The Orphanage

The Orphanage

21^st July 2008

Optimum Releasing

15

105

Juan Antonio Bayona

Belén Rueda, Fernando Cayo, Roger Princep, Montserrat Carulla

Horror, Thriller

Spain, Mexico

5-star

2007

DVD, Blu-ray

Spanish

Subtitles

Ghost Stories

DVD The Orphanage

The Orphanage is an atmospheric, psychological horror debut by former music video director Juan Antonio Bayona. Produced by renowned Mexican filmmaker Guillermo Del Toro, The Orphanage benefits from an imaginative visual style that is fast becoming the norm for modern Spanish cinema. The film is reminiscent of an M.R James morality-driven ghost story, taking its protagonists on a nightmarish journey to a macabre, nihilistic conclusion.

Laura and her husband Carlos purchase the orphanage where Laura was raised, with the benevolent intention of founding a care home for disabled children and their own son, Simón. Simón is an imaginative but lonely boy, seeking companionship with his increasingly numerous imaginary friends. Carlos and Laura hope that Simón will begin to come out of his shell when the orphanage reopens its doors and the house is filled with children once more.

As his parents become increasingly distracted with preparations for the facility’s opening, the lonely Simón regresses ever further into his fantasy world. His ‘friends’ begin to take on a sinister aspect, however, when Simón discovers information about himself and his parents that he could not possibly have unearthed on his own. Armed with this distressing knowledge, Simón and Laura’s relationship grows increasingly fractious, exacerbated by the appearance of an intruder in the family’s grounds.

The hopeful parents hold an open day for the new facility, showcasing themselves and the building to prospective families. The day turns into a disaster however, when Laura realises her son has disappeared. Fearing the worst, police divers search the cove facing the property, but no body is recovered.

Laura is convinced that Simón has been abducted, and with the help of the police, begins a wild search for the intruder of a few nights previously. With little hope of success, the couple’s search for their son takes an unlikely turn when Laura is given reason to believe their house is haunted. Their investigation reveals that the woman, Benigna, was mother to a deformed child who was bullied into a fatal incident by the former denizens of the orphanage, and took terminal revenge on the children responsible.

Laura’s progress in the investigation becomes an obsession, and she is convinced that the answer to her son’s disappearance lies with the tormented spectral children. A sinister cat – and – mouse game ensues as Laura begins to unravel the mysteries of her new home, the intentions of the ghostly orphans and the fate of her missing son.

With the successes of J-horror movies and their remakes, other oriental imports like South Korea’s chilling A Tale of Two Sisters and the consistent output from Spain, it’s not surprising that psychological horror films are undergoing something of a welcome resurgence of late. The market has been saturated with the Saw, Hostel, Wolf Creek ‘torture porn’ brand of horror for too long, and it’s refreshing to see films that are engaging the mind as opposed to assaulting the senses.

Right from the off, The Orphanage creates an almost palpable sense of tension and threat. The score is terrific, and this, combined with the film’s brooding, ominous locations, conspires to get the heart beating within minutes. The script is both chilling and original; the malevolent omniscience of Simón’s ‘imaginary’ friends is truly disturbing and the plot throws up some neat little set pieces to keep the audience on the edge of their seat. When Laura engages a psychic to aid her in the investigation, the resulting use of fixed-camera, surveillance style footage is terrifying in what it leaves to the viewer’s imagination, rather than what is shown explicitly.

The camera work maintains a consistent level of ingenuity; succeeding in being artistic without detracting from the film’s realism. In a recurring motif, Laura is forced to engage in a children’s game similar to ‘Statues’ (one, two, three, knock on the wall), where the children attempt to sneak up on a nominated player while their back is turned. The audience is left in an agony of suspense while Laura tempts the phantasmal children into coming out of hiding, the camera panning in turn from her position by the wall to the open dormitory door in an oh-so-patient long take. The result is almost unbearably tense.

Alongside the more conventional horror storyline, The Orphanage is also an acute and affecting melodrama. Belén Rueda is fantastic as Laura; her want for her missing son is brutally palpable, and the slow disintegration of her relationship with Carlos is heartbreakingly inevitable. The two storylines compliment and enhance one another; the poignancy of the film’s denouement is more emotive because it is so nightmarish, likewise the film is more terrifying for being emotive. Bayona has struck a fine balance, giving what would have been a very successful horror film in its own right an extra element of pathos.

