superimposed to the one he now lived ...
Fearing losing the reason , he panics, returns in all the places he has the memories, the pacing from one end to another, moving heaven and earth, crying, crying ... then turned to the sky, pleading to stop it ... This feeling that he snatched the heart each reminiscence, this feeling of having lost everything without ever having had this nagging pain in the chest ... And then one day ...
VINCENT
Art?
FADE IN:
Ext. PARK - Day
Eyes open on a park bathed in light, motionless clouds, a carpet of grass, details at random: a cross-road tar, trees with golden leaves, a little wind .
Emma and Vincent discuss, serene, a senior executive. Only allow themselves to see, here and there, the white skin of a woman, the delicacy of her bare arm, the sheen of her long blonde hair.
EMMA:
Well yes, " l’Art ». Tu sais : pinceaux, peintures, angoisses, fins de mois difficiles, vie monastique, ce genre de choses...
VINCENT :
Je ne vois vraiment pas…
EMMA :
« Pourquoi est-ce que tu crées ? », si tu préfères.
VINCENT :
Il faut forcément une raison ?
EMMA :
Pas forcément, non. Mais il faut bien que ça ait un sens, à tes yeux, sinon pourquoi tu passerais autant de nuits devant ton chevalet, à y dessiner d’anciens rêves, au lieu d’en rêver de nouveaux ?
VINCENT
I do not know. I have not thought about.
EMMA:
( bitter )
Obviously, you do not have thought. I'm not surprised. You, the artist, you are superstitious people.
VINCENT
How? !
EMMA:
You see ... It seems that for you, these things must remain the order of mystery, the sacred, magic, lest they evaporate under your nose like a mirage they are. Somewhat like idols which you refuse to doubt, lest they interpret as a lack of faith and they abandon you. Without that blind trust is supposed to do the real artist, how it could make it in worship goddesses that have given talent?
VINCENT
( on the defensive )
As usual, you take things lightly, you do irony, but even you'll have to admit that there is magic in art!
EMMA:
unknown territories to conquer, it that? Chimeric creatures to tame? At other! Art, it is only the play of light, impressions, wind, dream, pigments mixed with dust ... No substance, no size, special transcendence. Nothing serious. Nothing but an old soul of an adventurer who invents imaginary hills.
VINCENT
Maybe. I do not know. I do not want to know, actually. I love to paint, that's all. I need it. It is enough, as the reason.
EMMA: You love me
also, no? You need me. Yet it is different. Your eyes do not shine as much, or in the same way, when you're with me.
VINCENT
( uninsured )
course it does.
EMMA:
( nonchalant )
course not. Do not you realize probably not realize, my heart, but in yours, I'm coming in second, and probably will be there always this way. Whatever I do, whatever I can invent to please you. Open your eyes: if you loved me as much as you say, you could not paint, it is also Simple as that. The two are not compatible. But I'm fine. I'm not big enough to fight against your magic.
VINCENT
I do not think it is comparable. Feelings are one thing. Creation, it is another.
EMMA:
If you say so.
Int. Workshop - Day
Workshop desert, dusty, cluttered with boxes and plunged into the darkness. The sun shining through the blinds to reveal a series of paintings stored against each other.
EMMA:
I only want to identify a Knowing how little better ... you see the world as an artist. If you live in the same as me. Do for you is a kind of great work of art that you steal music, here and there, random cravings, or bursts of inspiration? Does your eye sees as lines, paint or prospects? Is it decomposes, is it translated into the brush strokes to give him nothing more authentic?
VINCENT
There is a trap?
EMMA:
I just trying to understand.
VINCENT
Eh bien peut-être que c’est ça, l’art. Que c’est juste une manière de chercher à comprendre. Juste une manière de regarder, rien d’autre.
Ext. Parc - Jour
Retour au parc : ses arbres, sa lumière, ses fleurs, ses nuages.
EMMA :
Mais pour voir quoi, alors ? Le monde tel qu’il est, ou tel qu’il n’est pas ? Est-ce que tu cours après des vérités, ou après des mensonges ?... Qui es-tu réellement ? Un magicien, ou un menteur ? Tu me dis que tu m’aimes, mais elle est où, ta passion pour moi ? Elle est où, ta magie ? They are where your lies?
VINCENT
I'm not you.
EMMA:
In painting, somehow, you t'appropries the world, you do as if it were yours, but it belongs to nobody, Vincent. Your light is not light. Your red is not red. Your feeling is not a truth.
VINCENT
But he is when I create.
EMMA:
For you only. That is the problem. If all you can love, that's what t'approprier you can, what am I, me, for you? Do you love me more if I were one of your paintings? If my skin was not so warm? If the pink was a mixture of carmine and white? If I was born of your brush?
VINCENT
course not.
EMMA:
You forget me, if I disappeared?
VINCENT
course not.
EMMA:
Liar. If you had a choice, it would not be me.
VINCENT:
They talk about us there, or art?
EMMA:
You make a distinction? You, me, Art is ... a threesome, we will need to do. The love you give, it is not for me.
VINCENT
( with a smile )
So is "it"? ! Are you jealous?
EMMA:
I'm alive, that's all.
( break )
the way ... What is life for you, Vincent? FADE OUT
Preview
( opening scene )
EMMA:
( amused )
What is art for you, Vincent?
