preview: Earth vs Santa Claus: Requiem [Edit]
[Black.]
VOICEOVER:
It started with a child’s letter. Christina McPfieffer, age 6, and already showing signs of the talent that would someday win her a Pulitzer Prize, wrote her annual letter to Santa Claus, telling him that she had been so very, very good that year and wanted from the kind old sir but one thing, and one thing only. An incredible thing, the sort that couldn’t really fit into a bag and be stuffed down a chimney, but something she desperately wanted anyway – something, in fact, she needed, if she ever wanted to sleep better at night. Something not just for her, but something Santa could bring every child alive in every nation. What Christina McPfieffer, age 6, wanted… was world peace.
In all his long years, Santa had never received such a letter – impeccable penmanship, skillful use of first-grade level grammar, sparkly purple crayon… And he also knew that Christina McPfieffer had… indeed… been very, very good that year.
So, just as the first rays of what promised to be a glorious Christmas morning broke across the world, a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer made its final stop at a large white house in Washington, D.C…. and this time, it stayed… for a long winter chat…
[A living room with Christmas decorations, but old and worn. A tired TRENT and unnaturally perky FAYE and RAYE are seated as TIMMY unwraps his morning’s presents.]
Trent: (v.o) My first memory of Christmas is also my first memory of my mother. I remember myself sprawled out on the living room floor, senses absorbed in the bangs and zips of some cartoon, when the scent of cinnamon reached up past the snot in my nose, pulled my body up and through the doorway to the cramped kitchen of our one bedroom apartment, over cracked and missing tiles to find a sheet of snickerdoodles on the table, a bag of flour spilt on the floor, and just past them… my mother in her favorite powdered blue dress, with her head turned to the side and resting gently in the oven.
Timmy: (unwrapping) Oh WOW! A Tommy Tankgun Action Blaster-Arm!
Faye: Do you like it?
Timmy: Are you kidding? It’s better than sugar!
Trent: (v.o) My second memory is of one of the small men, stepping away from the others as they filled the candy-cane stripped body bag, handing me a chocolate piece wrapped in gold foil, then patting my head before helping himself to a snickerdoodle and getting back to his business.
Timmy: Look at me, I’m Tommy Tankgun! “You can’t beat the convenience of the blaster-arm… with other weapons you have to stop, pick them up, maybe even load them or turn off some kind of safety… but with the Blaster-Arm, it’s just there, waiting, ready to blast anything. The Blaster-Arm ™: for when you’re serious about blasting. (Suddenly starts jumping around) POW! POW! Everything die!”
Faye: Oh! Doesn’t he sound just like the commercial?
Raye: He could work with the advertising elves!
Timmy: Yeah! I’m going to be in the commercials someday! “POW! POW! I blew up your spleen!” Thanks Aunt Faye! Thanks Aunt Raye!
Trent: (v.o) I don’t have many other memories of my childhood beyond that. Mostly, it’s all a blur of red and green.
Raye: Do you like yours, Trent?
Trent: (v.o) And sweaters. I remember each one of the sweaters.
Raye: Trent? I said, do you like yours?
Trent: You got me a sweater.
Trent: I hate sweaters.
Faye: You don’t like it?
Trent: No.
Raye: It’s your colors though.
Trent: No. It’s not. My colors are black and grey. Like the true heart of this world. Like my soul.
Faye: It… brings out your eyes.
Trent: No, it doesn’t. My eyes have sunken in too deep to ever be “brought out.” They’ve been pushed there, after a lifetime of constant bombardment from the omni-present glimmer of tinsel and garish window displays, and pulled there too, sucked by the vacuum created inside me when my heart failed to grow.
[Pause.]
Raye: It’s pre-shrunk!
Trent: Then it’s perfect for your minds.
Faye: But isn’t the design just darling?
(Pause.)
Timmy: “POW! POW! Right through your groin!”
Trent: Listen to me, I’ve gotten a sweater every Christmas for the last eight weeks. That’s 56 darling designs!
Raye: Well, everyone needs sweaters, what with all the snow we’ve been having.
Trent: It’s 95 degrees out!
Faye: (Laughing nervously) Oh… you silly! With all the snow… it can’t be more than 32 out there!
Raye: Of course! Just check the thermometer outside.
Trent: The snow’s fake and that little red line is painted on!
