Moving Pictures

A band of garage filmmakers uses the next evolution in technology, Machinima, to upset Hollywood’s business model. The establishment fights back by sabotaging the production the whole way. In a battle of wills, it is only a matter of time before one side is permanently disrupted.

© 2004 Mike Hoefflinger

and Packet Switched Press

This is a work of fiction.

Released under the Creative Commons license:

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INDEX

Chapter 1: On the Run. 2

Chapter 2: The Beginning. 3

Chapter 3: A Screenplay. 6

Chapter 4: Pre-Production. 20

Chapter 5: Hello World. 24

Chapter 6: Interested Observers. 26

Chapter 7: Distribution. 32

Chapter 8: On the Run. 38

Chapter 9: Release. 48

Chapter 10: Inflection. 53

Chapter 11: Take 2. 57

Chapter 12: Opening. 66

Chapter 1: On the Run

“Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel.”

William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Bunraku’s car was the automotive equivalent of the medium build, 5’10” Caucasian. A ubiquitous every-car that could pass just as easily for a blue Honda as it could a green Toyota. With the plate removed and a Photoshop’d dealer slip taped in the corner of the windshield, it was virtually indistinguishable from the 16,547 like it in LA.

If you had to be on the run, Red and Vanity now realized, this was the right car.

And as they had done every day since going on the run, they were war driving for Wi-Fi. Vanity at the wheel. Red hunched over the NetStumbler console on their one remaining laptop and its precious cargo: their bits.

It was the worst of times.

“I am not doing this another day,” Vanity said.

“Come on. Four more days. Maybe five,” Red answered, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“I’ve been away from work for four days. They have no idea where I am. You don’t think about stuff like that.”

“This is about work. The big risk. You, of all people…”

“Don’t! I’ve been with you the whole way on this, but this is too much. Let it go.”

“I have to get on again to get the new model from Bunraku. Then we block the last couple of sequences. I need you to do camera direction. We got maybe 20 hours left, and a couple of days of encode. We can still get Cuban the stuff by Wednesday.”

She pulled the car over abruptly, turned to face him, and let it fly. “Listen to me! They took our rigs. They’re looking for us. We’ve been running around LA for five days. I’ve slept in three different motels. I’m not a fucking Le Carre novel. This is insane. It’s over,” looking down at the floor. “Tell them you’re done.”

He leaned back in his seat, dug a small bottle of Jack Daniels out of his cargo pants, poured the whole thing into the half-empty Venti caramel machiatto, no foam, in his cup holder, and took a couple of agonizing sips from the foul mixture.

“I hear you,” quieter, staring out his passenger-side window. “This is insane, and I’m sorry. There was no way to know. But they’re not going to do anything drastic. They just want to break us up and destroy the bits.”

Silence. Then Red again.

“We can’t let that happen. You, me, Bunraku, Silenz, everybody else. We’ve put four hundred hours apiece into this. And it’s good. You know that.” Choking down the last of his concoction. Wincing. Turning to look at her.

“For god’s sake. It’s not about that! Even if we lay low and finish, they know who we are. If we release, we’re not going to get a legitimate job in this town again. We need to stop. Fight another day.”

“It’s too late. The only way is to release and take what comes.”

“I know you’re willing to take that chance. I just don’t think I am.” Shaking her head. Trying not to cry.

And then she saw them in the rearview mirror.

“What the…?”

“What?”

“They found us.”

“No way!”

“Look for yourself.”

One look back confirmed it. There was the Hummer that had chased them from the apartment five days ago.

“Well, what are you waiting for then? Let’s get out of here.”

No reaction.

“Come on, V! Are you with me?”

Chapter 2: The Beginning

“I’d love to kiss you, but I just washed my hair.”

Bette Davis, Cabin in the Cotton

They had met a year earlier.

“Come here often,” he asked, standing at the bar, glancing sideways at her. Hoping she’d detect the sarcasm. Disarming smile as Plan B.

“Sure. I like to hit the bars every Tuesday and Thursday. It’s the one true thing in my life.”

