Because I've nothing else to do.
I'm now showcasing various spoof bits of writing here. When my podcast isn't on - soundcloud.com/george-white-70.
A short film wot I wrote.
INT. RADIO RECORDING STUDIO, BASEMENT, LONDON, NIGHT, C.1960.
In a darkened, shadowy, EXPRESSIONIST, NOIRISH
RECORDING STUDIO, we see ERIC SHACKLETON, a figure coated in shadow,
dressed in a slouch hat, his face obscured, speaking into a large BBC
MICROPHONE the size of A MILK CARTON. He is coming to the end of the
NEWS BULLETIN that he is recording.
ERIC SHACKLETON
(smooth, silken voice, posh, Received Pronunciation/BBC English, the best newsreader you can imagine)
And finally, in other news, a young boy was badly burnt while playing with fireworks in Crouch End.
CUT - STOCK FOOTAGE of THE BLITZ, LONDON being BOMBED in WORLD WAR TWO, THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN, LUFTWAFFE.
CUT - We see ERIC's face, flames superimposed over it.
FADE-OUT - We see that ERIC SHACKLETON is now
scarred, his face misshapen like melted clay, scar-marks all around it.
His face moves out of the darkness, or to be more accurate, the
darkness moves out of his face, light filling in the gaps.
ERIC breaks down.
ERIC SHACKLETON
(sobbing, melodramatic)
That boy, he know nothing, he knows nothing of the
world. I was scarred, burnt in a theatre. My first big role, in the
Christmas panto. I was Prince Charming. Then a Luftwaffe bomb struck
through the ceiling and went off in my face. My skin was melted,
melted! I empathise for you, boy.
ERIC SHACKLETON presses THE TAPE DECK, stopping the RECORDING.
INT. BBC OFFICE, BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, day, c.1960.
CUT - We see in a tidy
1960s OFFICE, sitting in a large ARMCHAIR, PATRICK SOUTAR, a huge fat
man, with smooth skin bar that of his head. He has bags under his eyes,
a wrinkled face, tufts of grey hair on the sides of his otherwise bald
pate. He holds the tape up and throws it in the bin. ALF RIDDINGTON,
bearded, forty, with unruly, greying hair, relatively handsome but
asexual, a bit stiff, an intellectual and a former boxer, comes in.
ALF RIDDINGTON
(genial, Northern English)
What was that, Pat?
PATRICK SOUTAR
(posh)
Nothing, Alf, just the melodramatic ramblings of Eric Shackleton.
ALF RIDDINGTON
(curious, rolls his eyes)
What's he doing now?
PATRICK SOUTAR
(laughing, hands on his shoulders, not taking it seriously)
The latest news bulletin I had him record in his
music studio involved a young boy who had been burnt, and he went on
again about his wartime injury, and how it ruined his career.
ALF RIDDINGTON
(slightly more serious)
So, you need me then?
PATRICK SOUTAR
(nods)
Yes, I need his address.
ALF RIDDINGTON
(surprised)
What, Shackleton's?
PATRICK SOUTAR
Yes.
ALF RIDDINGTON
Well, his studio, a girl I have as a reader on the
Children's Hour that I produce, Tina, she works as a session singer for
him on a series of records.
PATRICK SOUTAR
What kind of records?
ALF RIDDINGTON
(easygoing)
Sound-alike records, compilations of covers of hit songs by unknown session bands. That's what he does to keep himself sane.
PATRICK SOUTAR
(deadpan)
Sane? He fails miserably in that capacity.
ALF RIDDINGTON
(laughing)
Indeed.
PATRICK SOUTAR
So, you know?
ALF RIDDINGTON
Yes, 4233 Grice Avenue.
PATRICK SOUTAR
Thank you.
PATRICK SOUTAR nods, and leaves.
fade-out.
EXT. ENTRANCE, GATED COURTYARD, BACK STREET, LONDON, EARLY EVENING, C.1960.
CUT - We see PATRICK SOUTAR, enveloped in a too-small
TRENCH-COAT and FEDORA, walking down a PROVINCIAL BACK STREET past a
LARGE GATED COURTYARD.