Raye: That’s just how thermometers work!
Trent: That’s just how bullshit works!
Raye: You’re ruining Christmas! Let’s all calm down and listen to some music, yes?
Trent: No!
[She opens a card and a small, stilted recording starts.]
TAPE: (slowly, hypnotically) Deck the halls... with boughs of holly...
Faye/Raye/Timmy: (zombied) Fa la la la la. La la la la.
Trent: (Covers ear.) “In-a gotta da vitta, baby... don’t you know that you want to, maybe...”
[Trent pushes them aside and picks up his coat.]
Tape: ‘Tis the season… to be jolly…
Faye/Raye/Timmy: (zombied) Fa la la la la. La la la la.
[He throws the card off and they snap to normal, as if nothing had happened.]
Faye: Trent? Where are you going? We haven’t had Mrs. Buttercreamy’s ™ Extra Pumpkin Pie with Artificial RealCream!
Trent: I’m going out. Don’t wait up.
Raye: We won’t save you any!
[Trent gives her one more look… withering!]
Trent: (v.o) We’re all living under the tree now. But some of us want to see the sky.
Timmy: “POW! POW! I burned off your face!”
Trent: Get out of my –
[Air raid siren goes off.]
Trent: No!
Timmy: It’s time for a musical number!
Faye: Oh, how wonderful! Someone must have re-discovered the true meaning of Christmas!
Raye: Outside, quick!
[They walk through a door. More people – sad, sluggish people dripping in sweaters – gather. A nervous TONY FELD approaches, followed nonchalantly by PANTONE.]
Feld: Trent! Trent, my lines – I, I can’t remember my lines…
Trent: Come on, Tony, pull yourself together…
Pantone: Yeah, don’t sweat it, Tony – whoops, too late.
[In the distance we hear the tinkling of bells. In a march-step.]
Pantone: “And I heard the bells on Christmas Day… the tintinnabulation of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells…”
Feld: Shut. Up.
[The bells grow louder and louder…]
Feld: “’Tis the most joyous occasion, for… chicken and a raisin?” No. “the most joyous season for…”
Trent: “Firebombs and acts of treason.”
Feld: What?
Trent: Nothing.
Pantone: They’re here.
[A squad of elves enters. They’re dressed in traditional elf garb, albeit with candy-cane stripped machine guns and little bells on the grenades strapped across their chests. With them is a blank-looking man in his pajamas.]
ELF CAPTAIN: (salutes, then in a cheery, helium-pitched voice) Merry Christmas!
Crowd: (Weakly) Merry Christmas…
Elf Captain: Fill your hearts with joy and mirth – for its Christmas Day across the Earth!
Toss away your dour and gloom – in this season of love, there is no room!
Now, everyone, if you’ll just take your places, we’ll bring a smile to all your faces!
[The crowd seems hesitant. The Elf Captain lets off a couple of shots.]
Elf Captain: Move it, turd-holes!
[The crowd organizes and the blank man is prodded into place. An aggressively happy song begins to play and Timmy bursts forward…]
Blank: (drugged) Excuse me… child… What day… what day…
Timmy: Uh… why, it’s Christmas!
Blank: Now… understand… Christmas!
Timmy: …Hooray! Hey everyone! It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas!
(Singing)
Oh, it’s a great time for Christmas!
And we all have got our wish!
Chorus:
For peace and prosperity, trust the elves won’t miss!
[An elf cocks his gun.]
Faye:
For a world where everyone’s safe, we just need more forceful love!
Pantone:
For a world without war, we feed the hawks to the dove!
Chorus:
Now it’s a world… of… Christmas!
We all… love… Christmas!
[Feld steps center. He opens his mouth… and kind of searches it with his tongue for the words…]
Chorus:
We all… love… Christmas....
[Feld is still looking…]
Chorus:
We really love… Christmas…
Feld: (hesitant)
It’s the most… joyous love…
That’s why we decorate the Christmas… tub…
[The Captain motions, Elves move in…]
Feld:
And as long as you’ve been good
Santa will bring you… decorative wood…
[Feld is dragged off quickly…]
Feld: NOOO!
[They pull Feld around the corner as Timmy steps in.]
Timmy: (big finish)
Oh, we ALL… LOVE…
[Gunshots.]
Chorus:
CHRISTMAS!