“Makes sense. You strike me as the lemming type.”

“Oh, yes. That’s me. Well, been nice exchanging transparent banter. Let’s do this again sometime,” ready to exit if he gave up, but not moving just yet.

“Oh, I don’t know. I need some time to let this sink in. We’re moving so fast.”

“That so? Do we need to slow it down for the kids in the back of the class?” The guy kept smiling at her, even though she hadn’t yet turned around to face him.

“That’s alright. I’m just auditing.”

“Don’t have the guts to take the class for a grade?”

“I’m not familiar with the prof. Keeping my options open.”

“OK, options closed. Are we doing this, or not?” Finally turning to look at him. A little surprised he was holding his ground. Still smiling. More Damon than Affleck. Not tall, but not short. No fashion model, but no love handles either. Shave, decent haircut and some product all that separated him from viability. There was something in the eyes. Cross between Eastwood and Cruise.

“If that’s what you want,” delighted to see her face, finally. Helen of Troy with no make-up, wearing an Ecko hoodie. Thousand-ship-launching tresses up in a careless mess. Pointy pumps under non-descript jeans the only concession to style. Better natural features than Theron. If someone had just pointed them out. If she would have been willing to believe them.

“Very well, then, why don’t you introduce yourself to the rest of the class. Nickname, occupation and what you hope to get out of this, please.”

“Red. Screenwriter. Between projects. Hope to not get outclassed.”

“Red? You don’t look Irish?”

“No. Questions later. Intro first.”

“OK. Vanity. Digital artist at Blur. Hoping to get this over quickly, so I can still hit Steve Madden before I rush home to catch re-runs of Green Acres.”

“Vanity? You must like Prince. A lot?”

“No. You first. What’s the ‘Red’ thing?”

He leaned in a little, holding eye contact. Sizing her up. “You know much about John Lasseter?”

“Some.”

“He did some great stuff way before Toy Story.”

She was thinking now. Wanting to figure it out before he told her. “Right. Red’s Dream. Old school. Not quite Luxo Jr., but old school. So you’re digital, too?”

“Less employed than you, but yes. Your turn. ‘Vanity’?

“Old story. Used to be a primper in high school. Got over it. Picked up the name to avoid repeating the mistake.”

“Would that be sarcasm or irony?”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Sarcasm. It’s blunter. And pretty much all I’m capable of.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not much good at that either,” half-smile to let him know she appreciated the effort.

“That so?” Disappointed. “Was that a Caddyshack reference?”

“Would it be good if it had been?”

“It would.”

“Then it was. Not the best line from that one, though?”

“And that would be?”

“’Pool and a pond. Pond would be good for you.’”

“Really? Not ‘Cinderella story…’?”

“If you prefer. But between that and Red’s Dream I’m sensing an underdog mentality. Should I read that as adorably humble, or freakishly insecure?”

“Adorably humble?”

“You’d think. But, I prefer freakishly insecure. More my speed.”

“Tell me more.”

“Sorry, Dr. Phil, you have to wait for the sequel before we get to that.”

“Sequel to what?”

“This.”

“What is ‘this’?”

“Don’t ask me. I was just standing here infusing my life with meaning as part of a mindless ritual. You started talking to me.”

“OK. OK. Can I talk you into moving ‘this’ to a more relaxed setting. There’s a decent place down on Wilshire.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I do much better in large crowds. Easier to fade away.”

“I see. How about we head over, and if it’s just a little too cozy for you, we’ll put together a flash mob for you?”

“Ain’t a girl lucky. OK, you win. Let’s go.” Looking down at the Red Bull in his hand. “You goin’ to finish that before we start drinking?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve started. There’s vodka in here.”

“Charming.”

Drinks turned into the beach. The beach turned into a long session of trying to keep warm by merely hanging on each others’ every word. They capitulated, cold, but intrigued, ten degrees after midnight.

“Thanks, Red.” Back at her car. “It’s been a slice,” big smile, finding his eyes to let him know she was serious. “If you write half as good as you talk, this town better watch out.”

