THE MECHANIC: Screenplay Sneak Peek

Although I will be writing more reviews, I wanted to present my initial interpretation of the 7th album by the Arctic Monkeys, “The Car”, in a different format. One that came to me almost instantly the moment the music started.

I couldn’t help but picture a movie play on listening to this album. The images and emotions evoked by this tone poem of an album has me absolutely speechless.

For some who have read my amateur novels during the lockdowns, you know I love to insert music into my narrative and various scenes. I didn’t realize I’ve been creating movie-like novels until I noticed many of you mention it in the comments of my short and amateur novels. I’ll be doing the same with this one but taking it a step further and writing a screenplay.

A very, amateur screenplay. I downloaded a course and studied it for a few weeks now, which only scratches at the surface to grasp the basics. To hone a craft, one would need commitment beyond a crash course. This is my first, basic, humble take.

I will be utilizing the stage set up from the Monkeys tour (the giant lens and the broadcast signal) and his choice of clothing on stage, as a foundation for the narrative of The Mechanic. The story will follow the mechanic’s confession set to every song on the album.

The initial narrative I pictured while listening revolves around a Bonnie and Clyde inspired bandit couple on the run during the Nixon era. I wanted to remain true to the initial reaction.

Once I complete the screenplay I’ll post it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I wrote a short introduction of the story to give you the backstory.

The screenplay will be added once I complete it.

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  THE MECHANIC 

June 17, 1972

A thundering sound echoes in a dark empty lot.  A light switch is activated.  He winces and squints staring directly at the blinding light.  As his eyes adjust, he blinks furrowing his brow, taking in his surroundings.  

He doesn’t recognize the lot, an empty aircraft hangar.

Seated, he looks ahead at the giant lens facing him, on the opposite side of the empty hangar.  Its harsh light suddenly flickering.  He parts his lips and furrows his brow, watching the screen as it flickers and adjusts.  A broadcast standby image now fills the screen.  He recognizes the “Rock Island Illinois” signal.  He feels sweat pool against his back.  

He knows where he is.

The image on the screen flickers to the next signal. He recognizes the next moving image on screen.   An aerial recording of the Watergate Complex plays on.  The static clears.   He now finds himself staring back at his own reflection on the giant screen.  He notices a red flash appear on the top right corner.

He is being watched and recorded.   

Feeling the tension in his body, he grows more aware of the confining chair he is in.  He tries to move his arms but feels a strain.  Turning his head, he feels his wrist cuffed to the leg of the steel table in front of him.  An empty chair faces him on the other side.  His eyes scan the surface of the table, noticing a pair of black sunglasses, next to a pack of cigarettes.  Recognizing his belongings, he swallows, craving the taste of nicotine. 

A set of steel doors open behind the screen.  He can feel the crisp outdoor air momentarily fill the room.  The doors shut.  He tries to catch a glimpse but waits for the sounds of unified steps, marching in steady echoes, to approach him.

Two men in matching black suits, white shirts and black ties, framed under sharp collars, make their way towards him.   As they march down the long lot, the parallel neon lights above them switch on, one by one as they move in closer.  He doesn’t wince at the loud sounds above him and keeps his eyes on the men.  He examines the listening device attached around their ears.  With each step a new set of lights activate above them.   

He notices a third man in a lighter suit, holding a small leather briefcase approach behind them.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”  The suited man smiles. Placing the briefcase flat on the table, he loosens the button of his suit jacket and pulls out the chair across from the seated man.  Taking a seat, he nods signaling for the seated man to be uncuffed.   As one of them complies to the order, the seated man winces, feeling the instant cramp in his hand.   Rotating his wrist and clenching his fist, he looks down at the tattoo on his wrist.  His thumb caressing the symbol tattooed on his skin.   An image of two overlapping loops.  He turns as the smiling man across from him offers him a pulled cigarette hanging from a flimsy pack.

The seated man turns to the agent standing next to his left, scowling down at him.   He turns to his right and notices the other mimicking the same gesture.  He scoffs.  “The good cop, bad cop routine?”  He turns his head facing the smiling agent. “Really?”   He smirks, arching his brow.  His gruff voice lowers mocking the agent. “So cliche.  Don’t you think?”

The impact of the punch delivered by the standing agent to his left instantly stuns the seated man.  A harsh tingling sensation washes over his face and he blinks repeatedly waiting for the blackened vision and the buzzing sound to subside.

A throbbing ache in his head follows as his vision adjusts.  He turns his head, spitting traces of blood onto the floor.  He wipes the back of his hand against his lip and looks up ahead at the smiling man still holding the pack of cigarettes towards him.  He shakes his head refusing the offer from his own belongings.  He turns his head slightly without looking back, noticing the two agents taking a military stance behind him, keeping their distance, taking guard.

“I’m agent Baldwin.”  He tilts his head slightly awaiting any response from the seated man.  Greeted with none, he presses his lips into a side smile and sighs placing the cigarette pack down.  Baldwin turns his attention to the content in his briefcase.  He pulls out a folder running his fingers across the CONFIDENTIAL stamp on the front.  

“You know–” Baldwin slides the briefcase out of the way.  “I’ve been following your every move for a while now.”  He pulls out a black and white laminated photo and slides it with his finger over to the seated man.  He pulls another, keeping his eyes on the seated man. He slides another across the table.  Baldwin presses his lips into a smirk noticing the seated man staring at him, not once breaking eye contact or looking down at the photos.

Baldwin continues.  “This one—” He scoffs mockingly.  “This one is my favourite.”  The seated man arches his brow and clenches his jaw looking down at the series of photos.   Surveillance shots of him.  And her, he recalls to himself, unable to utter or think her name.

“For a while, I thought you two were just gonna be a copycat — another Bonnie and Clyde. Or whatever rouge cheap knockoffs you Brits have —” He furrows his brows thinking.  “Maybe a duo like …James Bond and….Moneypenny?” He chuckles amused.

The seated man smirks, never taking his eyes off the agent before him.  Baldwin tilts his head and scoffs a dry laugh.  “Nah—Moneypenny would never sell out Bond ..”

The seated man blinks clenching his jaw.  Baldwin notices sliding over one more photo across the table.  “And she certainly wouldn’t run off with—him, now would she.”

The seated man catches a quick glimpse of the photo turning his head instantly.  Unable to hide his trepidation.    

Baldwin continues.  “We know all about the sculptures, paintings, jewels, the Fabergé egg…”

The seated man refuses to convey emotion.

“We just want the recording.  Or did she run off with that too?”

Baldwin looks over the seated man taking note of his green jacket.  He sighs.  “Here’s where we stand.”  He lowers his head scratching at his cheek.  “Fortuna and Schwartz are off the grid and you’re gonna tell us where they are.”

The seated man clenches his fists and swallows sharply at the mention of their names.  He watches Baldwin’s mouth move, but the only sound he hears is the tune of a melody he buried deep into the aching cracks of his heart.  

He hears the melody play all around them.  Her song.   He stares ahead, hardly blinking. 

[The opening music to “There’d better be a Mirrorball” plays across this memory]

Lost in thoughts of Fortuna, he is unable to hear Baldwin.  The song plays over memories of her cheek pressed against the pillow.  He watches her crimson lips press into a soft smile.  His hand caressing her cheek.  A sudden flash of single and short piano keys echoes through him, reminding him of the torment.

Baldwin watches as the man furrows his brow squinting at the light.  “Why do they call you The Mechanic?”  He lowers his eyes to the green jacket.  Baldwin meets The Mechanic’s gaze.  “—why don’t you start from the beginning.”

Screenplay coming soon.