Before & After

B E F O R E
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FADE IN:

INT. LAURA’S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
The room is a total mess.
An ashtray filled with cigarette butts sits on the bedside table, next to a a bottle of prescription medication.
The cigarette butts have lipstick strains on them.
A photo of LAURA (29,) elegant, with sadness hiding behind a smile and JOSH (4) full of life, with shiny eyes and a wide, pure smile.

Dressed in a black suit, pale and well groomed, FRANK (30) sits in a chair, holding a toy car.
The phone suddenly RINGS and He scans the room from one side to the other.
He stares at the picture on the bedside table, gets up, sets down the car and retrieves it.
The phone keeps RINGING.
A BEEP as the answering machine picks up.

LAURA
(filtered)
Hi, you’re calling Laura McKenzie.
I’m not home right now, please--

Frank turns the machine off. He looks at the LCD screen on the phone.

“3 MESSAGES; 0 NEW”

Frank takes his finger to the PLAY button. He hesitates.

He opens a drawer of the bedside table and takes out a wedding ring. He then looks at the wedding ring on his finger.
Frank goes back to the answering machine and pushes PLAY.

MACHINE
(filtered)
Message one. November 20th, 1 PM.

FRANK (V.O.)
(filtered)
Hey. I know you probably don’t want to hear from me so soon.
(beat)
Maybe it’s a good thing the machine answered... right?

He puts the new photo on the bedside table, then puts old one in the drawer.

FRANK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(filtered)
How’s Josh doing? I miss you both.
I’m trying, Laura.

Frank arranges the messed up bed.
He throws out the ashtray, complete with the cigarette butts, then the pills.

FRANK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(filtered)
Lots of resumes, no callbacks...
I feel I’m in a limbo here.

He goes to a big mirror at the dresser and looks at himself.

FRANK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(filtered)
I’ll go now. Please call me back...
I miss you.

BEEP.
A noose hangs from the ceiling.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Laura lies on the bed, perfectly still and looking into the camera.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Josh’s toy car sliding slowly on the floor. A faint child’s voice making ENGINE SOUNDS.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Frank stares at the wall. Photos.

MACHINE
(filtered)
Message 2. November 24th, 2:15 PM.

Frank’s hands subtly shake. He leaves the room.

FRANK (V.O.)
(filtered)
Hey.
(beat)
I’m on my way to an interview...
A big company.

Frank returns with a chair.
He looks around.

FRANK (CONT’D)
They said they value a young,
committed man like me.

He sets the chair down on the floor under the noose.

FRANK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(filtered)
I will make things right.

Frank sits on the bed and arranges his tie.

FRANK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(filtered)
Anyway, I just wanted you to wish me luck.
Call me when you get this.

BEEP.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Laura on the bed, staring straight ahead.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Josh’s toy car. It’s steady on the floor.
The light dims.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Frank Shakes the image from his mind.
He stands and leaves the room again.

MACHINE
(filtered)
Message 3. November 28th, 4 PM.

The room is still and spotless.

FRANK (V.O.)
(filtered)
I need you.

Frank enters the room.
He’s carrying a body completely wrapped in linens.

FRANK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(filtered)
You and Josh...

Frank puts it on the bed.
He leaves again.

FRANK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(filtered)
I think I can...
I’m ready to look after you.
(beat)
We’re supposed to be together.

A faint CHILD’S LAUGH...

FRANK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(filtered)
I want you to know...

Frank returns, carrying a much smaller body, wrapped in linens.
He carries it to the bed.
The toy car sits alone on the bedside table.

CUT TO:
INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Laura on the bed... Dead and bloody.

CUT TO:
INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Frank sets the small body down next to the large one.

FRANK (V.O.)
(filtered)
I love You.

Frank grabs the picture from the bedside table and sets it on top of the bodies.

FRANK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(filtered)
See you soon.

He stares straight ahead into the camera. Eyes cold and empty, void of life. He blinks.
BEEP--

MACHINE
(filtered)
End of messages.

FADE TO BLACK.

THE END.

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A F T E R
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PS:
Any kind of feedback will be greatly appreciated. Use the comments section in blogger or youtube. All positive and negative comments will help me grow as a filmmaker.