The film isn’t perfect. There are some plot holes, and character motivations, most notably and perhaps most crucially those of the phantom children, are sometimes hazy. Furthermore, Carlos’ involvement throughout the film is curiously marginal, as a character he is underwritten and almost surplus to requirements. It would take a monumental degree of jaded detachment to notice these foibles in a single viewing however; the pervading sense if far more likely to be one of sympathetic terror as you accompany Laura’s quest to uncover the awful secrets surrounding her house’s history, and the dire consequences for her family’s future.

The Orphanage is the thinking man’s horror film. By avoiding the claret and instead sculpting a story that speaks to the most fundamental of human emotions, Bayona has succeeded in crafting a film that is both horrifying and deeply affecting.

The Companion

1 EXT. HILLSIDE, NIGHT
A squat, hulking shape is silhouetted by silver moonlight.
MARK (V/O, RECITING)
’Oh spare a thought for those who
dwell, upon the meadow moor and
dell...’


2 EXT. BURIAL MOUND, NIGHT
A rough, stone-clad entrance is cut into the flank of the
mound. The wind whistles through the branches of bare trees.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
’...The wanderer who, shunning
home, traverses empty fields
alone...’


3 INT. BURIAL MOUND, NIGHT
Mark rests his head against his worn canvas pack, sheltering
from the elements. Still a young man, but careworn.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
’...For there beneath the West’ring
sun, the shadows lengthen, growing
one...’
Mark unlaces his boots and arranges his ground mat and
sleeping bag with practiced ease.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
’...The traveler begins to see he
will not want for company.’


4 EXT. HILLSIDE, DAY
Mark emerges from the burial mound, stretches. Squints
against the mid morning sun.
Perplexed, Mark looks at his battered wristwatch before
turning to swiftly and efficiently repack his sleeping
items.
Mark pauses in his actions, turns, listens.
Silence.
There is no birdsong.
He redoubles his efforts to make up for his unaccustomed
lie-in.
Hefting his old pack onto his shoulders, he notices a
standing stone bearing an unusual inscription. Kneels down,
wipes away the dirt with his palm.
Mark struggles with the unfamiliar words.
MARK (ECHOING)
’Caveo singularis viator, questio
Amicus...’
Reaching into his pack, Mark retrieves a dog-eared map and a
stub of pencil. He flips the map, copying the inscription
onto the blank reverse side.
This done, Mark re-shoulders his pack and leaves the mound
behind him.


5 EXT. WOODLAND, DAY
The trunks of great moss-covered oaks loom imperiously
above.
MARK (V/O)
What a glorious morning. With each
passing day I grow more confident
of my convictions; you’d love it
here.
Mark deftly rinses his laundry in a broad, fast-flowing
river.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
The landscape of this great country
has captivated me as it once did
the romantic poets.
Far from the hilltop burial site, the woods are full of
activity; birds clatter and call from the treetops.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
The humdrum of the real world seems
like a million miles away to me
now.
Mark beats his clothes dry against a large, flat rock.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
Perhaps one day you can join me in
this remarkable place. Eternally
yours, Mark.
Gathers some dry firewood from the clearing. He secures this
in a neatly wrapped bundle which he ties to his pack.


6 EXT. COUNTRY ROAD, EVENING
A narrow country road wends its way across a hillside as the
light bleeds from the day.
The interlocking branches of leafless trees form a tunnel
over the road, down which Mark advances, the firewood at his
back providing a staccato accompaniment to his footfalls.
Light floods the road, causing the wiry trees to stand out
in stark relief. Mark turns his head to see a blue hatchback
approaching from behind.
The car begins to slow as if to offer a lift but mark ushers
the driver on with a hand gesture.
Resettling his pack, Mark continues on his way.


7 EXT. COUNTRY ROAD, NIGHT
Night brings a new perspective to the roadside; the absence
of traffic creating an air of hushed expectancy.
Mark’s shadow skitters across the trunks of trees at the
roadside.
Silence save for his sturdy boots against the asphalt and
the rustling of the firewood at his back.
Mark hears another pair of footsteps besides his own.
Turning his head, he peers into the darkness.
No-one.
Mark turns back towards his path and immediately the mirror
footfalls return, walking almost in step with his own.
Anxious now, Mark redoubles his pace.
His pursuer does likewise.
Mark turns abruptly about, hoping to catch the unknown
follower unawares.
A shadow melts into the treeline by the roadside.
Cautiously, Mark makes his way back along the road to where
the figure disappeared.
MARK
Hello?
He approaches the trunk of a large oak, the branches,
stripped of their foliage, reaching down like arthritic
fingers.
MARK
Is anyone there?
Mark rounds the trunk of the tree.
Nothing.
He circles the entire oak, placing his hand against the
trunk and staring up into the branches.
Nothing.
Mark continues on his way down the road, occasionally
glancing over his shoulder.
Silence.


