Author: Elruade

Chapter 11







The Script


First scene; Bond sitting in an airplane as a passenger.

He has no special privileges. He cannot order a Martini in mid-flight; alcoholics are forbidden. He has to use a seatbelt. If he doesn’t secure it he will be criticized by the steward. Dressed in black, color of crows in flight.

Camera; located several seats left of him. We can use focus, zoom, and panning with these cameras. You can also change the color, contrast, and intensity. For this scene I think a red tint would be appropriate. Because of the man with the red hat on.

As the first scene of the movie, it is very important we make it realistic. It is a long flight; about ten hours. One can capture lengths of times using several techniques. One is the long shot. Focus on his face, which is expressionless of course, as he is on an airplane and cannot move. Just the eyes move, and occasionally he moves his head to the left or right. If the viewer stares at a blank face, what does he feel? (It’s never been done before, they tell me. It is only for the better; we break ground)

Now, there have been a million movies with a scene inside an airplane. And yet I have not seen a single one that captured the feeling of being inside one. In this movie, the first scene acts as an preview of what is to come.

The following emotions are stirred:






These five emotions (the three are added up to the same one) can be triggered with one shot. Since we have only one camera we can use, it will require more work; but it is not as hard as all that. I will explain in more detail how this is achieved. (Since I will be the one writing the script, I will make it as clear as I possibly can. You have all the time to look over it when it is done)

I have explained how the illusion of the passing of time is achieved by the long shot and the focus on the expressionless face. To convey boredom, it works about the same, but the face cannot be expressionless; boredom is, after all, an emotion. It is an annoyed emotion that can be put in the same category as frustration, anger, and resentment.

Boredom is the same as hopelessness. It is the existential realization of a world without hope or a future that can guarantee it. Many think of boredom as a trivial feeling, while really it is just one step removed from depression and hysteria.

Regardless of what goes on inside Bond’s head at this point (One can never tell in movies) the feeling of boredom is realized by the long shot of the face that has the expression of boredom. A slight tilt at the corner of the mouth will suffice, and eyes that are half-closed. We can use the screaming of babies to make it even more obvious.

Tiredness is more difficult to evoke than one may think. True tiredness (lethargy) is the point where the body has shut down, and willpower loses any effect on it. When you are actually tired (when you let it be known) you have no choice but to sleep. I am annoyed to tears by people who use it as an excuse, when clearly they can do whatever they want.

Because of Bond’s facial features, he has a perpetual stare that is very similar to one of tiredness. In his case, we cannot expect the viewer to think he is tired all the time (It would defeat any tensions), so we have to find another expression for him. During auditions he did show some capabilities in the area; he is also a great handsignalist. We do have the option of using his hands, but I would like to keep that as a fail-safe for now.

These difficulties can be overcome—I believe—by the appropriate and successful use of makeup. A true makeup artist can change the entire shape of the face with one stroke. I realize I cannot put all my money on it, but for now I am confident enough.

Entrapment is realized in this way. One, the placement of the camera already suggests just that. It will show—in the corner of the screen—just the edge of a headrest. It will be somewhat blurry, but it will work just fine. I already mentioned babies screaming. It may be totally uninspired, but it is such a universal thing, you see. When I hear a baby scream I just want to tear it to pieces.

Furthermore, it is obvious in the shot that he cannot move his legs. Entrapment means you cannot move your body. If we show you the legs stuck behind the seat of another passenger—the effect is clear and precise, spot-on.

Arrogance; why did I put it down? James Bond—if nothing else—is one of the most arrogant people in the world. Arrogance is everywhere in this scene; it hangs in the air. It is the emotion that drives all the others, and it is the one that summarizes all of them into one. It is complete arrogance. The viewer will be annoyed just by looking at him. It is because Bond wears his arrogance on his sleeve. I do not think it is bad; but most people feel threatened by proud people. In this movie, I want the viewer to see James Bond as the enemy. By the end of it, they will hate his guts.

Finally, a word on aggression. It is the next step, following arrogance. How can we convey this sense of aggression in this scene? Obviously, this is an aggression that is not external or released. It stays inside his head, and it is boiling over. Red markings on his face will do. That, and a bulging artery here and there; especially the one that runs across the forehead over the left eye. This one should be throbbing.

All these emotions should be very apparent in this first scene. If they are not, the whole film will be ruined from the start. I want each and every one in it. It cannot be exaggerated; the importance of this scene.

Bond is flying to Paris. I am certain it should be Paris and no other city. Nothing tropical, nothing exotic, and nothing too cold or wet. Paris is perfectly neutral; it cannot be more fitting for our new Bond. I have heard of the accident there. They say one whole district has been put under quarantine. I don’t care about that; the city’s large enough.

Someone suggested Nanking to me once.