“Maybe you could move in so we can talk while I write.”

“You’re cute. Very cute. But, I don’t do complicated. I am, however, willing and secretly eager to talk more. Let me call your cell. You can save my number.”

Couple of taps on the phone, a kiss on the cheek and she was back in the car driving away quickly.

Already beginning to wonder how she was going to ruin this one.

Chapter 3: A Screenplay

“The formula for the well made play is so easy that I give it for the benefit of any reader who feels tempted to try his hand at making the fortune that awaits all manufacturers in this line.”

George Bernard Shaw, How to Write a Popular Play

It wasn’t much different from the average American poker night. Instead of sitting at a felt table, they were sitting in their rooms, connected through a Gigabit LAN stapled to the walls with the carelessness usually reserved for garage door opener bell wire. Instead of guarded banter, they were loudly hurling invectives across the apartment. And instead of cards, they were playing Half Life 2. Other than that, however, it wasn’t much different from the average American poker night.

“Say hello to my little friend, bitch,” came the thoroughly satisfied post-kill commentary from Silenz. A transplanted Brit, Silenz was an audio engineer at an LA studio by trade, a songwriter by aspiration, and connoisseur of 8-bit re-sampled videogame electronica by accident. He bore a passing resemblance to a bearded Jim Morrison, a distinction he carried with great pride, and an iPod full of The Doors.

“Whatever,” the reply from Red’s room.

“That all you gotta say?”

“Who is the bigger loser? The guy that spends two hours a day on multiplayer getting his ass kicked by the guy that spends twenty-five and a half, or the guy who brings the witless Scarface reference?”

“Better than the stuff you been writing.”

“Oooh. Are you going to take that from him?” the inquiry from the other end of the hall. Bunraku fancied himself equal parts young George Hamilton and Cowboy Beebop’s Spike Spiegel, but was in actuality neither. He had found refuge in LA as a digital animator after the inflow of his BFA in Puppetry failed to sustain the outflow of his Bruno Magli habit. To relieve feelings of having become a creative sell-out, he had adopted his moniker in homage to a centuries old Japanese form of puppetry.

Silence.

“Well, what’s it gonna be,” Silenz looking for a response.

“One of us is working for the man. The other isn’t. ‘nuf said.”

“Fellas! Can we get back to it? I got sniping to do,” Vanity piping up from her room.

“Watch out. She’s wearing her I MAKE BOYS CRY shirt,” said Bunraku.

“I’ll let you borrow it,” she said, working to get an angle on him from above. “If…you’re…nice,” pulling the trigger.

“Ah, crap. I’m out.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” reminded Silenz.

“V, looks like it’s you and me against Silenz. How about we use the trick you used to cut line at D-Land?” Red looking for an alliance.

“Oh, the one where I do this…” Vanity maneuvering out from behind the building to draw Silenz.

“…and I do this…” Red flanking Silenz, coming up behind him, and laying him out with a clean headshot from the H&K. “fatal1ty you’re not, my friend.”

“You just keep talking. I’ll be over here cashing my paycheck.”

“OK, boy wonder, just you and me. I’m going to hurt you now.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Don’t bother with the funny. I love you, but this will end badly for you. Just hold still.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Can we please not talk about that in front of the children?”

“You do know we can hear you guys when you’re in here together, don’t you?” Bunraku in her room now, looking over her shoulder at the action.

“Oh, alright. What’s a girl to do? He’s got dimples.”

“And a nice ass.”

“Forget about my ass. Has everyone forgotten how she looked last year when we went out for her promotion?” It had been the rare occasion where Vanity had taken an extra two minutes to do her hair and put on a dress from back in the days. She would have given Grace Kelly circa Rear Window a run for her money that evening.

“You got too much time to daydream, boy. Get a job.”

“Overrated.”

“No, really, I mean it. Get a job.”

“Let it go, V.”

“Awww, what’s the problem, honey?”

“I’m not kidding. Let…it…go.”

“Remind me to let it go next time we’re floating your rent.”

“Why do we constantly have to talk about my job situation in this fucking apartment?”

