Monday, November 26, 2012
Nili in real life
NILI
EXT. MOSQUE - DAY
Ali walks out of the mosque slowly, reverently. He is alone. A few boys beat around an old soccer ball in a field just next to the mosque - otherwise the street is deserted. He walks down the street a little bit, waiting until he's out of sight of the masjid to light a cigarette. At the end of the street he sees a two-story ramshackle building - it doesn't look like much more than an immigrant atelier - but the lights are on and young girls are walking into it. Jewesses, apparently.
Mildly intrigued or at least too bored to do anything else, Ali walks to a brick building across the street from where the girls are going in. There are curtains up - he can't see anything. He leans against the building, puffing on his cigarette, and waits. He taps the ash out at the side of the building, almost as though he's embarrassed - embarrassed that someone would see him emptying his ashes on an uninhabited and fit-to-be-condemned building. He hums to himself - and waits.
After a moment, he walks across the street - no more girls are coming in the door. He hunches down at a gap in the curtains - and he sees her. He hears Chopin's "Nocturne" over the burps and squeaks of the loudspeaker - the stereo is awful. The floors are scuffed and the girl's ballerina outfits are patchy and more khaki/beige than white. But it makes the one at the head of the class - the teacher - look like one of the visions from his holy books.
Her skin is dark, almost as dark as his, with dark hair and eyes. Her tutu is white. Ali stares at her through the gap in the curtains as the girl stretches along the wall at the front of the class, mouth slightly open, the cigarette still hanging there. She looks up for a moment, and Ali gets down on his haunches below the window, the smoke still going up in front of the window. The girl looks out the window, semi-sentient of him.
Ali looks sadly at his clothes - even his Friday best is a long way off from resplendence. He fingers the sleeve of his robe and pulls out another loose thread. He opens his satchel and takes out a piece of paper, then lays it out on the ground. He butts his cigarette out on the wall, then wipes it off and puts the butt on the piece of paper. FADE OUT and back IN TO
EXT. STUDIO - NIGHT
The cigarette pile, which has a pile of butts on it now. The girl opens the door and walks out, her face beaded with sweat. She hasn't showered, and she casts a glance of discomfort and hauteur at him, with a Mona Lisa trace of defiance. She turns away; Ali watches her go. He looks at the cigarette pile and sorts them out. She looks back and sees him doing this; then she walks away.
Ali stands up, putting the cigarettes back into the paper, folding it and putting it into his satchel. He goes over to the door, and sees a paper on the front - it's in Hebrew, which he can't read. So he copies the letters down - not a little awkwardly - on a scrap of paper inside his satchel, and then puts it into his pocket. He lights one final cigarette - the embers blaze orange as the night falls - and pulls an old baseball out, tossing it up and down as he walks away.
Ali walks out of the mosque slowly, reverently. He is alone. A few boys beat around an old soccer ball in a field just next to the mosque - otherwise the street is deserted. He walks down the street a little bit, waiting until he's out of sight of the masjid to light a cigarette. At the end of the street he sees a two-story ramshackle building - it doesn't look like much more than an immigrant atelier - but the lights are on and young girls are walking into it. Jewesses, apparently.
Mildly intrigued or at least too bored to do anything else, Ali walks to a brick building across the street from where the girls are going in. There are curtains up - he can't see anything. He leans against the building, puffing on his cigarette, and waits. He taps the ash out at the side of the building, almost as though he's embarrassed - embarrassed that someone would see him emptying his ashes on an uninhabited and fit-to-be-condemned building. He hums to himself - and waits.
After a moment, he walks across the street - no more girls are coming in the door. He hunches down at a gap in the curtains - and he sees her. He hears Chopin's "Nocturne" over the burps and squeaks of the loudspeaker - the stereo is awful. The floors are scuffed and the girl's ballerina outfits are patchy and more khaki/beige than white. But it makes the one at the head of the class - the teacher - look like one of the visions from his holy books.
Her skin is dark, almost as dark as his, with dark hair and eyes. Her tutu is white. Ali stares at her through the gap in the curtains as the girl stretches along the wall at the front of the class, mouth slightly open, the cigarette still hanging there. She looks up for a moment, and Ali gets down on his haunches below the window, the smoke still going up in front of the window. The girl looks out the window, semi-sentient of him.
Ali looks sadly at his clothes - even his Friday best is a long way off from resplendence. He fingers the sleeve of his robe and pulls out another loose thread. He opens his satchel and takes out a piece of paper, then lays it out on the ground. He butts his cigarette out on the wall, then wipes it off and puts the butt on the piece of paper. FADE OUT and back IN TO
EXT. STUDIO - NIGHT
The cigarette pile, which has a pile of butts on it now. The girl opens the door and walks out, her face beaded with sweat. She hasn't showered, and she casts a glance of discomfort and hauteur at him, with a Mona Lisa trace of defiance. She turns away; Ali watches her go. He looks at the cigarette pile and sorts them out. She looks back and sees him doing this; then she walks away.