8 EXT. MEADOW, NIGHT
A dark, open meadow, shrouded in mist.
MARK (V/O)
It’s as if a great weight has been
lifted from my shoulders. The
baggage a person accumulates over
the course of an average lifetime
just falls away if you let it.
Mark sits at the entrance to his tent, warming his hands.
Dries his clothes on a small fire.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
I have no-one to answer to but
myself; no questions, no commands,
no expectations.
Mark gets up and extinguishes the fire with a bucket of
rainwater, smoke and steam rising up into the still, silent
night.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
This could be just what we need.
Catharsis. A fresh start. Always,
Mark.
The clearing is now completely dark. Mark unzips his tent
before settling down to sleep.


9 INT. TENT, NIGHT
A cryptlike stillness permeates Mark’s tent, punctuated only
by his shallow breathing.
Mark is lain on his left side, facing the canvas wall of his
tent.
The silence of the night is broken by a dry, rasping breath
which joins Mark’s own, rousing him from sleep.
Mark turns over.
A figure, swaddled in an ancient filthy canvas shroud,
spread out beside him.
The breath catches in his throat.
Scrambling for his lighter; the small, flickering flame
casts dancing shadows.
Nothing; only the gaping entrance to the tent flapping in
the wind.
Mark sits rigid, lighter in hand, panting in shock until the
heat of the flame on his thumb causes him to extinguish the
light.


10 EXT. MEADOW, DAWN
Mark jerks with first light, his shock from the night before
writ large across his tired features and underlined by his
harried movements.
MARK (V/O)
I dreamt of you last night; I
dreamt I was falling and you caught
me. When I woke up I thought
that... it’s strange.
The meadow glows wetly in the thin light of early morning as
Mark crams his sleeping bag into its pouch without his
customary care and diligence, desperate to distance himself
from the events of the night before.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
I must be getting confused. Perhaps
it’s time I... I think I need to
see you. As ever, Mark.
Mark begins walking with reckless pace, occasionally
catching his feet in divots and roots.


11 EXT. RESERVOIR, DAY
Mark treks along a reservoir skirted by dense pine trees,
his reflection dancing across the surface of the still,
ebony water.


12 EXT. COUNTRY ROAD, DUSK
Mark wearily makes his way along a winding country road. No
cars disturb the silence, only the birds calling in the
trees as evening draws in.
Pausing for a moment, Mark reaches into his pack to retrieve
his tattered, faded map.
Mark holds the map up to the setting sun, the light turning
the paper translucent.
Silhouetted on the blank rear portion of the map, where he
had made note of the inscription from the burial mound, a
single phrase is repeated again and again, the words pressed
deep into the thick paper as if scrawled with great force.


Accersitus Sequor
Accersitus Sequor
Accersitus Sequor
Accersitus Sequor


Mark catches his breath in horror and instinctively casts
the desecrated map away from him.
Taking a moment to compose himself, Mark kneels down and
sets light to the flimsy document, which burns quickly by
the roadside. Flaming scraps drift skywards as the map is
consumed.
Regaining his feet, Mark glances to his right.
A wiry, featureless figure silhouetted against the darkening
sky.
The colour drains from his face and the breath catches in
his throat.
Realises the motionless creature is nothing more than an old
weather-beaten scarecrow.
Mark continues on his way, feeling hunted.


13 EXT. WOODLAND, NIGHT
Mark is setting up his camp in a natural woodland clearing,
the forest closing in around him.
It is full dark as Mark unsteadily raises his tent. He does
so by moonlight, exhausted and visibly shaking.
Mark’s imagination begins to run away with him, causing him
to whip his head around at the sound of rustling
undergrowth.
He rises, peering into a dense and shadowy thicket.
Nothing.
Finally, the camp set for the night, Mark climbs inside his
tent and prepares for a fitful slumber.


14 INT. TENT, NIGHT
Inside the tent, Mark is sleeping lightly. Condensation
beads against the walls of the tent as he gently respires.
The woods are silent, so the sound of stealthy footfalls
brings Mark awake with a jolt.
Mark holds his breath, leaning back on his elbows and
staring into the darkness at the foot of his tent.
The footsteps approach from behind, accompanied by ragged
breaths.
Mark flicks his lighter on just as a hand gently brushes the
canvas of his tent, causing him to utter a strangled moan.
The footsteps move around to the front of the tent and the
zip begins to incrementally make its way to the top.
MARK
Leave me alone!
As Mark shouts into the void, the flame of his lighter
extinguishes, leaving the tent in total darkness. At that
moment, the zip reaches the top, leaving the flap completely
open.
Mark lies there propped on his elbows, awaiting a
confrontation that never arrives.