“We just want the best for you.”

“Alright, that’s it. I’ll get a job. I’ve got your damn job right here. The four of us are going to make a movie. A machinima movie.”

Silence across the hall. Vanity stunned just enough to wander thoughtlessly around a corner and get picked off from 100 feet away by his M29.

Red slammed the rest of the 7&7 on his desk, and spun around in his chair, looking at a puzzled Silenz.

Machinima. Short for “Machine Cinema”, it was the latest gift of the cornucopia that is Moore’s Law. Mix 25 years of ceaselessly increasing PC performance with the mind-bending sophistication of the latest videogame graphics engines. Shake, and pour into a box under your desk to make a tall glass of film making whoopass for the price of one week’s pay.

Cost of a machinima set: $0. Cost of union labor on that set: $0. Cost of a death-defying machinima stunt: $0. Percentage of the backend made by a machinima actor: 0%. Cost of the average Hollywood production: $60M.

Cost of a physically impossible machinima camera shot: $0. Time to completely change the camera shot and re-shoot the entire scene: 32 seconds. Cost of a digital high definition machinima camera: $0. Cost of a conventional commercial high definition digital video camera: $19,999.

Time to render a single high definition frame of machinima video: 30 milliseconds. Time to render the most complex frame of Finding Nemo: days.

Cost of burning a digital cinema equipped theater-ready copy of a feature-length machinima production onto a DVD-R: $0.89. Cost of manufacturing a theater-ready 35mm print of a conventional movie: $1,700.

Size of the engine, graphical assets and audio to render an entire machinima feature in 1280 x 720 resolution: 600MB. Cost of distributing that machinima feature over Bit Torrent: $0.

Opportunity to run a four-person, all-digital studio, production, distribution, exhibition, home video and video-on-demand empire with an efficiency and speed even Pixar and Disney couldn’t come close to matching: priceless.

All good news. Just one problem. It had yet to be done with noteworthy commercial success.

In 2000 Branit and Hunt’s 405 proved that a couple of guys with nothing but story-telling skill, a video camera, two fast PCs and three months of late nights could release a wildly popular short film combining standard video and state-of-the-art digital effects. 11 days later they landed a deal with CAA.

But, at the time, pure machinima--producing the entire film on a PC in real time--was in its infancy. Genre-defining shorts like Ill Clan’s Apartment Huntin’ had just begun to build on the gaming-as-cinema efforts of the Quake-done-Quick community and their stylized recordings of record-breaking runs through the popular first person shooter.

Although increasingly sophisticated efforts by Strange Company, Fountainhead and the game companies themselves moved the medium forward, machinima failed to establish itself beyond the “machinisseurs”.

Then came Rooster Teeth’s Blood Gulch Chronicles. Set in the universe of XBOX top-seller Halo and starring the memorable Red vs. Blue conflict, the 22 serialized episodes pulled down half a million viewers a week. No marketing. No PR. No junket. No mutual admiration society interviews with Couric or Leno. Cost of production: three XBOXes in a multiplayer config, two controlling the characters, a third acting as camera.

It was good. Good for the filmmakers that had jumped to machinima after years of frustration in the farm leagues of the independent film circuit. Good for three column-inches from the coolhunters at FHM, Rolling Stone and Wired. Good for the gaming community.

But, it was no Blair Witch. No Memento. It wasn’t Blue Sky’s Bunny. It wasn’t even Shaded Box’s Little Red Plane. And, it certainly was no Toy Story, patron saint of all things digital. Proof that bits could be compelling. Compelling enough to make money. Lots of money.

No, Machinima wasn’t there yet, but you could see it from here. To master practitioners like Burns, Marino and Kang there was only one question left: Who was going to be their generation’s Lasseter? The guy with the will power, the vision, to prove what they all knew was possible.

Red wanted to be that guy. Red needed to be that guy.

Vanity and Bunraku had come around the corner and were standing in the doorway of Red’s room, looking at him and Silenz.

“Alright. You got some ‘splaining to do?” Vanity first to shoot.

