Weewax: The Death and Life of an Artist
[excerpt from new screenplay]
[Friends, Today’s Substack is a little different as I am posting an excerpt from my latest screenplay — “Weewax: The Death and Life of an Artist.” It is a farce and has been optioned by a production team. It’s slated to begin principal photography in September. The two locations to be used are beautiful Savannah, GA and nearby Tybee Island. It’s perfect because Savannah is an art community (home to the Savannah College of Art and Design) and picturesque landscape.
The producers have been working in that area for years and have put together quite a team, but it begins and ends with the script. I’m proud of it as it falls right in my wheelhouse — a farce — about an artist who fakes his own death to increase the value of his paintings. This leads to more trouble than it’s worth.
The low budget shoot is looking for $50,000. There are rewards attached, but if you contribute, I’ll also send you my upcoming book (an as-yet-untitled collection of my best Substack entries) due out later this year. (If the goal is not reached, you receive your money back.) No pressure. As always, I appreciate your support. Enjoy!]
GRAPHIC: Based upon a true story...
(then)
...assuming there’s been a true story matching this one.
GRAPHIC: SAVANNAH, GA (pre-Internet)
FADE IN:
INT. WAREHOUSE - NIGHT
A small warehouse converted into an artist’s studio. Easels, paints, completed paintings lay about. The one bulb hanging from the room’s center shines on a painting--dark tones, elegant. A hand puts finishing touches along the edges with a paintbrush.
The door opens. Footsteps until the painting is covered in shadows -- the shadows of ANTHONY “BUTTERBALL” BUTTINI, 50ish, low to the ground, and his large HENCHMAN, 30s, straight from an open call for “Sopranos” extras.
The artist, JULIAN, 30, thin with tousled red hair, circular glasses, turns to face them.
BUTTERBALL: (no sense of appreciation) This the latest masterpiece?
JULIAN: Just let me put the finishing touches on it.
BUTTERBALL: Meh. Looks good enough.
Butterball snaps his fingers and Henchman takes the painting off the easel. Julian removes his smock.
JULIAN: I can’t tell you how grateful I am that your boss bought up my entire portfolio, Mr. Buttini.
BUTTERBALL: The boss sees you as an investment. (pulls out a gun) And it’s time to cash in.
Julian’s eyes go wide. Buttini fires.
BLACK.
FADE IN:
INT. BILODEAU GALLERY - NIGHT
A small, modern space with polished cement floors and white walls. Artwork is highlighted with spotlights. Exhibits range from digital prints to silk screens to bronze sculptures and other abstractions including an old Ford Pinto with a black-and-white television set on its roof. PATRONS browse.
Stop ON a painting -- colorful, entangled shapes looking like a geometry teacher’s rendition of the “Sgt. Pepper” album cover -- acrylic on canvas wrapped on a panel. The name “Weewax” neatly painted in the bottom right corner.
A SNOOTY COUPLE in their 50s wearing tweed and monochromatic colors struggle to grasp its beauty.
SNOOTY WOMAN: It incites feelings of anger in me.
SNOOTY MAN: His brush strokes are infantile.
SNOOTY WOMAN: It’s a cry for help.
Behind the couple, a SPECTATOR, late-30s, slender, a worn sports coat and retail slacks with hair that is still full, but into the graying process, with heavy, stressed eyes.
SPECTATOR: Actually, it’s a commentary on happiness and how everyone’s sense of contentment is different.
The snooty couple study this interloper as they would art. A long beat. Then they burst out in their snooty laughs.
SNOOTY MAN: Oh, dear fellow, what do you know about art?
They turn to walk away, chuckling at his expense.
SNOOTY WOMAN: Or happiness, really?
The spectator is nonplussed. HENRI BILODEAU, French-Canadian accent, 50s, slick hair, the facade of success and class, but resigned to failure, ENTERS from his back office, distracted. He reaffirms himself to his duties as host, approaches.
BILODEAU: (re: couple) Any interest?
SPECTATOR: Apparently, it’s unclear.
BILODEAU: Man’s struggle with happiness and his subjective definition of it. How could that be unclear?
SPECTATOR: I mean, it’s called “Happiness,” fer crissakes. You’d think I’d know a thing or two about my own paintings.
Ah, so this is the artist, WEEWAX himself. Bilodeau nods.
SPECTATOR/WEEWAX: What’d your ex-wife want?
BILODEAU: Everything. (sighs) I’m sleeping in my office these days. Art is not the career to be in if you want to make money.
WEEWAX: I don’t understand. This is what sells nowadays. Rigid geometric landscapes, social commentaries. I’m serving it to them on a platter.