[blackout]
VOICEOVER:
It started with a child’s letter. Christina McPfieffer, age 6, and already showing signs of the talent that would someday win her a Pulitzer Prize, wrote her annual letter to Santa Claus, telling him that she had been so very, very good that year and wanted from the kind old sir but one thing, and one thing only. An incredible thing, the sort that couldn’t really fit into a bag and be stuffed down a chimney, but something she desperately wanted anyway – something, in fact, she needed, if she ever wanted to sleep better at night. Something not just for her, but something Santa could bring every child alive in every nation. What Christina McPfieffer, age 6, wanted… was world peace.
In all his long years, Santa had never received such a letter – impeccable penmanship, skillful use of first-grade level grammar, sparkly purple crayon… And he also knew that Christina McPfieffer had… indeed… been very, very good that year.
So, just as the first rays of what promised to be a glorious Christmas morning broke across the world, a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer made its final stop at a large white house in Washington, D.C…. and this time, it stayed… for a long winter chat…
[A living room with Christmas decorations, but old and worn. A tired TRENT and unnaturally perky FAYE and RAYE are seated as TIMMY unwraps his morning’s presents.]
Trent: (v.o) My first memory of Christmas is also my first memory of my mother. I remember myself sprawled out on the living room floor, senses absorbed in the bangs and zips of some cartoon, when the scent of cinnamon reached up past the snot in my nose, pulled my body up and through the doorway to the cramped kitchen of our one bedroom apartment, over cracked and missing tiles to find a sheet of snickerdoodles on the table, a bag of flour spilt on the floor, and just past them… my mother in her favorite powdered blue dress, with her head turned to the side and resting gently in the oven.
Timmy: (unwrapping) Oh WOW! A Tommy Tankgun Action Blaster-Arm!
Faye: Do you like it?
Timmy: Are you kidding? It’s better than sugar!
Trent: (v.o) My second memory is of one of the small men, stepping away from the others as they filled the candy-cane stripped body bag, handing me a chocolate piece wrapped in gold foil, then patting my head before helping himself to a snickerdoodle and getting back to his business.
Timmy: Look at me, I’m Tommy Tankgun! “You can’t beat the convenience of the blaster-arm… with other weapons you have to stop, pick them up, maybe even load them or turn off some kind of safety… but with the Blaster-Arm, it’s just there, waiting, ready to blast anything. The Blaster-Arm ™: for when you’re serious about blasting. (Suddenly starts jumping around) POW! POW! Everything die!”
Faye: Oh! Doesn’t he sound just like the commercial?
Raye: He could work with the advertising elves!
Timmy: Yeah! I’m going to be in the commercials someday! “POW! POW! I blew up your spleen!” Thanks Aunt Faye! Thanks Aunt Raye!
Trent: (v.o) I don’t have many other memories of my childhood beyond that. Mostly, it’s all a blur of red and green.
Raye: Do you like yours, Trent?
Trent: (v.o) And sweaters. I remember each one of the sweaters.
Raye: Trent? I said, do you like yours?
Trent: You got me a sweater.
Trent: I hate sweaters.
Faye: You don’t like it?
Trent: No.
Raye: It’s your colors though.
Trent: No. It’s not. My colors are black and grey. Like the true heart of this world. Like my soul.
Faye: It… brings out your eyes.
Trent: No, it doesn’t. My eyes have sunken in too deep to ever be “brought out.” They’ve been pushed there, after a lifetime of constant bombardment from the omni-present glimmer of tinsel and garish window displays, and pulled there too, sucked by the vacuum created inside me when my heart failed to grow.
[Pause.]
Raye: It’s pre-shrunk!
Trent: Then it’s perfect for your minds.
Faye: But isn’t the design just darling?
(Pause.)
Timmy: “POW! POW! Right through your groin!”
Trent: Listen to me, I’ve gotten a sweater every Christmas for the last eight weeks. That’s 56 darling designs!
Raye: Well, everyone needs sweaters, what with all the snow we’ve been having.
Trent: It’s 95 degrees out!
Faye: (Laughing nervously) Oh… you silly! With all the snow… it can’t be more than 32 out there!
Raye: Of course! Just check the thermometer outside.
Trent: The snow’s fake and that little red line is painted on!
Raye: That’s just how thermometers work!