Ali stands up, putting the cigarettes back into the paper, folding it and putting it into his satchel. He goes over to the door, and sees a paper on the front - it's in Hebrew, which he can't read. So he copies the letters down - not a little awkwardly - on a scrap of paper inside his satchel, and then puts it into his pocket. He lights one final cigarette - the embers blaze orange as the night falls - and pulls an old baseball out, tossing it up and down as he walks away.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
EXT. ALI'S ROOM - LOD - MORNING
Venus fades in the early morning over a two story stone house in this small agricultural village. The muezzin is calling the faithful in the distance, but it's lugubrious - tending towards a smirk rather than a solemnity. We follow the angle into a simple room at the upstairs window, where a young MAN - he can't be more than 25 or so - is arising from his prayer rug. His room is barren but clean - a well-worn prayerbook lies open on his nightstand, and he murmurs Arabic blessings for the morning as though he knows them by rote. He bends down and folds the prayer rug reverently, then tucks it into a dresser by his bed. On the dresser is a daguerrotype-style picture of him with his parents and two other children, presumably a brother the same age and a baby sister. CUT TO
KITCHEN,
where we see the images of a fresh tea bag steeping in a white cup. The boy - his name is Ali - is still contemplative; prayer-time hasn't worn off yet. He takes saucer in hand and walks out onto the back porch, tilting his head up to sniff the air and closing his eyes. Ali takes a sip of tea, and goes out and walks in the lemon grove in his backyard, closing his eyes and singing along with the muezzin. Then he sighs and begins walking back into the house - it's finally time to go. CUT BACK TO
ALI'S ROOM, where he gets his satchel and starts to leave, then turns around. He bends down OS for a moment, then comes back up and puts on a brand-new New York Yankees cap. He smooths the brim down, then takes the mound, eye on the invisible catcher behind his mirror. He shakes his head - no, not the slider, not the knuckle. Finally he nods slowly - the fastball. He winds up, but midpitch he notices his
SISTER, standing in the doorway, tittering and then running out of the house with her friends. Abashed, Ali tears the cap off, grabs the satchel and heads out of the house to get to services.
KITCHEN,
where we see the images of a fresh tea bag steeping in a white cup. The boy - his name is Ali - is still contemplative; prayer-time hasn't worn off yet. He takes saucer in hand and walks out onto the back porch, tilting his head up to sniff the air and closing his eyes. Ali takes a sip of tea, and goes out and walks in the lemon grove in his backyard, closing his eyes and singing along with the muezzin. Then he sighs and begins walking back into the house - it's finally time to go. CUT BACK TO
ALI'S ROOM, where he gets his satchel and starts to leave, then turns around. He bends down OS for a moment, then comes back up and puts on a brand-new New York Yankees cap. He smooths the brim down, then takes the mound, eye on the invisible catcher behind his mirror. He shakes his head - no, not the slider, not the knuckle. Finally he nods slowly - the fastball. He winds up, but midpitch he notices his
SISTER, standing in the doorway, tittering and then running out of the house with her friends. Abashed, Ali tears the cap off, grabs the satchel and heads out of the house to get to services.
Monday, November 12, 2012
INT. DAN MARGALIT'S HOUSE - NIGHT
Semi-sepia light clearing through a cigarette haze as we enter the dining room, where eight men are seated around the 20th century version of Arthur's table round. At the far end is the STUDENT, who finally appears to have found his home among old comrades. The TABLE is spread with everything necessary for a really capital Shabbat meal - kreplach, Jerusalem kugel, tabbouleh, piroshki. Bottles of beer abound. The apartment is filled with Spartan furniture, but the wall is lined with classical art and the shelves and cases overflow with books.
None of the men is yet thirty, and we see at once that they respect the student as their leader. He stands up from his perch at the table and rubs his stomach, complimenting his host - a blonde-haired man who gives a very solicitous impression. But a fighter. He proposes a toast to the old times, and all of them give full-hearted assent. Old jokes and old nicknames flourish, and the undercurrent of tension and conflict seems to lighten palpably under a brotherly benison and peace.