(The script ends here)






Furthermore, the sight of others killed my brain. Imagine an oven that is set to some degrees. When it is opened the hot air accumulates under your nose. Your nose was not designed with it in mind! It becomes red and it peels off. These strips are collected and make a good bacon replacement.

Done in installments he tells me. Does it include an introduction and conclusion? With each installment?

Over the cartographer’s menace. Almost over it. I still think of-his-stare daily. I see his papery eyes, eyes that leak the papal fluid. The hat, the robe, the soggy intestinal membrane, lark. Question his symptoms. When it started, I had a lesion around my ankle. By pulling my leg I distort it. No lunch today; I have no money for meal.

His house is of wood. Traps placed along the road and I read inside the hole’s walls his faded sketches. A plan for a Nanking Floating City. To China, by boat. Copper handles, and flimsy dogears, keep yapping when finally a soft sheet of cotton is lifted from the table. Underneath, a copy of his lifeblood in vessel.

Knock on one door. Next to it more doors, and the turn at the corner, there must be more. When I picture it, there is more. No city should be erased and ruptured, flag in the wint, that’s some crooked shit. No he said, saunas aren’t built from scratch, they take years and years of soaking. Then drain said.

We want any walls you come across to shake and be painted as you hold it steady with your other. Likeness. Don’t care its shaky. Paint, rest easy, is thinner than wine. Stickier than oil. Paint your house a fine white. Visitors every single hour; who is it?

-Philippe Comte


-The one and the same.

-The equal.

-The partridge stuffer, the owl shooter.

-What brought you, arshole?

-Finger pointing. I cannot deny masses. They pointed me in the wright’s direction. Should I have packed lighter? My suit is actually an orange color.

-What of the elbows?

-They? Pointed at me! Squeek.

-Tha’s queer.

-Let me into, scotch.

-Try to let go.

Who are the Wright’s—old yellow family. Who cannot claim to own all they have. And dark yellow dogs, in a tent. Who cannot claim, to be any good as dogs. They stink as they walk, they walk as they rotate, and tip to a T, and require Camaraderie; when no-one can give it to them, not human. No man’s friend. Dog. Tha’s it.

Infirm, step-toe, stand—learn. Anyone learns as they march, and forgetting any routine, you unlearn. It is descriptive of the Scripture. That is Wednesday and Tuesday, and out of the kitchen by a Butch. Former tear duct, is now on reserve. Copy your copy, and be it gone with, over by. Still done.

-Is that attached?

-It comes with any B-O-D-Y.

-Not any worst off were you when—

-Sharp brush, prickly sharks.

-Oh, I’m so sorry. Please, into.

-Some quar room? Quantities RM?

-Socks quar, quintity.

-Och, ech?

-Fasten your shirt!

-Och, egh!

-These are showing my membranes, sibblings. These my daughter’s these my porches, this ma actual wiv.

-What’s a God doing here?

-He is painterly, ain’t he? How farcogenic.

-How quitslund!

-Thoroughly, then. You accept? Tea?

-Tea with a capital Foar. Sugar, blease.


-Test of the time, the worst. Shake-a-pale.

-Oh, you take it.

-Does it require supremacy, in case of larger?

-Do you look closer—should you—ostriches with purple wings appear, and diligently as that.

-How problematic! Any family dissent?

-They only show up when I am gone.

-How familiar, and how dull.

-Tea is similar to Wet.

-It is wetter than wet, sharper as cake.

-Both overlap, and cross-examine.

-Just bring me a pissmop and get it.

Hold a shark by its teeth, caprice caprice, donnatella, donatella! Krakow, Winslow, this is the same name, the same book and blue as the deep. Still it require your denial, and still develops your kneecaps. Springer, eccacly.

-Whaor you!

-Slurp and burp your way thru summer?

-Acrue me. Burp.

-Drink with the mop next to you.

-Then, whore you!

-Sarkist. Famous well to do—neighbor.

-I saw your light shine!

-Is my porch lit up?

-Your sex is blinding, I shop nextdoor.

-Oh, you needn’t.

-Needn’t indeedn’t; forget to shower.

-Are you talking regards rain?

-Any day befits, and slim chance of prior notice.

-When it drops it’s far too late.

-What Porsche?

-The one nextosee. What a knose.

-What a damn wheel, turns like Menander.

-What a crack. At 21.

-Oh oh oH! Still you splurge and still you disappoint. Still no late night and still nothing to indulge?

-Name: Sarkist. I splurge in Creation, and affix some seal of the Sarkist Line, and glue on my retention.

-Sue you. This is the roof you supported all the years? I want it to fly in my face and I want the breeze to be detachable and not require glue!

-Too much stuff, I can’t. So much is so dull, and my aching lungs are refilled by the Devil himself. Akron.