“Bite me. You know it’s what I’ve wanted all along.”

“Sure. But through the system, with an agent, a studio and, oh, I don’t know, real actors!”

“I’ve been working on something.”

“Well? Let’s have it then,” Bunraku getting interested.

“No!” Vanity wagging a finger in Bunraku’s face. “Do not encourage this. We’re not doing this. Exactly one of three things is going to happen. We’ll run out of gas halfway through and wind up hating each other. We’ll get it done, and realize we’re not the auteurs we thought we were, and wind up hating each other. Or we’ll get it done, and against astronomical fucking odds it’ll be decent, and we won’t be able to deal with it, and wind up hating each other. Anybody see a pattern?”

“Didn’t you forget one?”

“Odds are against it. Why try?”

“Do, or do not. There is no try.”

“OK, then. I choose do not.”

“Alright, Leia, slow down,” Bunraku trying to prevent the escalation. “Why not let the boy say his peace. Then you can have make-up sex later.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Red.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with. I’ve got sex to refuse you. This better not be some lame Sci-Fi shit like everything else.”

“Don’t worry. It’s an adaptation of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, that’s a winner. What is that? Couldn’t think of anything else, so you picked the most well-known idea no longer under copyright?”

“Well, it is, but we’re going to do it Film Noir style. Black & white, femme fatale, dialog from the 40’s…”

“Perfect. Tie two rocks together. They’ll float better.”

“Come on, V, nothing wrong with Noir. Lauren Bacall…Rita Hayworth…Lana Turner. She was such a doll in Postman Always Rings Twice,” interjected Bunraku.

“And the characters are marionettes,” said Red.

“Perfect! Three rocks. You buying in volume?”

“No, V, it’s great for machinima. We can get away with not having perfect human likeness. And, we can do sets, camera angles and moves real marionettes can’t. Imagine Holmes fighting in bullet time while on marionette strings.”

“Oh, come on. You’re just pandering to Bunraku.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. God knows I don’t get enough of that.” After a moment of reflection, he added “V, you’re gonna kill me, but I see where Red’s going with this.”

“Bunraku, honey, don’t you see? There’s no story in this story. I don’t care how Noir you go, or how cute the marionettes are, it’s a Sherlock Holmes retread.”

Red jumped on the opening. “There is one more thing. Occasionally we zoom out from the marionettes to the puppeteers,” he was using both hands to show the camera movement. “They are the real characters and story. Rehearsing in a small town theater, trying to save their building from being replaced with a Cineplex by putting on one final show of A Scandal in Bohemia. There’s Nigel, the uptight artistic director. Stella, who has greater artistic aspiration than talent, and Carson, a puppeteer who does comic relief. Think MST3K meets Adventures of Sherlock Holmes all wrapped in Two Weeks Notice. We’ll call it Shlock.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. So, tell me, Mr. DeMille, how does this craptacular end?” Vanity still not having any of it.

“Mysterious stranger shows up just when things look the worst. Takes over the production, performs and voices Holmes and puts butts in seats. Winds up saving the theater. Turns out he’s President of the company that was going to replace the theater with a Cineplex.”

“Convenient.”

“So, let me get this straight. You want the four of us to do a full-length machinima feature about a marionette production of a Film Noir adaptation of Sherlock Holmes in a small town puppet theater fighting for survival, with three main characters that critique the play and each other, and are finally saved by a corporate stooge turned do-gooder? That pretty much it?” Bunraku trying to take it all in.

“Yes.”

“Red, you know I love you, but that’s too ambitious.” Even Bunraku’s optimism had its limits.

“Which is why we’re going to do it Open Source.”

The three standing around him, lacking a retort.

Bunraku the first to re-engage. “Not sure that’s a good idea. We want something that’s ours, not an unholy mess of creative control.”

“We open up only the engine mods, the models and the sets, but not the screenplay and the final cut. We give our engine, models and sets back to the community, get contributions in return, but maintain copyright over the final product.”