INT. RADIO RECORDING STUDIO, BASEMENT, LONDON, NIGHT, C.1960.
CUT - We see CAROL OTTERBOURNE, an overweight
peroxide blonde in her thirties, tightly packed into a leather
mini-dress, her cleavage showing, in the RECORDING STUDIO chatting to
ERIC SHACKLETON, wearing a sinister featureless black leather mask.
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
(vulgar, Cockney)
Oh, Eric, what is wrong with me?
ERIC SHACKLETON
(smooth)
Carol Otterbourne, you make me laugh.
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
What is it?
ERIC SHACKLETON
(cruel, rude)
I'm sorry but it is your skin.
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
(outraged)
My skin? My skin? Your skin is rotten. What's wrong with mine? It's perfect, compared to yours. This is music, not visual.
ERIC SHACKLETON
(sinister)
You see, it is a little experiment. I need smoothness.
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
(confused)
Why?
ERIC SHACKLETON
(sinister)
Nothing, just some accompanying visuals, that is all.
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
(eager)
But you want me for the recording.
ERIC SHACKLETON
(smooth)
Yes, of course.
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
(proud of herself)
See, no matter, what the Windmill might say, I never lost it.
ERIC SHACKLETON
(sinister)
You still have it.
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
(stiffly waves goodbye)
Ta-ra!
CAROL OTTERBOURNE leaves. Soon after, PATRICK SOUTAR enters.
PATRICK SOUTAR
(cold, tough)
Behave yourself, Shackleton!
ERIC SHACKLETON
(laughing, rough lines of a smile visible behind the leather mask)
Why should I?
PATRICK SOUTAR
(tough)
Your career is ruined.
ERIC SHACKLETON
(laughing)
My career? My career? My career is in its prime! It was already ruined! I recovered, didn't I?
PATRICK SOUTAR
(trying to be friendly)
Yes, but now we can't use your recording because the
people who listen the news want the news not some tragic monologue of a
former actor's spotlight literally being the impact of a bomb hitting
on the stage!
ERIC SHACKLETON
(smoothly sinister)
Actually, to correct you, your career is ruined!
PATRICK SOUTAR
(confused, stuttering)
Mine, mine, mine?
ERIC SHACKLETON
(aiming a DART-GUN at PATRICK SOUTAR)
Yes, yours!
ERIC SHACKLETON shoots a POISONED DART from the
DART-GUN and into PATRICK SOUTAR'S FORE-HEAD. SHACKLETON grabs a KNIFE,
and then picks up a BLOB of pinkish-orange CLAY, and moves the clay all
over the dead PATRICK SOUTAR.
ERIC SHACKLETON
(smiling)
Checkmate!
CUT - We see ERIC SHACKLETON, carefully pull the CLAY
away from PATRICK SOUTAR'S CORPSE to reveal trails of SKIN hanging off
it. He rips his mask off, and pushes some clay onto it, making a thin
mask over his disfigured face. He then places patches of skin that form
a jigsaw-face, at first rudimentary with his lips, eyes and nose
visible through the tears of clay. He puts the LEATHER MASK back on.
THE CORPSE is still visibly on THE FLOOR.
CUT - TINA, a nice attractive girl of nineteen, dark
reddish hair in a bun, dressed in a floral dress and dirtied boots
enters. She is friendly and enthusiastic.
TINA
(unsure)
Mr. Shackleton?
ERIC pushes the corpse of PATRICK SOUTAR under a table.
ERIC SHACKLETON
(taken by surprise)
Oh, Tina, we recorded.
TINA
I know, but I left my keys here.
ERIC hands TINA the keys.
ERIC SHACKLETON
Here they are!
TINA
Thanks.
ERIC bends under the TABLE, and takes his MASK OFF.
He rises up, and we see that his face is perfectly restored to its
normal self.
TINA
(confused)
Why were you wearing the mask?
ERIC SHACKLETON
What's wrong with the mask?