Detour-ish (A Teaser)

INT. HOTEL ROOM - BATHROOM - NIGHT

The ash tray is filled with ashes and two cigarette butts. Laura puts her lit cigarette on the ash tray. She’s looking at herself on the mirror. She grabs her tit and releases it and watches how it hangs down. She looks at her ass, her big ass. She then touches her thigh and blows the smoke on the cellulite. She’s sad.

Eddie is BANGING at the door, telling her that it’s ok, they should go back to the bar and have some more drinks.

INT. HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT

Eddie is sitting on the edge of the bed, in his briefs, having wine. Laura steps out of the bathroom, looking far sexier and “younger.” She grabs her purse, and steps out of the room.

EXT. DOCK - NIGHT

Tomás and Tambor are setting up the little boat to leave the island. They are carefully putting the instruments in the boat. Tomás asks Tambor about Piojo. He answers that he hasn’t seen him in a while, that maybe he had to go jerk it off. Tomás laughs.

Tambor asks him if he saw the beautiful gringa that was sitting near the stage. Tomás nods, and mocks him about his lack of skill to handle a woman like that. Speaking of the devil, Tambor points to the beach. It’s Laura, lighting a cigarette.

EXT. BEACH - NIGHT

Laura shakily lights her cigarette. She SOBS. She represses a deep anger, an old sorrow. She just SOBS. She can’t cry. Tomás gently asks if she’s OK, if he can help her in anyway.

Laura is shocked. She thought she was alone. She’s embarrassed. She flees. Tomás asks her again if everything’s all right.

No answer.

...

A Different Drum

When I came back from the sleazy bar to which I went automatically every Friday by 4:05 in the afternoon, I found her in the threshold of my crisis. Everything seemed contradictory for me. If my predisposition of fucking the world indicated that I should simply fuck her, why did I hesitate? The conscience has never played an important roll in my impulsive decisions. My body, in its balance and natural harmony gives me signals... certain impulses.

What the majority of people would consider impulsive actions, not pre-thought actions, I consider them instinctive actions. And it's fair to give credit to your instinct. I don't want to minimize the brain's importance, the logic thinking. But there are more things. The problem is that the man insists on synthesizing: the less, the better. If I understand something, I stay there. The so called, comfort zones.

Anyway, in the end I didn't fuck her. I didn't follow my instinct, and I did follow some... guidelines... moral? I've always complained about the moral. I think it's bullshit for the minds and modern perceptions, having to feel ourselves tied to commandments of past societies. Societies that have a little or nothing to do with me. But my intellectual posture doesn't matter to her. She attacked me. Hard.

I asked her – with that vague idea I have of being a gentleman – to leave. I had no interest in fucking her. There was something very nasty in the idea of having sex with a .. dead woman... don't-- don't judge me. It's not something literal, what I mean is that it would've felt dead, empty. I don't know. I think neither my body, not my mind have to do with it, or anything of metaphysics in my decision and change. It's a third person.

Her name is Cathy.

She took me out of my comfort zone.

Regressions

Do you remember that old man with cloudy eyes? That old man that stuttered every time he called you. That great man whose wrinkled skin showed you, centimeter by centimeter, a story filled with struggles, happiness, frustrations, loves, forests, seas, and fruits. That old man who was young sometime before and whose hand you held as support not to fall. That man who you considered your hero at least once. The one you didn't see during the day sometimes, and you simply resigned to dream of during the night.

That kind and tender person which you ignored for the most part of your life. The one you denied. Do you remember in secondary school or high school? Remember how you blushed with shame... SHAME...because your friends might see you on that great man's side? Now you only have the memory, and you cry, and you talk about him, and you want to take his hand and make sure everyone sees you by his side.

But those gems are perishable. The things that matter, the things we care about and we stick to the most are destined to stop existing physically. And your are a perfect example of this eternal irony. The human as an eternal adolescent, who doesn't know what he/she wants, and never learns to value anything. What a sad story the one of the father that's always there for his kids, even when those kids don't want to know anything about their father. It's the “natural” road, unfair and hard. Because they are the ones that are only left with their white hair, their wrinkles, and their labyrinth of random and fantastic memories; the ones that stay alone at the end.