“So, that means…”

“…we’ve got to do four marionette characters: Holmes, Watson, the King of Bohemia and Irene Adler. Four people characters: Nigel, Stella, Carson and the Stranger. And three sets: the inside of the puppet theater, Baker Street, and Briony Lodge on Serpentine Avenue. Creating those, and the storyboards to begin with, would be you and V. Silenz would do audio engineering and music composition. We all do voices. We’ll shoot in real time using the engine once we got all the assets. Figure six months soup to nuts if we can all put in 20 hours a week.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Shaking her head, counting off on her fingers. “We have never worked together seriously. We have never worked on machinima. And only Bunraku has ever worked on a full-length feature. Could we be less qualified?”

“Fortune favors the brave.”

“Yeah, yeah. Carpe diem. I know, I know. Just remember, he dies at the end of that movie. We are not ready for this.”

“Wait!” Making his last stand. “This is what you guys hound me to do. This is what we bullshit about when there’s no risk of having to actually do it. This is what we are going to do. The screenplay is half done. The timing is right.” Surveying the three one last time. “If we can’t live with each other when we come out the other side, then let’s find out right fucking now.”

Vanity looking down at the carpet, biting her lips. Arms crossed. No response.

“I’m in,” everyone looking at Silenz suddenly weighing in for the first time. “We either let Red take a run at this or we have to throw him out of the apartment, and then I don’t have anybody to abuse. But, one condition. You have to bring in someone to do lighting and camera if you’re going to be serious. I know a punter from the community theater days. See him at LAN parties. He’ll understand what you’re trying to do. Name’s photon.”

“Silenz, you big lug,” Red violating Silenz’ airspace by throwing an arm around his shoulder and patting his beard. “I’ll be your multiplayer bitch anytime.”

“Back off, wanker. Before I change my mind.”

“Oh, V, look at our two boys. They’re insane, but I feel obliged. It’s so Horatio Alger. Young artistes. The impossible dream. Makes me want to senselessly pour my best creative instincts down the drain and ruin my life for the next six months. But, hell, it’s either this or another CAA pretty boy. At least you’re the devils I know.”

“You’re a dear,” the grateful reply from Red.

“Oh, it gets better, son. I’m going to hook us up with the most important asset for budding machinimateurs.”

“Harvey Weinstein’s rolodex?”

“No, an engine guy. I’m going to get you a guy at Valve in Seattle. We do work with them sometimes. He’s not a big shot, but he knows the engine. His handle is Quaternity,” waving them in with outstretched hands, “go ahead. Tell me how much you love me?”

“More than I’m comfortable to admit in front of V.” Red blew Bunraku a kiss, then turned to look at Vanity. Trying to find her eyes. Willing her to take the leap. “Are you with us?”

“Gentlemen, would you excuse us.”

Ten minutes later Vanity was sitting in front of Red’s screenplay. All 62 pages of it. The cursor was blinking indifferently, waiting for her to start reading.

OPEN

Black screen with title.

V.O., WATSON

To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. In his eyes she eclipses the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. The softer passions were admirable things for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions was a distracting factor. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

[ ONE CONTINUOUS TAKE…TO FIRST DIALOG ]

FADE IN, VERY TIGHT, ON

EXT, BAKER STREET, NIGHT
Watson walking. The shot is so tight on the rotund, mustachioed face of the marionette that we hardly see anything around him (this way we avoid having to build huge models). Everything is in B&W. Dramatic light and shadow on the marionette’s face.

V.O., WATSON

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness was sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition.

START ZOOMING OUT SLOWLY

Recently, however, I was returning from a journey to a patient, when my way led me through Baker Street.

A smile of recognition comes across the marionette’s face (!) before we

CONTINUE TO ZOOM OUT

EXT, 221B, NIGHT
Watson is standing in front of 221B. In Noir’ish style it’s dark and raining. The cobblestone is wet. There’s a light on in Holmes’ room, and a figure is pacing behind curtains. In an anachronism, a car drives buy noisily. A cell phone rings off-camera.

