First-Place Winner, May - October 2008
Screenplay Contest - Teleplay/Short Series
"Rocket Surgery"
Written by Barry Kelly

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Writer / Director Barry Kelly trained and resides in Dublin, Ireland. As a director, his short films have been screened on television and selected for a multitude of international film festivals including Cannes, Boston, Greece, Norway, Cologne, Berlin, Belfast and Galway. As a screenwriter, he is currently scripting two original feature films and numerous short scripts in addition to researching a major documentary project and developing a series of monologues for television. He is delighted to have been selected as the first place recipient of The Writer’s Place award.

Additional Writer Information
Contact: barrykelly24@hotmail.com

LOGLINE

Two men lie in a hospital ward and, through fractured, comic exchanges, examine their lives and ponder their uncertain future.

SYNOPSIS

Shot through with black wit and a surreal edge, Rocket Surgery is a scream of consciousness that looks at how two desperate souls - unsure of their future, and unhappy with their present - communicate their fears and feelings as they struggle through a long night of two souls.

SCRIPT FOLLOWS

FADE IN

INT. HOSPITAL WARD – NIGHT

3 A.M. The middle of the graveyard shift. Quiet, eerie. No real sense of time here; only muted light and echoing sounds. An underwater feel.

We're moving through a small hospital ward. Passing a row of empty beds, our view lands on a man (30's) in one of the beds. Despite the setting, and although his face carries that hollow look brought on by bad habits and lack of sleep, he doesn't look sickly. Rather, he seems edgy, restless; shifting uncomfortably in a mess of sheets, pressing impatiently at a nurses call button he holds in one agitated hand. This is MAL. His gaze is fixed on the set of double doors that lead to the corridor outside. Light streams in.

On the opposite side of the ward, in another bed, lies CONN (30's). Slightly younger than his roommate; bald and gaunt, razor-like. He sits atop his bed; legs folded under him, yogi style, in pajamas and a pair of mismatching socks. He seems relaxed, mellow even, reading a book (Kierkegaard's The Sickness Unto Death), one arm hooked up to a drip hanging beside the bed. He looks up over his book; watches as Mal struggles and frantically clicks the call button. Then, in a friendly, even tone speaks.

Mal stops, exasperated. Conn turns his attention back to his book; wetting his thumb and turning a page with it. This only seems to irritate Mal further.

MAL (CONT’D) Could you please stop that?               CONN Stop what?               MAL I can hear you reading.               CONN Would you like me to stop breathing as well?               MAL      (sarcastic) That'd be nice.

Conn turns the book over onto his lap, focusing his full attention on Mal.

CONN Something wrong by any chance?               MAL No, no. Well, except for the fact that I've been stuck in this room for.      (stops a moment, thinks) Well I've forgotten how long now, with no one to talk to except you.               CONN There's always him.

Our view shifts abruptly to one side of Mal: in another bed, lies the only other occupant of the ward, WATTS. An unfortunate soul, unconscious and hooked up to breathing apparatus; an array of tubes coming in and out of every orifice. Bizarrely, he is covered with splotches of what appears to be magnolia colored paint.
Mal looks him over for a beat.

MAL Oh yeah, there's always him.       (with concern) What happened anyway?               CONN Massive stroke while he was painting the kitchen. Wife and dog and kids running around shrieking and wailing.               MAL They could at least have cleaned the paint off.               CONN Yeah. What a thing to happen. Imagine, one second you're up a stepladder applying "jasmine silk" to the walls. A clot in the brain later, you're a comatose Damien Hirst exhibit.               MAL Must have been a shock for his family. Having to see that happen right in front of you.               CONN Yeah. And just imagine the state of the kitchen.               MAL Do you think he can hear us?               CONN Lets hope not.               MAL       (shouts) Hello.

With disdain, Mal returns his gaze to the double doors; clicks the call button again; looks to a clock on the wall.

MAL (CONT’D) It's gone three.               CONN Really? Gone where?

Mal looks less than impressed.

CONN (CONT’D) Easy, easy. Don't have a hemorrhage. Well not in here anyway.               MAL I need a cigarette. I need a drink.               CONN No. You need answers. Would you like to talk to someone who can answer your questions for you? Would you like to get to know Jesus on a more direct level my son? I can bring you to him. I can show you the path if you choose to take it.