I see old people. Those men whose eyes hide piercing screams that cry for company... for the no-annulment. I don't even want to imagine the memories, regrets, laments, and cries that are trapped in their deathbed, when they're surrounded by faces and silhouettes that are now hard to decipher. They must cry in silence. Cry behind a peaceful face.

And you, as part of those undecipherable and unrecognizable faces, just observe with incredulity how something that seemed eternal extinguishes slowly, at the rhythm of the erratic shaking of his hands. And is in that final irony when, if you pay attention, you could hear a spectral whisper, filled with calm, that says: “you've had me for years... don't torture yourself... take my hand and we'll be in peace.”

_______________________________________

To my father,

Leonard Cohen said

“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.”

I've never denied you, I've never been ashamed by you, I've always admired you.
But I cannot stop feeling that I owe you so much.
I hope there are no final moments filled with guilt or regrets.

I love you, I respect you, and thank you for everything you have sacrificed for your kids,
the ashes of your life, the poems of an idealist and a dreamer.

Eight

Do you believe in inexplicable connections, almost magical, with something or someone?

I don't know if it's an obsession of mine for trying to find a proof of transcendental elements in a world where the spiritual and the magic are judged as stupidities. But the eight has followed me... I'm sure, and I'm stubborn about it.

Salvador, my name, has eight letters.

Martínez, my second last name, has eight letters.

When I lived in San Nicolás, my house had the number 208.

My actual home has the number 208.

The apartment I live in is number 1808, in a building with number 588.

My first feature script is around eighty-something pages in its first draft.

My student number in ITESM was 595888.

My girlfriend since almost eight years and now fiancé is called Gabriela: eight letters.

The first phone number I remember was 76-88-83.

My musical idol is called Bob Dylan: eight letters.

My cinematographic idol's last name is Scorsese: eight letters.

There are many things that connect me to that number. Why? I don't know, and I'm not interested in knowing. Is part of giving life the credit of its capability to surprise. I'm sure that if I make a deep analysis of my life and what surrounds me, I would find many other things.

Blessed eight, until now it has been a great trip. Lets stay together.

Brainfuck

December 2009. The screen was there, desolate, sad, cynical. My sight wandered between one window and the other, continuously. Something like the people with the habit of changing the TV channel again and again, without stop. Is like trying to catch the most amount of images possible. Make them yours, be jealous, not letting them go. And above all, give them no truce.

The pages of what was priority stayed, as a couple of weeks ago, at the end of my interests at the moment. Coffee, facebook, twitter, view to the urban landscape, the analysis in Senses of Cinema is fuckin' great, coffee, facebook, twitter, what the fuck do we hand in tomorrow?

A very dear friend of mine and very putilla coined (or at least introduced me) a term for the people of the current generation, in which the social webs and other spaces, not only work as a tool, but create little things... little pleasures, very very addictive, that make you become a captive client/user. That term is digital autistic. What an appropriate term!

The worst is that digital autism doesn't seem to be the exception, but the rule. Either because you're a laptop slave thanks to your profession or study, or you simply have the possibility to access social webs by cellphone or other media the activity that appears every 5-10 seconds, is frankly scary.

I don't want to get to the point of having a blackberry or iphone in my hands. The worst thing is I will. 2010 looks like we'll be one step closer to being Wall-E-esque people. We're getting there. I have no doubt. People tend to think that I'm kidding when I say Wall-E is a prophetic movie. I think they're in denial.

I hope society proves me wrong... I don't think so. We've already crossed the point of no return and there's nothing left but to keep on with the same ridiculous obsession for the quick, the immediate, the quantity and no quality... Artificial autism. Good, we're on our way.

Disgusting!

A Start From Scratch

The hangovers continued, the insomnia nights, the days of dreaming, the combination of Vitamin C and E for a better immune system, the hours stuck in front of a laptop trying to write and only getting to be a big virtual voyeuristic, the LBSII pills for a lazy bowel.

Stories in my head pounding randomly during the day, stories that find their way out in the most imprudent moments, my attempt to trust in my memory and that my ADD doesn't get in the way when I get the chance to vomit on the keyboard everything I need to, seven years of an uninterrupted love relationship, its formalization, the support and stimuli necessary, the muses.