Pan up the building to the roof and…

DISSOLVE

INT, 221B, NIGHT
…through the roof into Holmes’ room where we see Holmes pacing. The marionette’s face has a vague Bogart resemblance, and instead of turn-of-the-century-English he’s wearing the dark suite and tie of Noir, a Dearstalker the visual tie to Holmes.

Put up the directing and acting credits while we pan around the room to see mementos from his previous adventures.

When done with credits, pan out of the room, catching Watson coming up the stairs. Re-enter Holmes’ room behind Watson as he greets Holmes.

TWO-SHOTS

HOLMES

Wedlock suits you. I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.

WATSON

Seven!

HOLMES

Indeed, I should have thought a little more…

The Watson Marionette slumps. The puppeteer is no longer manipulating it. We hear a slightly effeminate voice off-camera interrupting the Holmes line dialogue…

CARSON (OFF CAMERA)

That’s just terrible. Do you know how many kids are going to have body image issues when they hear that?

ZOOM OUT WITH MOTION BLUR, GO INTO COLOR

INT, PUPPET THEATER
The camera has zoomed out of Holmes’ room, and far enough out to see that Baker Street is just a set in a puppet theater. But this isn’t just any kind of puppet theater. The set is huge. 60 foot wide stage, 18 foot tall buildings and a puppeteers’ bridge 30 feet off the ground. There’s mist and rain. Marionettes on the street are moving by themselves. Stella is standing on the corner of the set to show scale. Hold two beats for audience to take in scene, then…

PAN UP WITH MOTION BLUR AND ZOOM IN ON

INT, PUPPETEERS BRIDGE OF THEATER
We see Nigel and Carson from above, with the Baker Street set below. They’re standing on the bridge looking at each other, now that Carson has interrupted the rehearsal.

CARSON

I’m not sure that’s a responsible thing for us to be doing. You always saying we’re the artistic pillars of the community.

NIGEL

Carson, it’s just a play. We’re showing Holmes’ powers of observation.

CARSON

Would you want me coming in here and asking you if you had put on seven pounds? And don’t think I didn’t notice you bringing in that éclair this morning.

NIGEL

I’m not going to dignify that with a response. Can we please get back to rehearsal?

Carson doesn’t respond. In a huff he returns to action.

ZOOM BACK DOWN WITH MOTION BLUR, GO INTO B&W

INT, 221B BAKER STREET
Marionettes pick up where they left off.

HOLMES

Indeed, I should have thought a little more. And practicing medicine again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to return to it.

WATSON

Then, how do you know?

HOLMES

I see it, I deduce it. If a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.

WATSON

When I hear you give your reasons, the thing always appears to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.

HOLMES

Quite so.

Holmes lights a cigarette, and throws himself down into an armchair. In Noir homage, we see him in harsh light and shadow, fingering the cigarette like Bogart with one hand and touching a replica of the Maltese Falcon with the other.

WIDE SHOT OF ROOM, WATSON LEFT, HOLMES RIGHT

HOLMES

You see, but you do not observe. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.

WATSON

Frequently.

WATSON

How often?

WATSON

Well, some hundreds of times.

HOLMES

Then how many are there?

WATSON

How many? I don't know.

HOLMES

Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed.

The Watson Marionette slumps. Carson’s voice off-camera is mockingly imitating the last Holmes line…

CARSON (OFF CAMERA)

“I know there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed.” What a snob…

ZOOM OUT WITH MOTION BLUR, GO INTO COLOR

PAN UP WITH MOTION BLUR AND ZOOM IN ON

INT, PUPPETEERS BRIDGE OF THEATER

CARSON

…I mean, really. Where does he get off? Poor Watson. He must feel like Jan Brady. ‘Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.’

NIGEL

Carson!

CARSON

What? Maybe we could do a kinder, gentler Holmes.

NIGEL

Or maybe we could do it the way it was written. ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

CARSON

Oh, alright.

Making to get back to rehearsal, then adding, just as a side note…

CARSON

By the way, Nigel, do your arms ever get tired with these large marionettes?

NIGEL

No.