After a few moments, the humor dies down, and the eyes of the eight turn to the student, who holds up a PHOTOGRAPH - the same one we've just seen of the woman. He passes it around to the men, who look expectantly back at him to receive a second PHOTO - this one of the MAN who threw the bomb into the house. Murmurous approval fills the room as the men scrutinize the photo. After a moment or two, one of the MEN - he's six-five if an inch - gets up and lights a cigarette while he looks out the apartment window. He sees the moonlight falling on the Tower of David and, in an almost preternatural state, begins to speak to the men. All of them - including the student - look at him as though he were Prince Hamlet himself, soliloquizing on Elsinore's battlements. We then look at the student, who now sees what he formerly thought of as mere duty and drill, begin to see his role in the light of destiny. The tikva is kindled.
Semi-sepia light clearing through a cigarette haze as we enter the dining room, where eight men are seated around the 20th century version of Arthur's table round. At the far end is the STUDENT, who finally appears to have found his home among old comrades. The TABLE is spread with everything necessary for a really capital Shabbat meal - kreplach, Jerusalem kugel, tabbouleh, piroshki. Bottles of beer abound. The apartment is filled with Spartan furniture, but the wall is lined with classical art and the shelves and cases overflow with books.
None of the men is yet thirty, and we see at once that they respect the student as their leader. He stands up from his perch at the table and rubs his stomach, complimenting his host - a blonde-haired man who gives a very solicitous impression. But a fighter. He proposes a toast to the old times, and all of them give full-hearted assent. Old jokes and old nicknames flourish, and the undercurrent of tension and conflict seems to lighten palpably under a brotherly benison and peace.
After a few moments, the humor dies down, and the eyes of the eight turn to the student, who holds up a PHOTOGRAPH - the same one we've just seen of the woman. He passes it around to the men, who look expectantly back at him to receive a second PHOTO - this one of the MAN who threw the bomb into the house. Murmurous approval fills the room as the men scrutinize the photo. After a moment or two, one of the MEN - he's six-five if an inch - gets up and lights a cigarette while he looks out the apartment window. He sees the moonlight falling on the Tower of David and, in an almost preternatural state, begins to speak to the men. All of them - including the student - look at him as though he were Prince Hamlet himself, soliloquizing on Elsinore's battlements. We then look at the student, who now sees what he formerly thought of as mere duty and drill, begin to see his role in the light of destiny. The tikva is kindled.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Hebrew University
Mount Scopus, Jerusalem
A breathtaking view from the campus. Wide angle shot coming
into one building. Slow moving shot into EXAM ROOM with old-fashioned desks.
Students writing and checking their watches. An instructor in shirt and tie
mopping his forehead and fanning himself at the front desk. We focus on one
student – young, handsome, in full military attire. Sure of himself. Even
taking an exam.
A young MAN, also in military attire, comes into room and
whispers to the professor, who nods and points to the student. He walks over
and, after a moment, the student gets up and walks out with him.
They drive, the student in back. They pull over by a
military compound not far from campus, then both get out and make their way to
an OFFICE. The student is about to sit when another aide motions him to come
in. Before him is a short, bald man with oak clusters on his shoulders. On his
desk is a folder with photographs. We see the same PHOTO of the family from the
bombing.
The student sits. They talk, appearing to agree on
something. Reluctantly, on the part of the student. The student walks back out,
looking back up towards the examination building he just left.
Scene 1. Susan Kanias
Goes up in flames and the MEN run away.
Home of Susan Kanias
Yehud
Sunset. A ramshackle house on a hill with reeds blowing in
the wind. Cicadas chirping on a moonless night, sky thick with stars. We move
closer to a WINDOW with curtains fluttering, where we enter into a neatly kept
ROOM – it could only be the room of a young girl. A lazing CAT guards a PHOTO
on the nightstand of a radiant WOMAN, flanked by her daughter and son. We pass
from the nightstand to the bed, where the girl is listening wide-eyed to the
woman – it’s storytime. A CANDLE lights the darkness of the room and gives a heavenly
haze to the pair, and the transaction. The MOTHER is tired and dirty after another
day in the orange groves, but her eyes are full of love for her child as she
reads out of a storybook.
The GIRL motions and asks for something, and the mother
reaches over and hands her a glass of water. We then follow the camera across
the room the way we came back outside of the window and across the yard to an
ORANGE TREE,
Where we see a DARK HAND pluck an orange off of the tree and
peel it, smelling it before he eats. He looks at the WINDOW, then over at his
FRIEND. They are dressed in grubby robes, with greasy haversacks and furtive
expressions. They inch towards the house, getting closer and closer. We PAN BACK
to the
ROOM,
Where we see the CANDLE go out and the room go dark. The MEN
see the
MOTHER walk into the KITCHEN, then back into her DAUGHTER’S
room. Their fingers loosen the straps of their bags, and they go up gently to
the WINDOW, tossing the charge in as silently as they can.
The GIRL wakes up, understanding immediately, as the
HOUSE
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