( amused )
What is art for you, Vincent?
VINCENT
Art?
FADE IN:
Ext. PARK - Day
Eyes open on a park bathed in light, motionless clouds, a carpet of grass, details at random: a cross-road tar, trees with golden leaves, a little wind .
Emma and Vincent discuss, serene, a senior executive. Only allow themselves to see, here and there, the white skin of a woman, the delicacy of her bare arm, the sheen of her long blonde hair.
EMMA:
Well yes, " l’Art ». Tu sais : pinceaux, peintures, angoisses, fins de mois difficiles, vie monastique, ce genre de choses...
VINCENT :
Je ne vois vraiment pas…
EMMA :
« Pourquoi est-ce que tu crées ? », si tu préfères.
VINCENT :
Il faut forcément une raison ?
EMMA :
Pas forcément, non. Mais il faut bien que ça ait un sens, à tes yeux, sinon pourquoi tu passerais autant de nuits devant ton chevalet, à y dessiner d’anciens rêves, au lieu d’en rêver de nouveaux ?
VINCENT
I do not know. I have not thought about.
EMMA:
( bitter )
Obviously, you do not have thought. I'm not surprised. You, the artist, you are superstitious people.
VINCENT
How? !
EMMA:
You see ... It seems that for you, these things must remain the order of mystery, the sacred, magic, lest they evaporate under your nose like a mirage they are. Somewhat like idols which you refuse to doubt, lest they interpret as a lack of faith and they abandon you. Without that blind trust is supposed to do the real artist, how it could make it in worship goddesses that have given talent?
VINCENT
( on the defensive )
As usual, you take things lightly, you do irony, but even you'll have to admit that there is magic in art!
EMMA:
unknown territories to conquer, it that? Chimeric creatures to tame? At other! Art, it is only the play of light, impressions, wind, dream, pigments mixed with dust ... No substance, no size, special transcendence. Nothing serious. Nothing but an old soul of an adventurer who invents imaginary hills.
VINCENT
Maybe. I do not know. I do not want to know, actually. I love to paint, that's all. I need it. It is enough, as the reason.
EMMA: You love me
also, no? You need me. Yet it is different. Your eyes do not shine as much, or in the same way, when you're with me.
VINCENT
( uninsured )
course it does.
EMMA:
( nonchalant )
course not. Do not you realize probably not realize, my heart, but in yours, I'm coming in second, and probably will be there always this way. Whatever I do, whatever I can invent to please you. Open your eyes: if you loved me as much as you say, you could not paint, it is also Simple as that. The two are not compatible. But I'm fine. I'm not big enough to fight against your magic.
VINCENT
I do not think it is comparable. Feelings are one thing. Creation, it is another.
EMMA:
If you say so.
Int. Workshop - Day
Workshop desert, dusty, cluttered with boxes and plunged into the darkness. The sun shining through the blinds to reveal a series of paintings stored against each other.
EMMA:
I only want to identify a Knowing how little better ... you see the world as an artist. If you live in the same as me. Do for you is a kind of great work of art that you steal music, here and there, random cravings, or bursts of inspiration? Does your eye sees as lines, paint or prospects? Is it decomposes, is it translated into the brush strokes to give him nothing more authentic?
VINCENT
There is a trap?
EMMA:
I just trying to understand.
VINCENT
Eh bien peut-être que c’est ça, l’art. Que c’est juste une manière de chercher à comprendre. Juste une manière de regarder, rien d’autre.
Ext. Parc - Jour
Retour au parc : ses arbres, sa lumière, ses fleurs, ses nuages.
EMMA :
Mais pour voir quoi, alors ? Le monde tel qu’il est, ou tel qu’il n’est pas ? Est-ce que tu cours après des vérités, ou après des mensonges ?... Qui es-tu réellement ? Un magicien, ou un menteur ? Tu me dis que tu m’aimes, mais elle est où, ta passion pour moi ? Elle est où, ta magie ? They are where your lies?
VINCENT
I'm not you.
EMMA:
In painting, somehow, you t'appropries the world, you do as if it were yours, but it belongs to nobody, Vincent. Your light is not light. Your red is not red. Your feeling is not a truth.
VINCENT
But he is when I create.
EMMA:
For you only. That is the problem. If all you can love, that's what t'approprier you can, what am I, me, for you? Do you love me more if I were one of your paintings? If my skin was not so warm? If the pink was a mixture of carmine and white? If I was born of your brush?
VINCENT
course not.
EMMA:
You forget me, if I disappeared?
VINCENT
course not.
EMMA:
Liar. If you had a choice, it would not be me.
VINCENT:
They talk about us there, or art?
EMMA:
You make a distinction? You, me, Art is ... a threesome, we will need to do. The love you give, it is not for me.
VINCENT
( with a smile )
So is "it"? ! Are you jealous?
EMMA:
I'm alive, that's all.
( break )
the way ... What is life for you, Vincent? FADE OUT
- So what happens when you hold your unemployment, master? !
- Yeah, Igor. Why? There are other ways?
(NdPrivate: Yes, I KNOW, Seb, I owe you royalties ... We'll see at our next meeting at midnight in the middle of a bridge ...)
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