Trent: That’s just how bullshit works!
Raye: You’re ruining Christmas! Let’s all calm down and listen to some music, yes?
Trent: No!
[She opens a card and a small, stilted recording starts.]
TAPE: (slowly, hypnotically) Deck the halls... with boughs of holly...
Faye/Raye/Timmy: (zombied) Fa la la la la. La la la la.
Trent: (Covers ear.) “In-a gotta da vitta, baby... don’t you know that you want to, maybe...”
[Trent pushes them aside and picks up his coat.]
Tape: ‘Tis the season… to be jolly…
Faye/Raye/Timmy: (zombied) Fa la la la la. La la la la.
[He throws the card off and they snap to normal, as if nothing had happened.]
Faye: Trent? Where are you going? We haven’t had Mrs. Buttercreamy’s ™ Extra Pumpkin Pie with Artificial RealCream!
Trent: I’m going out. Don’t wait up.
Raye: We won’t save you any!
[Trent gives her one more look… withering!]
Trent: (v.o) We’re all living under the tree now. But some of us want to see the sky.
Timmy: “POW! POW! I burned off your face!”
Trent: Get out of my –
[Air raid siren goes off.]
Trent: No!
Timmy: It’s time for a musical number!
Faye: Oh, how wonderful! Someone must have re-discovered the true meaning of Christmas!
Raye: Outside, quick!
[They walk through a door. More people – sad, sluggish people dripping in sweaters – gather. A nervous TONY FELD approaches, followed nonchalantly by PANTONE.]
Feld: Trent! Trent, my lines – I, I can’t remember my lines…
Trent: Come on, Tony, pull yourself together…
Pantone: Yeah, don’t sweat it, Tony – whoops, too late.
[In the distance we hear the tinkling of bells. In a march-step.]
Pantone: “And I heard the bells on Christmas Day… the tintinnabulation of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells…”
Feld: Shut. Up.
[The bells grow louder and louder…]
Feld: “’Tis the most joyous occasion, for… chicken and a raisin?” No. “the most joyous season for…”
Trent: “Firebombs and acts of treason.”
Feld: What?
Trent: Nothing.
Pantone: They’re here.
[A squad of elves enters. They’re dressed in traditional elf garb, albeit with candy-cane stripped machine guns and little bells on the grenades strapped across their chests. With them is a blank-looking man in his pajamas.]
ELF CAPTAIN: (salutes, then in a cheery, helium-pitched voice) Merry Christmas!
Crowd: (Weakly) Merry Christmas…
Elf Captain: Fill your hearts with joy and mirth – for its Christmas Day across the Earth!
Toss away your dour and gloom – in this season of love, there is no room!
Now, everyone, if you’ll just take your places, we’ll bring a smile to all your faces!
[The crowd seems hesitant. The Elf Captain lets off a couple of shots.]
Elf Captain: Move it, turd-holes!
[The crowd organizes and the blank man is prodded into place. An aggressively happy song begins to play and Timmy bursts forward…]
Blank: (drugged) Excuse me… child… What day… what day…
Timmy: Uh… why, it’s Christmas!
Blank: Now… understand… Christmas!
Timmy: …Hooray! Hey everyone! It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas!
(Singing)
Oh, it’s a great time for Christmas!
And we all have got our wish!
Chorus:
For peace and prosperity, trust the elves won’t miss!
[An elf cocks his gun.]
Faye:
For a world where everyone’s safe, we just need more forceful love!
Pantone:
For a world without war, we feed the hawks to the dove!
Chorus:
Now it’s a world… of… Christmas!
We all… love… Christmas!
[Feld steps center. He opens his mouth… and kind of searches it with his tongue for the words…]
Chorus:
We all… love… Christmas....
[Feld is still looking…]
Chorus:
We really love… Christmas…
Feld: (hesitant)
It’s the most… joyous love…
That’s why we decorate the Christmas… tub…
[The Captain motions, Elves move in…]
Feld:
And as long as you’ve been good
Santa will bring you… decorative wood…
[Feld is dragged off quickly…]
Feld: NOOO!
[They pull Feld around the corner as Timmy steps in.]
Timmy: (big finish)
Oh, we ALL… LOVE…
[Gunshots.]
Chorus:
CHRISTMAS!
[blackout]
posted by Jim Trapp at
8:52 PM
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