TINA
Nothing, it is just a little odd, a little creepy, you know.
ERIC SHACKLETON
It helps me focused on music.
TINA
(worried)
What's that under the table?
ERIC SHACKLETON
A dummy!
TINA
(suspicious)
It looks quite realistic.
ERIC SHACKLETON
It's for an album cover. Now go, I'm busy!
TINA rolls her eyes and leaves.
int. BBC OFFICE, BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, day, c.1960.
CUT - NEXT MORNING. TINA rushes into ALF RIDDINGTON'S OFFICE, pretty much the same as THE OFFICE USED BY PATRICK SOUTAR.
ALF RIDDINGTON
(worried)
Tina, what is it? Is it about Pat Soutar? He's missing, you know! Did they find the body?
TINA
(sobbing, hugging ALF)
Yes, they found his body outside Shackleton's studio! Badly skinned! Oh, that Eric Shackleton is horrible!
ALF RIDDINGTON
I know!
TINA
Why does he wear a mask sometimes even though his face is perfect?
ALF RIDDINGTON
Perfect? He was horribly scarred in the war while doing panto. It ruined his career. Everyone knows that. Really?
TINA
(confused)
Really? Because he looked perfect to me.
ALF RIDDINGTON
(realizes in horror)
Oh God!
TINA
(confused)
What is it?
ALF RIDDINGTON
All the ladies used to say that he had smooth skin,
and only the face was wrong! He must be using skin to restore his
handsome features, to revive his career!
TINA
Why?
ALF RIDDINGTON
A couple of years ago, there was a BBC producer named
Harry Bland, who wanted to do an adaptation of the Phantom of the
Opera, and he wanted Eric to play it to save makeup. He flew into a
rage and Harry went missing a year later, while boating in the Isle of
Man, and I think his disappearance is connected.
Suddenly, on the RADIO, we hear BREAKING GLASS and
ERIC's laughter. ALF presses EJECT on his TAPE DECK in THE OFFICE. It
stops. He finds in THE TAPE DECK, a CASSETTE TAPE, marked "THE
CHANDELIER".
ALF RIDDINGTON
Blast, it is Eric after all!
CAROL OTTERBOURNE runs in.
ALF RIDDINGTON
(pleased to see CAROL)
What is it, Carol?
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
(worried)
I have to work full-time as a secretary here!
ALF RIDDINGTON
I know. Did that nutter Shackleton fire you?
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
He said it was because of my skin!
TINA
Thank god! He's trying to mend his face!
CAROL OTTERBOURNE
(horrified)
He's in Studio 1!
TINA and ALF RIDDINGTON are speechless.
INT. TV STUDIO, BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, C.1960.
CUT - We see an INDOOR SET, representing a BUS STOP.
There are a COUPLE of EXTRAS. In the back, we see ERIC SHACKLETON in a
TRENCHCOAT and HAT, his face beginning to loosen. He looks nervous. THE
DIRECTOR (a deathly-looking man with grey skin and hair, prematurely
aged, smoking a pipe) clearly does not recognize him.
TINA and ALF enter.
ALF RIDDINGTON
Stop! Is Eric Shackleton here?
There is HUSHED, SHOCKED SILENCE. SHACKLETON rises
from the BACKGROUND, sweating. His MASK falls to the GROUND, his
disfigured features fully in view, lit by the STAGE LIGHTS.
ERIC SHACKLETON
(melodramatic, screaming)
I admit it! I can't perform! I have stage fright! You cretins, you ignored me! I hate the BBC! Tina! My love!
TINA
(offended)
Get away, you cretin!
ERIC rises to THE CENTRE OF THE STAGE. He puts his hands up.
CUT - A STAGE LIGHT LOOSENS.
CUT - THE LIGHTING RIG collapses, crushing ERIC and burning his skin.
ALF RIDDINGTON
(wry)
The stage killed him!
TINA
No!
TINA looks horrified, and puts her hand out. ALF pushes her back to stop her from going too far. ALF comforts TINA.
FADE-OUT.
THE END.
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