CARSON

Hmmm. Me neither. Why is that?

NIGEL

Plastics!

CARSON

Oh. Right.

ZOOM BACK DOWN WITH MOTION BLUR, GO INTO B&W

INT, 221B BAKER STREET
Marionettes pick up where they left off.

Vanity leaned forward in the chair, skipped a few scenes and continued to read.

LONG SHOT

EXT, SERPENTINE AVENUE, FRONT OF BRIONY LODGE, NIGHT
Lamps are lit. Streets are still wet. Holmes (disguised as a clergyman) and Watson are loitering near the house. There’s a hooligan sitting on a curb and a copper wandering with a nightstick.

CLOSE-UP, HOLMES AND WATSON WALKING

HOLMES

Now the question is, Where are we to find the photograph?

WATSON

Where, indeed?

HOLMES

She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her.

WATSON

Where, then?

HOLMES

Her banker or her lawyer. But I am inclined to think neither. Women are secretive, and they like to do their own secreting…

The Watson Marionette collapses and we hear snickering from above…

ZOOM OUT AND UP, GO INTO COLOR

PAN UP WITH MOTION BLUR AND ZOOM IN ON

INT, PUPPETEER BRIDGE OF THEATER
We see Nigel and Carson on the bridge from above with the Serpentine Ave and Briony Lodge set below. Carson is snickering, looking at Nigel…

CARSON

Heh. You said ‘secreting’.

NIGEL

I know what I said.

CARSON

That’s OK. Happens to all of us.

Nigel

Carson!

Carson

Yes, Nigel.

ZOOM BACK DOWN, GO BACK INTO B&W

EXT, STAIRS OF BRIONY LODGE
Marionettes pick up where they left off.

HOLMES

Her banker or her lawyer. But I am inclined to think neither. Women are secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her house.

WATSON

But it has twice been burgled.

HOLMES

Pshaw! They did not know how to look.

WATSON

But how will you look?

HOLMES

I will not look.

WATSON

What then?

HOLMES

I will get her to show me.

WATSON

But she will refuse.

They stop walking. Holmes turns to Watson.

CLOSE-UP ON HOLMES

HOLMES

She will not be able to.

Holmes turns toward the sound of a carriage.

HOLMES

I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage.

Turning back to Watson, hands on his shoulders

HOLMES

Now, carry out my orders to the letter.

WIDE SHOT

A gleaming carriage with sidelights comes around the corner and pulls up in front of her house.

CLOSE UP

EXT, SIDE OF ADLER’S CARRIAGE
Adler gets out (imitate Rose getting out of the car and looking out from under her hat in Titanic). She is the spitting image of Ava Gardner.

As she gets out, the hooligan comes up to snatch her purse. Copper lunges with nightstick. Holmes rushes to assist. Adler struggles to escape the melee.

ENTER BULLET TIME

The marionettes’ strings drop. Holmes protects Adler, helps the copper, lands a few good ones on the hooligan, then takes a hard hit and falls.

EXIT BULLET TIME

The hooligan rushes off. Copper collects himself and gets up to check on Holmes.

PAN FROM THE LYING HOLMES UP THE STAIRS

EXT, STAIRS OF BRIONY LODGE, NIGHT
Adler is standing there in all her Noir’ish splendor with a spotlight on her, holding a silky wrap in one hand and a smoking cigarette in the other (when did she have time light that!?).

IRENE ADLER

Is the gentleman much hurt?

ZOOM OUT AND UP, GO INTO COLOR

PAN UP WITH MOTION BLUR AND ZOOM IN ON

INT, PUPPETEER BRIDGE OF THEATER
Stella has joined Nigel and Carson (she is Irene). Nigel, exasperated, is shrugging his shoulders and looking at Stella (think Streetcar Named Desire for the next line)…

NIGEL

Stella!!!

STELLA

What!?

NIGEL

This is the most important line in the production. It is the first time Irene acknowledges Holmes. I need passion here, yet apathy. I need excitement, yet ordinary. I need desperate longing for him to be alright, with a careless attitude that say