Mal freezes; the look of a deer caught in headlights. Conn remains straight faced for a beat then...a smile fills his face.

CONN (CONT’D) Easy, I'm just fuckin with ya. Seriously though, I have all the books here.       (gestures to a pile of books beside his bed) Living with Death. The Sickness Unto Death.               MAL They don't sound deeply optimistic.               CONN No. But there must be an appropriate answer in one of them. What do you think?               MAL I think people like you are the reason I don't own a gun.               CONN Do you want to know what I think?               MAL Oh please, I'm just dying to hear.

Conn's drip...gurgles.

On the wall...the clock ticks. Time...crawls.

CONN How are you feeling?               MAL Through my fingers usually?

Conn throws him a look; translation: "I'm trying here".

Mal sighs.

MAL (CONT’D) How am I feeling? Well...besides symptoms of boredom, depression, withdrawal...               CONN Now-now.               MAL ...insomnia, hypertension, sexual frustration...               CONN Self-diagnosis is no diagnosis.               MAL It's the only diagnosis.               CONN And as for sexual frustration...               MAL         (defensive) What?               CONN         (performs jerking motion with one hand) Oh come on I can hear every moan, groan, rustle and shuffle of what currently constitutes your sex life.               MAL Oh and you don't do it I suppose                                           CONN       (raises hands, smiles) I've got blisters at this stage.

Mal is unimpressed by the attempt at levity.

CONN (CONT’D) Oh cheer up will you?               MAL Cheer up? How can I cheer up when I'm stuck in this post millennial slaughterhouse being stalked at every turn by a dozen armed maniacs with an array of lethal implements and a legally endorsed licence to kill.               CONN Who?

Mal points an accusatory finger towards the corridor.

MAL Them!               CONN They're not trying to kill you. They're trying to help you.               MAL They're going to cut me open!               CONN They're cutting everyone open. It's what they do.               MAL Aha you see! You admit it? They're psychopaths.               CONN It could be worse.               MAL How?               CONN You could be dying.               MAL We're all dying.

Conn looks at Mal with quiet intensity.

CONN Some of us faster than others though.

Mal shuts up; chastened and embarrassed.

CONN (CONT’D) Well do you want to talk about it then?               MAL Talk?               CONN Yeah well, we've been here for...well quite a while now and you haven't told me anything about yourself.               MAL Like what? My sign? My hopes for world peace?               CONN Well talk then.               MAL What do you want me to talk about? The beauty of a sunrise? My plans for the future? How only God can make a tree? Why? Because we're lying in hospital, moments away from life altering surgery?

OS: From the corridor, we hear a door swing closed. Then, the sound of footsteps; fast, someone running.

MAL (CONT’D) Oh! Here's something.               CONN      (dismissive) It's just Stan.               MAL Oh God, he's not naked again is he?

Mal watches the doorway. The corridor outside, empty.

ANGLE ON: THE DOORWAY AND CORRIDOR

OS: The footfalls getting closer and closer.

Then, the blurry figure of a man runs past the doorway. We hear him screech to a halt. He re-enters frame and looks in at Mal and Conn. In his late 50's, wearing nothing but a loose fitting hospital gown and a huge grin, this is STAN.

Voices shout out behind him in the corridor. Stan's head turns in their direction.

NURSE Come on now, Stanley. Calm down!

Stan looks back to the inhabitants of the ward, lets out a demented laugh and takes off out of frame, his gown flapping in the breeze.

Two harried looking nurses, one MALE, one FEMALE, swiftly follow after him. They run past the doorway in pursuit of Stan without even looking in at the ward.

Mal calls out after them as they pass.

MAL Nurse! Hey! Nurse!

No response, only Stan's laughter echoing down the corridor. The footfalls recede. A door swings closed.

Quiet descends once more. Mal groans.

INTERCUT:

INT. A HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - NIGHT

TWO ORDERLIES, one behind the other, each wheel a gurney at speed down a hospital corridor. On the gurneys, lay Mal and Conn. Dressed now in white smocks; prepped for surgery; literally being driven towards their inescapable fate - the operating theatre. They continue their conversation without missing a beat, as if they were still in the ward, shouting as they're sped down the corridor.

(CONTINUED)