Puissant (I Attempt to Write an Award Winning Screenplay)

Puissant- powerful; influential

Ex: The black stretch limousine pulled up to the entrance of the Ritz Carlton. A smiling, suited attendant approached the car and opened the back door on the passenger side. A puissant figure stepped out. Another attendant rolled out a red carpet leading from the limo to the main entrance. The paparazzi crowded the distinguished guest as his face was lit up with strobes of camera flash. The cameramen were all coveting the perfect snapshot of the star. All but one of them, that is.

At the back of the pack stood the emaciated Rupert Shkinklekoff, with his eyes sunken deep into his skull. Rupert was not taking any pictures. He recalled when he had first moved out to Hollywood with dreams of becoming a feature actor in big-budget blockbusters. For months, he could not find work. He had a few auditions for some small independent films, but nothing of note. One day, his agent called him with news of his first big break: An audition to play the lead in an at-the-time untitled film about a piano player in the Holocaust (of course now known by its title, The Penis, I believe. Don’t take my word for it though as I’ve never seen it written out, I’ve only ever heard the title in conversation). When Shkinklekoff arrived at the audition, it was just him and the puissant figure from the hotel- Adrien Brody- seated in a room together. Although the two were battling it out for the part, they struck up a friendly conversation and actually agreed to meet up for a late lunch after that day’s auditions.

At the lunch, the two gaunt men who had been shedding pounds upon pounds to prepare for the role ordered two house salads and two waters. At one point Shkinklekoff got up to use the restroom. While he was gone, Adrien Brody pulled a little packet of MSG out of his cardigan and poured it into Shkinklekoff’s water. When Rupert returned, the two finished the lunch and departed amicably, wishing each other luck in landing the leading role. On his way home from the lunch, Rupert felt intense cravings for all types of junk food that he hadn’t touched in months. Unable to overcome these desires, he pulled into a Burger King and ordered two whoppers and a large milkshake. Then he went to taco bell. Then he walked into a Dollar Tree and bought a handful of king-size Snickers bars and a sharing size bag of Hershey’s kisses.

By the time the second audition rolled around, Rupert was almost unrecognizable. In the casting room Adrien Brody, in perhaps his second most convincing piece of acting (other than The Pianist), looked at Rupert in feigned shock, asking him what had happened to his slim figure. Rupert had no good answer. He had just given in to his urges, he told Adrien. When Roman Polanski called Rupert into his office, he looked him up and down once and then tossed him back out into the hallway. “You do realize this is a Holocaust film, right Shkinky?” asked Polanski in disbelief. And so, Adrien Brody got the part, and the rest is history. He became the youngest actor to ever win the Academy Award for Best Actor. Shinklekoff, on the other hand, was left unemployed and with a new diagnosis of Bulimia nervosa.

Fast forward 20 years. Adrien Brody, while never quite reaching the heights that he had once climbed to back in 2002, was a certified movie star. Shkinklekoff was now a depressed freelance photographer for TMZ. In the years that had passed, Shkinklekoff had managed to temper his jealousy. In fact, he rarely even thought about that pivotal moment in his evanescent acting career anymore. But when he saw Brody step out of that limo, he was starkly reminded about what his life could have become. He could have been the suave man commanding the attention of the gaggle of media members out in front of the hotel. He could have been the slender mustached man in all of those Wes Anderson flicks. And so, Shkinklekoff decided, in that very moment, that he was going to make Adrien pay for what he had done all those years prior.