15 EXT. STREET, EVENING
Mark stares blankly ahead, a haunted look in his eyes.
MARK (V/O)
Have you ever caught sight of your
reflection in a pool of water, or a
shop window perhaps, and failed to
recognise yourself?
His hair is bedraggled and unwashed, his face unshaven.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
If only for a moment, like a
fleeting glimpse of a
half-forgotten acquaintance before
habit and memory pulls you back
into your body.
He is sat on his sleeping bag, propped against a shop front.
His travel-worn tin mug is at his feet, a small amount of
change at the bottom.
MARK (V/O, CONT)
I’ve written these words before; I
know not where.
The feet of dozens of heedless shoppers march past as Mark
stares idly and sightlessly at the passing throng, his mind
forever elsewhere.
MARK (V/O, RECITING)
I’ve written these words before; I
know not where. ‘Beware Lonely
Traveller, Seeking Friend.’ Forever
yours, Mark.

My Life in Cat Years

1 EXT. CITY. DUSK
Street lights begin to flicker on as the day slowly draws
into darkness and the city takes on a new life.
MARIE (V/0)
"Lucky that man whose children make
his happiness in life and not his
grief, the anguished disappointment
of his hopes."
A seemingly endless row of gridlocked traffic, the Commuters
stuck in their motionless cars.
MARIE (CONTINUED)
...I read these words somewhere; a
magazine perhaps, or a book I’ve
half forgotten. To me they strike a
peculiar resonance, a fragment of
something real.
MARIE SOMERVILLE, Twenty-nine with short dark hair, is
secured within a long beige trench-coat; a distant figure
lost in a busy street. Picks her way through the crowd. She
carries with her an old leather overnight bag. Pedestrians
walk past oblivious.


2 EXT. STATION. DUSK
MARIE fights her way through a restless train station.
Tannoy:
STATION EMPLOYEE (DISINTERESTED)
The next train to arrive at
platform 2 is the 18:35 train to
Shrewsbury...
Marie makes her way towards the platform.
STATION EMPLOYEE (CONTINUED)
...calling at Watford, Milton
Keynes, Rugby, Coventry...


3 INT. TRAIN CARRIAGE. DUSK
MARIE sits alone at a table meant for four, staring absently
out of the window. She begins to jot in an old leather-bound
notebook.
The view from the carriage slowly transforms into a rural
vista, urban sprawl gradually becoming fields.
JULIA (ANSWERING MACHINE)
Marie? It’s your mother. We have
arranged a date; Thursday 14th.
Please call and let me know you’re
coming.
BEEP


4 EXT. CEMETERY. DAY
MARIE, clad in funereal black, stares at a recently filled
grave. Her face betrays little emotion.
PASTOR
...as his illness caught up with
him, Martin’s strength and
resilience were an inspiration to
us all.
Slightly apart is her sister IRIS, who has one arm around
the weeping JULIA and the other resting on the bulge of her
pregnant stomach. THE PASTOR, a dour, dark-haired man in his
mid fifties, drones on incessantly.
PASTOR (CONTINUED)
... in those final days and weeks,
it was Martin’s character, not his
illness, that continued to define
him. Go now in peace, may the love
of God surround you.
The assembled mourners begin to make their way from the
graveside to the wake. Marie lingers a little longer than
the rest before following.


5 INT. SOMERVILLE HOME (LIVING ROOM). EVENING.
MARIE lounges despondently in a comfortable arm chair,
surrounded by the detritus of Martin Somerville’s wake.
GUEST (O/S)
...you call if you need anything.
Scattered around the room is an array of empty chairs, half
filled wine glasses and empty bottles. The book of
condolences sits alone on a table.
IRIS (O/S)
Thanks Paul. We’re so glad you
could come.
Door closes.
A car starts and pulls out of the gravel drive as IRIS joins
her sister in the living room. Iris begins gathering the
discarded glasses and bottles.
MARIE (RISING).
Let me do that.
IRIS
It’s alright.
Pause as Marie sits back down and Iris takes her load
through to the kitchen. Marie begins to spin an ancient
globe slowly on its axis.
MARIE
It’s going to take mum ages to sort
through all his things...
Iris can be heard clattering around offscreen.
IRIS (O/S)
She won’t be ready for a long time
yet.
Pause as Iris returns and continues clearing up.
MARIE
It used to scare me in here, all
those patterns in the wallpaper
looked like faces if you stared at
them long enough.
Pause as Iris gathers more items and Marie sips from a half
finished glass of wine.
MARIE
It’s good to see you Iris.
Pregnancy suits you.
Iris grins sadly to herself and continues on her way to the
kitchen.
IRIS (O/S)
Dad mentioned he’d sent you a
birthday card.
Pause.
IRIS (CONTINUED)
Why didn’t you tell him you’d
moved?
Silence as Marie gropes for an adequate reply.
IRIS (RETURNING)
I’d finish that glass if I were
you, we have to be up in the
morning.


