The Lord                                                                                                              

Screenplay by Andy-Jean (Excerpt of scene 10)                                                                                                                          

 

All hush—all lights go out except a spot upstage.

 

No sound—no breathing nor music—the camera is still.

Then from under the spotlight upstage a man appears—the camera closes in on him—his attire is odd, hard to make out at first—the camera moves closer.

His clothes are from another era, another time: a costly broad red cloak—he is the dying lord from the second scene.

 

He walks a few steps forward, halts, looks at the audience and plants himself on both legs firmly.

 

Lord

 

Centuries ago, in our days, our century, I promised you everlasting life. That you would be spared from the grave’s engulfing abyss. That your passions, your desires forever would last. That life never would desert you. I gave you this gift of the gods.

Your skin will stay soft, your eyes will shine like the stars, your desires will remain as keen, as strong as those of youth; your passions will be forever satisfied. But take heed! Even gods have to pay.

Your carnal antics will be fruitless: no children of yours will ever bless you with a smile; their worlds will forever remain closed, alien.

You will not dream; your nights will be as blind as mineshafts. You will love no one but your own kind; men will shun you. You’ll be left alone with your secret, your undying youth.

Neither will you feel thirst or hunger, hope or despair. No tears will wet your eyes, no wrath will clench your fists; neither will you laugh or weep. Poverty will spare you. Your greed, your lust will be heard. Past, present, future: all of one color, one flavor.

Only new faces will flash before you, soft and smooth at first, they will grow old and ugly, their eyes will turn dull and lifeless, longing for rest.

You won’t stir; people, their insanity, their wars, their religions and loves will pass you by. Meanwhile you will remain still, watching them live, lose their freshness and hopes and yet rise again from their ashes, new, blooming, virginal, smiling, bodies ablaze year after year, generation after generation, endlessly, as old as the days, yet young…beautiful as a child’s smile as his father gets back from work, splendid as love’s first gestures, spellbinding as the latest religion promising happiness now, peace today, as if its foregoers had not failed.

You shall be there. Yet elsewhere in a boundless world. Neither cold or warm. Drinking, devouring the lives of others, of those who die.

Look at me, my retainers. Yes, look at me. I am the origin. I am the whole, the opening and the closing of all.

I drank of the water of everlasting life, which gives you a god’s life.

Have faith in me, my people. Love me. You are I and I am you.

Kill, butchers! Eat of this flesh, of these throbbing no longer yours. You shall never be gorged, asking for the unfeasible, turning beauty into horror.

 

 The Lord screams, his head thrown back, wild-eyed, arms spread, shaking. The audience is howling to the stars, overwhelmed by rage and hatred.