While everyone around him was taking pictures, Shkinklekoff was devising a plan to get into Brody’s penthouse suite. He ducked out from the crowd and posted up next to the front desk in the hotel’s lobby. He pulled his cap down over his eyes and pulled up his phone, keeping his ears peeled as he fake-scrolled, listening in as Brody’s manager conversed with the front desk staff about his client’s accommodation. Rupert quickly darted his eyes up from his phone as he saw the keycard being distributed and then placed into the managers’ back pocket. He glanced around his shoulder. Brody, ever the diva, was still outside posing for the cameras. Good, he thought, that gives me just enough time. And so, Rupert, in one swift motion, walked out behind the manager and brushed into him lightly, using his spindly chopstick fingers to pry out one of the keycards from his jean pockets. As the manager ironed out the rest of the details with the reception desk, Rupert slunk over to the elevator, stepped in, and pushed the topmost button labelled “executive suite”. He rode the elevator up and up, his uneasy stomach dropping like an anchor. He felt like he could throw up (for once not forcefully after a P.F. Chang’s binge as a result of his bulimia) from the motion, from the anticipation, from the nerves. The elevator made a “ding!” and the door opened up.

There was only one door on this floor. It was a regal looking door, embossed with silver and paisley accents, and a diamond door handle. He stuck his keycard into the slot above the handle, and then twisted the knob. He walked into the stunning palatial estate, scouring the room for places to hide. There was a lot of Victorian era furniture. Good options, he thought. But his plan of attack changed as he laid his eyes upon a grand piano on the far side of the room. Why remain in obscurity now? This was his time to shine. His time to be front and center. To be the star of his own sadistic, spiteful show. Rupert sat at the piano, cracked his knuckles, and lifted up the keyboard cover. His heart was pounding through his chest. He was thinking on the fly: improvising, for the most part, under the common thread of vengeance.

He heard some commotion from the hallway. The knob twisted, the door opened. Adrien Brody took one step into the room and turned to face the intruder, alarmed. “Woah!! What the fuck are you doing!? Who are you!? Explain yourself, now!” Shkinklekoff stared down at the keys and began to play a familiar melody. He began to sing, “Sing us a song you’re The Pianist man. Sing us a song, tonight. For we’re all in the mood for a water and salad, but you got me craving Cinnabon Delights.” He stopped singing and slammed the cover down on the keyboard abruptly. “Does any of that ring a bell, Adrien? Let me paint you a picture. It was 2002. We were both going for the part of one Wladsyslaw Szpilman. But one of us didn’t get that part now, did we?” Adrien shuddered and took a step back towards the door. “Oh, oh my god! *nervous laughter* Shkinky is that you? What um…why are you here, in my hotel room?” Rupert walked around the front of the piano towards Adrien. “Oh Adrien, don’t play coy with me. We both know what you did. But only I know what it did to me. Do you know what happened to me after you took my part and lived out my dream? Let me clue you in. Its January 2003 and I’m sitting in my shitty studio apartment in Silver Lake watching you take home my Oscar for best actor. And do you know what I’m doing while I’m watching? I’m stuffing my fucking face with oatmeal cream pies and ding-dongs, and then sprinting to the bathroom to stick my hand down my throat to get myself to throw up like a goddamn teenage girl.” Rupert points his finger out accusingly at Adrien as he takes a few more menacing steps towards him. “YOU did this, Adrien. You piece of shit. And for that, you will feel my WRATH!” Rupert lunges towards Adrien, the camera fades to black.

*Cut to narrator speaking over montage of the two men’s lives in the Ritz Carlton penthouse suite over the next few months*

“From that point forward, Shkinklekoff kept Adrien Brody prisoner in a bedroom loft in the penthouse. He kept him alive by feeding him measly scraps of room service leftovers that he scavenged from the other hotel floors. Every so often, Shkinklekoff would allow Brody to leave his room to play a Chopin piece on the grand piano. In those moments, they were not captor and captive, but two humans sitting side by side in the absurd carnival of life. It would surely be only a few more weeks until Brody’s management would finally infiltrate the suite and set him free, placing Shkinklekoff behind bars for the remainder of his days. However, Brody’s biological clock was ticking. It wouldn’t be long before he lacked the requisite nutrients to stay alive. It was this drama that was at the heart of The Penist. Was anyone asking for this loose, and frankly insensitive, sequel to The Pianist? I’m not sure. But regardless, were they glad to have seen this action unfold live in theaters? No, almost definitely not.”