Last Licks

 

Overview: an immersive look into and out of two spiritual dimensions, a saloon and a NYC emergency room.


“History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.” -- Karl Marx


Summary/Synopsis:


A grizzled Greenwich Village bartender is visited by Frank, a thirty-year-old nephew he hasn't seen since the boy was five ... since his his brother's odd passing and his nephew's subsequent and distant relocation.  Frank, the nephew named for his father, wants first-hand information, but his uncle suspects other motives, and deals a different set of cards and free admission to another dimension where everything changes, including the characters: Dan Devlin, the bartender’s nightly sidekick, later a priest, and Mona, the good witch, later a nurse and unrequited lover of a widowed doctor (the bartender in Part One).    


Genre: Surreal dark drama abruptly changes to farce. 


Feature script by T. D. White.


Budget: $ 500, 000


Share/Units: $2,500


Opening Scenes:


Part One to be shot in horror movie style.  Part Two sitcom/reality.


Title Card:

LOOSE MOON PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS

“Last Licks”

Written by T. D. White


“History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.” -- Karl Marx


SFX. HOWLING WIND.


EXT. - AN OLD BAR IN NEW YORK - NIGHT


In the after “glow” of a recent snowfall.  Gradual MUSIC.  “The Blue Room” perhaps, as recorded by Zoot Sims ...


INT. - OLD BAR - NIGHT


Footage and ambient sound of various spots in The Corner Bistro or some other old saloon will dominate very quick and only occasional emergency room footage in the midst of the following narration, as volume of “The Blue Room” lowers in volume.


(V.O.)

... a soundscape should accompany the action; some jukebox jazz, glasses clinking, tinkling, smacking atop an old hardwood bar; chatter, phony laughter. Most important, though, is the sheer domination of glass here that will suggest some kind of other dimension, and reflection.  It is glass that contains the spirits; it is here they are unleashed.  Too, the constant pregnant potential for bleeding and blood, the potential for red ... prominent on the back bar are a couple of boxes of band-aids, and a first aid kit.  There should even be some sense of the bar as an altar, a place of worship. The back bar of wood and glass might provide the photograph of a patron or two dead and gone, required government postings, a small primitive sculpture or two, and the kind of sweeping brush you see sometimes on Hallowe’en.  Brushes of this kind on a cottage or house signaled to medieval wayfarers that a “warm welcome” would await them at the inn, and the promise of some kind of altered state of consciousness.   


Settle on the empty stools.  Upon one of them will

materialize amidst some gathering saloon NOISE, FRANK.


BARMAN’S POV OF FRANK


In the background, in the street, is a huge, swarthy, dark motionless menacing male presence who stares upward ... 


V.O.

“Frank is a thirty-plus stocky guy, thick, but gentle-looking, a little unkempt in hair and clothing ... the deliberately unstylish style of the new hip ...


FRANK

Man is my wife pissed.


V.O.

“The BARMAN is a newly graying thin, fifty-ish guy in black jeans and a common shirt, the uniform of his trade.  Average height and build.


FRANK’S POV OF BARMAN


BARMAN

Well, it is like you’re more married to beer and sports. I don’t blame ‘em, now that I’m not drinkin’ myself.


TWO SHOT


FRANK

(dismissive)

Nah, I mean she doesn’t get it, why I’m here.  Like I should just be happy I got a wife, house, job.


BARMAN

Riiiight.  How old are you exactly?


FRANK

Thirty-two.  Why?


BARMAN

I got a little weird around then too ... first marriage over, sick of the same old same old, and needing something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, right?


FRANK

Yea.  Thought finding out about my father might help.


BARMAN

(with a hint of evasion)

Don’t see how.  I don’t even have any pictures.


FRANK

Your sister had a couple, but I couldn’t tell much.


BARMAN

Uh, she enjoyed your visit.


FRANK rises, mug in hand.

FOLLOW


WIDE, FROM KITCHEN


FRANK moves toward window and turns back to BARMAN.


POV OF BARMAN OF FRANK


FRANK

Jeez, how long’s that bike been chained to that parkin’ meter?


EXT. - ON BIKE PARKED OUTSIDE - NIGHT


FRANK’S POV OF BARMAN


BARMAN

Oh about five or six weeks now I think.


TWO SHOT


FRANK

The back wheel’s missing.


THREE SHOT


Included now is DAN DEVLIN. PAN about throughout the monologue.


V.O.

“...DAN DEVLIN is easily in his fifties, dressed Thai dye or guerilla, knows just about everything.  Early Nam vet and some people think his left, unuseable arm was injured in that war and not the result of a lifetime of drinking, and ...


BARMAN

Really? The back wheel’s missing? Well, that’s exactly what George Ford noticed one night, ‘member Dan? (imitates what he’ll describe) He’d been listing back and forth by the juke box the way he always did to some terrible Tom Waits’ music if you can call it that which I by the by have to listen to all fucking night when he happens to notice exactly what you just noticed, that the back wheel of his Power King bike is missing.  So he ambles out of here “in search of.”  We didn’t see him for a few days; nights rather.  It’s different for us here, right Dan?  (DAN nods) Like in the park you’ll  see the cute little squirrels during the day, but at night they’re rats.


FRANK’S POV OF BARMAN


BARMAN (CONT’D)

So life continued: bad Tom Waits’ music like six cats caught in a bag and George listing gently back and forth and side to side on his feet with Absolut cranberry in his hand and heroin in his heart even after the many stops and starts in city detoxes and rehabs in the mountains.  Then he walked into St. Vincent’s on a Tuesday and died.  The bike’s his ghost, like a lion in the desert.


THREE SHOT


DAN DEVLIN

Poetic.


BARMAN

Thank you.


FRANK 

Fuck.  And you guys just leave it there?


BARMAN

Yea, sure, why not?  The George Ford Memorial Fucking Carcass Bike. That’s what he gets; that’s his memorial.  Maybe we’ll spread his ashes around ...


FRANK

How old was he?


BARMAN

Fifty plus something; like me.  I stopped; he didn’t.