The honor of having people by my side who ignorant people call crazy but are geniuses, the drunk gatherings with my blood siblings, the drunk gatherings with my chosen brothers, the mediocre movies, the trash movies, the movies with soul, the soulless movies, the movies that tear your soul apart, a new country, a new city, new people, re-encounters.

And the drinking gatherings continue, and the hangovers, and here I am again, in front of a laptop with nervous and hesitant fingers, and everything starts over again from scratch.

The Man Who Hasn't Met Nacho Vegas

After much thinking, I dared. I had to vomit about this. I dare to talk about music, even though I don´t know much about it but what I get from my ears, brain (or whatever my skull is protecting in there), the heart and the guts. Aphex, whenever you feel it convenient, correct me in your blog. Tambor, Esquer, Karnal... I'm sorry if I fail you.

I think there are very few times in life when one comes front to front with revelations of any kind. In this case, the revelation happened some time ago... and it was musical. Especially in a generation like ours which, even if tried hard, cannot be classified or named, simply because there's no identity at all. In this generational crisis that steals, borrows, or simply recycles past cultural manifestations, sometimes the singer-songwriter (for me a necessary combo), comes out with a style frankensteinely unique.

That singer-songwriter, who emerged from the underworld of our generation, is not a Mexican and much less a gringo... he's from Sabina's land and his name is Nacho Vegas.

I first heard him in a gathering with my three brothers. The song: Gang Bang; the album: Enrique Bunbury's Freak Show. Really?! Accordion, waltz, the burlesque, the neon, the night. The song was a duet with Enrique Bunbury, who I also consider a totally underestimated monster.

And that contrast in their voices and the perfect match in the stanzas was gripping. It was a feeling similar to the first time I heard Esa Noche by café Tacvba, but also the fist time I heard Regan speak with her possessed voice in The Exorcist. It was my inner self of a character many times seen in big movies. Keeping on with the comparison with movies... Gang Bang is Music Noir.

Nacho Vegas is like Chavela Vargas' lost child. While she cries and suffers without hiding, with exposed flesh in a Mexican folk subtly deep, Vegas represses the yell and his voice comes out like a mild cry... like an spectral lament at night, in the distance, that is there for the simple reason of the inevitable... to see who listens.

Nacho Vegas is folk. Is returning to music for urgency. It's not ornamental music. He is a troubadour as much as Sabina is a rocker. His album shared with Enrique Bunbury, El Tiempo de las Cerezas, is a masterpiece of the bohemian, the cabaret, the sorrow, the alcohol... the night. A brother said, pretty drunk by then, that this album is so special and unique that if you put it against Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, you will not know which one to choose. At that moment, I suggested him to be more careful with his words... but drunk people and kids always say the truth, and my brother is both.

Vegas is so special and fucking crude that he resonates in different human fibers, making him shine with own light and never be eclipsed by anyone.

One of the things that calls my attention about Nacho Vegas is that his songs, like Sabina's, Cohen's, Dylan's, and Pink Floyd's, are movies by themselves. They tell stories, and in three to five minutes, they take you in a roller coaster of emotions that very few artists achieve nowadays. And the strongest thing about this is the amount of people that could identify with these monsters half song, half movie.

Nacho Vegas gets to the overwhelmed human passions like Cronenberg and Arnofsky in Gang Bang and Canción de Isabel; he gets to sexually and spiritually raped worlds like Almodóvar in the great Historia de un Perdedor and the hallucinating Mi Marilyn Particular; he gets to very deep human textures, covered by an exterior layer easily confused with banality, the same as Billy Wilder, in songs like El Cazador and El Hombre que Casi Conoció a Michi Panero.

I knew Vegas because of Bunbury, and when they did the album together, that album that will stay in my top 10 forever, I immediately fell in love for his creations. He's immediate, he's urgent, and he's weird, classic, and genuinely talented

"¿No veis que yo le rezo a un dios, que me prometió,
que cuando esto acabe
no habrá nada más?
¡fue bastante ya!"

-Nacho Vegas, El Hombre Que Casi Conoció A Michi Panero