6 INT. SOMERVILLE HOME (MARIE’S ROOM). NIGHT.
MARIE climbs an old staircase and pushes open the door of
her bedroom, the same she used as a child. The light
flickers on uncertainly, revealing a room now conspicuously
bare.
A chart showing Marie’s height at various ages meanders past
the light switch.
Marie shuts the door and momentarily perches on the end of
the bed, scrupulously made that morning.
A few relics remain sat within the worn, peeling décor.
Several dust covered but well thumbed books sit on an
otherwise bare shelf. In the corner sits a wooden ladder and
some empty paint tins situated below a swatch of test
samples.
Marie rises, selecting a creased record sleeve from a small
pile of deserted albums. Delicately she lowers the needle
before sitting back on the bed.
She lies back lost in thought. From the corner of her eye,
she notices a dream-catcher slowly rotating in the draft
from her bedroom window.


7 INT. MARIE’S BEDROOM. MORNING
Approaching footsteps. The handle of the door is turned, but
it is locked. Knocking at door.
Marie gropes reluctantly towards wakefulness.
JULIA (O/S)
Marie, are you getting up? It’s
10:15. Iris and I are leaving soon.
Julia’s footsteps are heard retreating down the corridor.


8 INT. SOLICITOR’S OFFICE. DAY
JOHN WEAKS
Let me start by saying how sorry I
am for your loss.
MARIE, IRIS and their MOTHER sit in a cluster of antiquated
leather chairs facing a dark, well-proportioned desk. The
lawyer, a kindly man of middle years, smiles genially at the
family.
JOHN WEAKS
Martin was a true friend.
Mrs Somerville smiles thinly.
JULIA
Thankyou John.
JOHN WEAKS
This oughtn’t take too long. As I’m
sure you all know Martin was
careful to set his affairs in order
while he was still able.
Mr Weaks reaches for Martin Somerville’s will, which is
resting neatly on his desk. The document is printed on
thick, headed notepaper.
JOHN WEAKS (ORATORICALLY)
I, Martin James Somerville,
resident of Oxfordshire, England
declare this to be my last will and
testament. I hereby revoke all
former wills and codicils.
Iris and Julia regard John attentively. Marie is clearly
feeling worse for wear and is struggling not to fidget.
JOHN WEAKS (CONTINUED)
If my wife, Julia Evelyn Somerville
survives me, I wish my entire
estate to pass to her, with the
condition that our Durham residence
pass to my eldest daughter, Iris
Christine Mangan...
Iris takes her mother’s hand and squeezes.
JOHN WEAKS (CONTINUED)
...and that my daughter Marie
Colette Somerville inherit my
vintage AJS motorcycle.
Marie’s disappointment registers on her face.
JOHN WEAKS (CONTINUED)
I appoint my wife Julia Evelyn
Somerville as executor of my will,
and if she is unable or unwilling
to serve...
Without saying a word, Marie rises from her chair and leaves
the room with her family staring after her and John Weaks,
his concentration broken, continuing haltingly.
JOHN WEAKS (CONTINUED)
...then I appoint my brother Arthur
Somerville as alternative executor.


9 EXT. OFFICE DOORWAY. AFTERNOON
MARIE is sat on the third step, smoking a cigarette and
visibly fuming. JOHN walks down the steps towards her.
JOHN WEAKS
Mind if I sit here?
MARIE
Go ahead.
John sits beside Marie. Awkward silence.
JOHN WEAKS
I saw you’d been published.
Congratulations.
MARIE
You’ve read it?
JOHN WEAKS
I’m not much of reader I’m afraid,
but my wife assures me it’s very
good.
Marie attempts a smile.
JOHN WEAKS
Martin must have been very proud of
you.
MARIE
I don’t think he got around to
reading it.
Awkward pause.
JOHN WEAKS
He always had something to keep
himself occupied, your dad. Like
that bike. It became almost an
obsession for him over the last few
months.
John stands up and fishes in his trouser pocket.
JOHN WEAKS
I just wanted to make sure you got
these.
He retrieves a set of keys on a battered leather fob and
holds them enticingly before Marie’s face. She reluctantly
takes them.