BILODEAU: Art is what people make of it. The artist can only guide the viewer to a way of thinking. (then) No one wants you to sell more than I do. So I can pay (to no one in particular) That witch! (takes a breath) And of course to get you what you deserve.
WEEWAX: I have twice the drive than those other artists.
BILODEAU: Sweat equity.
WEEWAX: Yet people can’t get enough of their crap. . .like Puggie. Two-bit hack with his street art. It’s just colored vomit.
BILODEAU: Puggie has tapped into something that connects with the zeitgeist. He’s brill-- (off Weewax’s glare) Er, brillt to fail.
WEEWAX: And here I am paying middlemen to get my work seen for a “minimal fee.” Gets me nothing but a tax write-off.
BILODEAU: It doesn’t happen overnight. Across the room, the snooty man beckons.
SNOOTY MAN: Mr. Bildeeaw! We’re interested in this piece over here.
BILODEAU: (under his breath) That’s Bilodeau. (then, with a smile) Un minute, Monsieur. (to Weewax) How hard is it to say Bilodeau?
WEEWAX: If it’s a sale, let him call you whatever he wants.
Bilodeau starts to walk away, then turns back for a moment.
BILODEAU: I will get you seen.
WEEWAX: I have faith. Mark my words, the name Weewax will be on the tips of everyone’s tongue soon enough.
A YOUNG ARTIST, mid-20s, looking out the window.
YOUNG ARTIST: Weewax!
Weewax turns. A moment of hope.
ARTIST: They’re towing your car.
WEEWAX: Crapwaffle!
Weewax bolts out the door.
EXT. BLYDENBURGH ARTS COLONY - LATER
On the outskirts of Savannah lies an artists’ commune. Weewax lumbers up the front path to his trailer. He is about to key into his house when he hears SOUNDS coming from inside. Crouching into either the “flee” or “attack” position, he peers through the window, then straightens up.
INT. WEEWAX’S TRAILER - CONTINUOUS
He opens the door and crosses his arms.
WEEWAX: C’mon, guys. You’re in my trailer.
FRANK and MARION, late of the hippie movement, now in their 70s, sit up on the bed. They cover themselves in sheets and pillows.
FRANK: Actually, Haley, it belongs to all of us in the community.
MARION: We thought you’d be out late, sweetheart.
WEEWAX: The art show ended early for me... with a parking ticket.
FRANK: If you could give us just another ten... (looks to Marion, smiles) Maybe 30 minutes. . .
WEEWAX: Ugh, I’m exhausted. . . Never mind. Someday soon, I’m going to have my own place. No 30-year-old should live with his parents.
MARION: Adopted parents, and you’re 37, dear.
WEEWAX: I just need that one big sale.
FRANK: Art is about beauty in the creation and not the value placed upon it. It’s about the freedom of passion that springs from the bosom. It’s about love.
MARION: That’s beautiful, honey buns.
Marion puts her hand on Frank’s butt. They kiss passionately.
WEEWAX: With all this. . . passion, it’s amazing you two never had any kids of your own.
MARION: (in between sucking face) My eggs. . .
WEEWAX: Oh.
MARION: My eggs were so fertile, we were afraid we’d end up with a dozen kids.
WEEWAX: You did have a dozen kids.
FRANK: (passion increasing) This talk is so hot.
MARION: (in between groans) Do you want your sheets, Haley?
Frank tosses her on the bed and they go at it.
WEEWAX: Just return them tomorrow. . . washed.
INT. VANDERHOOFER ESTATE - AMPHIBIAN ROOM - DAY
MR. VANDERHOOFER, “the Boss,” mid-70s, southern charm and yet ruthlessness, stands in front of an aquarium of turtles. He takes a leaf from a bin. They snap at it. He whips his hand back, drops the food into the aquarium. Butterball and Henchman ENTER, stand at the doorway carrying Julian’s work.
BUTTERBALL: We did that thing, Boss.
MR. VANDERHOOFER: (without turning) Good, good.
BUTTERBALL: We’ll just throw it over here with the rest.
They start to lean it along the cache against the wall.
MR. VANDERHOOFER: It’s not a pizza! What are you, animals? Spread the artwork out carefully.
BUTTERBALL: Sorry, Mr. Vanderhoofer.
MR. VANDERHOOFER: While I wait for the world to recognize the genius of this “Julian,” why don’t you find me the next one?
BUTTERBALL: Yeah, yeah, sure. We’ll get right on that.
The Henchman munches on some of the lettuce from the bin. Off Vanderhoofer’s glare, Butterball smacks his hand to drop it. They EXIT. Vanderhoofer continues feeding. A turtle snaps.
MR. VANDERHOOFER: Not that time, you insubordinate turtle.