-Dialysis! Speer through you! Shut off right now! Stand by, shut off!

-Named Sarkist, soft shit. When I touch my left wrist—it is a button.

-Och, somethings open.

-That’s tight. This is a miniature scaled down.

-It’s larger than my bug’s wing.

-Well, whatnot. Touch-it, with this stick.

-Oh. Sarkist you say?


-Wiv or wivout?

-I said leave my shelter and bounce!

-Eck, don’t shelter me out. Mex of me a Soapdish.

-Sixth wiv, still can-complain.

-You cant curtail?

-I could, but to care?

-Your choice. Nanking you say.

-Nocturnal Qoir, more as in. More likelihoods.

-And neighborly.

-At night so no discrepancies; no familiarity.

-Garden project?

-It’s a city, a damn and Total City. Shot marker.

-Seurry. Tarkstalkers? Tall lang-leurs, shoty?

-All of it! Undo your shoes and let me walk in.

Undoes his shoes (and read don’t say it) and lets him in. Table moved inches to the side. Soft and hard tea dripping down. A picture scene by Welthorough. You thread through the dots and hang it up. But we can’t blame you. Something isn’t exciting so much.

Ask of you: to drop it. Drop it with all your weight. Somethings best unlearned. And how exciting to lose what you learn. Neatly stacked up, neatly arranged. With a one and a minus, scattered across the univarse, very thinly. Makes for some remembrances. Remembrance. Remember; seventy sheep. The dice and thrown, of Sarkist. Still there. So out of it.



The famous Sarkist; architect. He made the very blueprint of Nanking, the Floating City. Still under construction, still unopen to public. But people find ways to get in. While they continue building, Sarkist has some bad dreams. It’s a large project; biggest yet. His biggest yet. Do you remember the role of Nanking? It is a city of night; it isn’t a city of light. It is. Sorry. It isn’t Paris. It is.

Do you remember what we talked about? There is Paris, there is Nanking. Is it one and the same? Location, somewhat of a denial. Of divulgence. But I can’t tell you. Jes yet. Somewhat of a single coin; a coin has two sides, remember? I remember stupid child’s games and guessing games. These are one and the same. Paris and Nanking. Once they were the same. Bond and Basreol. They too were the same, and once.

The image, however separates. Remember the cover? What it shows is the same man, and reversed imagery. And opposing coloring. And a uniform font, that is, logo. And some things cannot be denied. Of how it seems like, two men. And are they then, when you see? When you think. That is stupid, dull, archaic. But some belong there. I have made a first razor cut in this page of the story. A tear will be developed. Do you remember (Do you do remembrances?)??


Faster than this, nose diving should be explained with this bulbous glass ‘ere, terry liquid. A mere mention of the hill’s angle ripped the cut along the crotch.


That is the first tear. And you remember (surely)


The kettle screamed; I didn’t associate it with pain and I lifted it well off the stove. I held it about a meter and half above the ground and listened to it screaming.


It’s the same tear and the same cut at a different time. Why do you remember? It is but a matter of ‘scrolling’. Just don’t try to forget, and forget about trying. World turns one way, uniformly. It’s no showcase. It’s no display. My teacher once told me. He said, in a slow voice. He said, in a mumbling phase. He said, in one of his latter days. Screw him, screw you, and screw Dostoevsky for inventing the writer’s patch!



(You remember, don’t you. He was an old old man. And senile and a total Russian, and pardon his Sins and for doubting. He will rise again, and appear to you, in a latest edition, in the millionth press.)






Do you see, Nanking it is? Here is a list of referrals to Nanking.



-I whispered to her the following; a description of Nanking at nighttime.

- Well, my description of Nanking was accurate enough. It stayed with me so well. The river swirled down as if into the drain that was the moon reflected.

- Here? Bond, Nanking is a shithole. (Unfiltered)

- In a referral to Nanking, the brochure always talks in the past-tense, and the scenic shots are ones without people in them.

- And why was it Nanking in the script and not Paris?

-Someone suggested Nanking to me once.



It was just about publicity. (So easily found and copied, pasted!) Please come and visit once. It’s not as bad as everyone says it is, really. I think so many believed these rumours because we couldn’t allow anyone in until we were done. That was a fault of mine. I hadn’t thought it over well enough.

The city is now open. But I don’t want you to come in during daylight hours. If you should try it, you will be shot by the guards. I have no sympathy in this regard.

Construction was very slow and hard. Since we could only work at night, we had a hell of a time trying to see what we were doing. Also, because we had to built it on water, this added significant complications. Certainly, it was my biggest project yet. I have learned so much from it.

I know what my next project is going to be. It will be an underwater tunnel running underneath the Pacific. This is unheard of. It will be the most ambitious project ever undertaken by Man. When it is done, it will be known throughout as a work of God. That is my dream.








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