10 INT. WORKSHOP. EVENING
A bare bulb flickers then ignites. MARIE is in her father’s
workshop. One side of the room is occupied by his desk and
in the centre is the motorbike, covered by a filthy,
oil-stained dustcover.
Marie approaches the bike and grabs a corner of the dust
sheet. Before she can remove the cover her attention wanders
to an object on Martin’s desk and she draws her hand away.
It is covered in dust and grease.
Disgusted, Marie wipes her hand on the thigh of her jeans
and goes to explore the rest of the workshop. The room is
typically cluttered and filthy. Marie approaches her
father’s desk.
On its surface are various tools, components and a pair of
her father’s spectacles. Marie picks these up and peers
through the lenses, examining the room through their
unfamiliar blur.
Marie’s attention is caught by a noticeboard nailed above
the desk and she lowers the glasses. Pinned to the board are
invoices for parts, post-it notes written in her father’s
hand and a number of maps and photographs.
Marie examines one of these, a section of road on the South
coast of Italy that Martin has highlighted in thick red pen.
Marie traces the route with her fingertip.


11 EXT. COUNTRYSIDE. DAWN
MARIE is lent against the kitchen door frame, enjoying her
first cigarette of the day. The lilting call-and-response of
two blackbirds signals the break of dawn. Marie shivers and
pulls her coat tighter over her shoulders.
Montage sequence.
The sun rises low and orange over frost-covered fields.
MARIE (V/O)
I was born on September 25th 1981,
making me a Libra. Thus I am
romantic, changeable,
self-indulgent, gullible and
idealistic.
A blackbird hops from branch to branch, singing the morning.
MARIE (CONTINUED)
Alongside roughly one-twelfth of
all mankind. If only we were so
simple.
The Somerville house, bathed in soft orange sunlight.


12 INT. SOMERVILLE CONSERVATORY. MORNING
MARIE and IRIS are sat in a worn wicker sofa, sipping cups
of tea and eating breakfast. Iris has her hands clasped over
her pregnant stomach.
IRIS
He’s kicking.
Iris gestures Marie over to her. Marie bends down and rests
her face against her sister’s stomach. Marie’s expression
lights up as she feels the movement of her unborn nephew.
Marie, suddenly conscious of her position, draws her face
away, embarrassed.
MARIE
When’s he due?
IRIS
December 15th.
Marie sits back in her chair and grins at her sister.
MARIE
I mean it, you do look good
pregnant.
IRIS
You’re a shit liar Marie, I look
like a beach ball.
The two sisters share a laugh.
Pause.
MARIE
Have you thought of a name yet?
IRIS
No, but we know what his middle
name’s going to be.
The conversation lags for a few moments as the two women eat
their breakfast.
MARIE
Why did dad get a bike?
IRIS
He’s had it for years now I think.
He was planning some sort of grand
European tour. Of course, mum put
the breaks on that idea. Said he
was too old to be off gallivanting
around Europe.
Marie lets this new information sink in.
IRIS
Remember Bude? I thought mum was
going to have a fit. I could hear
her shouting even over the waves.
MARIE
They were really big. I could only
just see her on the shore. I wasn’t
very good at first but dad kept
telling me I had to wait until the
wave was just about to break, then
kick my legs as hard as I could. We
rode all the way back to the beach.
Mum wouldn’t let us go back in
after that.


13 INT. GARAGE. AFTERNOON
MARIE has returned to her father’s workshop. Dust motes play
in shafts of golden light spilling in through the grimy
windows.
Marie slowly begins to approach the shrouded motorcycle.
This time she commits, pulling away the filthy dustcover to
reveal her father’s motorbike.
It is pristine. The body is an attractive sky blue and the
chrome is gleaming. Finally realising the true nature of her
father’s gift, Marie sits at his desk and begins to weep.


14 EXT. COUNTRY ROAD. DAY
In the near distance, a gleaming blue vintage motorcycle is
moving at pace along a deserted country road.
The rider, a slim figure clad in vintage leather and an
old-fashioned full-face helmet is clearly relishing guiding
the machine through the winding bends.