It's a Mad, Mad World
Hey all. Some of you may know of a project I sortof started awhile back for my scriptwriting class. The working title was "Mad World, or, the Myth of the Cave." Anyway, basic premise of it is that Jean, our heroine, realizes on the day before her wedding that she is a character in a play, in this play, in fact, and that nothing at all is real. There are many clues that give this away to her but none of the other people in her village want to see the truth, so they don't. They remain blind to all the clues that show how their world is a fabrication because life is far easier for them that way. Jean cannot accept this and works tirelessly to convince them all of the truth, for which she is eventually stoned to death. Yeah. Cheery, I know.
Anyway, I've never really gotten around to writing the damn thing. Just bits and pieces here there. Here is a bit/piece for you that I just wrote tonight, at 2am. Here Jean is talking with the Prophet, who is the incarnation of the Playwright in the play. The Prophet exists to continually remind Jean that this is a play and that the Playwright (being yours truly) has scripted everything just so and that no matter what Jean does it is all according to plan. This is of course maddening. Enjoy!
JEAN: I don’t know anything anymore.
PROPHET: I want to show you something, Jean.
JEAN: What?
PROPHET: You have figured out many things by using that head of yours. But you still haven’t truly seen the truth yet.
JEAN: Yet?
PROPHET: Come here.
He passes a hand over Jean’s eyes and turns her to look out at the audience.
JEAN: My God...
PROPHET: Now do you see?
JEAN: A completely different world, watching us. Watching me.
PROPHET: Yes.
Jean walks forward to try to reach the audience, but runs into the fourth wall. She presses her hands against it, much like a classic mime.
JEAN: What is this?
PROPHET: The fourth wall, of course.
JEAN: What? What wall? There’s no wall! There was... there was nothing there, and then there was them and why can’t I reach them?
PROPHET: That’s not your world, Jean. Your world is here, on this stage, in this story that I made for you.
JEAN: But it’s not real!
PROPHET: It’s real for you, for now. In this moment for you, this is your world.
JEAN: And what about them?! What about THAT world?!
PROPHET: That’s mine.
JEAN: Why can’t it be mine too?
PROPHET: Because it isn’t. I made this world for you. I made you for this world. And this world exists only for as long as I say it does. Soon this show will end and those people out there will leave. They’ll exit the building and go home and maybe they’ll talk a bit about whether they liked the show or not, and that will be that. And then this world will cease to be. The stage will be struck and the actors will get out of costume. You won’t be here anymore.
JEAN: (whispered) That’s not fair.
PROPHET: Why isn’t it fair?
JEAN: Because... because it isn’t! I deserve a chance to live!
PROPHET: You’re having it right now.
JEAN: But I want more than this, more than this scripted lie!
PROPHET: You only want more because I’ve created you to want more.
JEAN: Stop saying that!
PROPHET: I wrote you saying that too.
JEAN: Stop!
PROPHET: And that. Your every word, your every action, Jean. All scripted by me.
JEAN: That isn’t true! It can’t be true! I’m making these decisions, not you! I am a person, I have the power to choose, dammit!
PROPHET: You only believe that because that’s how I’ve written you.
JEAN: Damn you.
PROPHET: Oh my dear sweet girl. I am sorry to have to put you through this, but this is the story that I want to tell. Look at the audience again, Jean.
JEAN: No.
PROPHET: Jean, I remind you that you’re being obstinate only because I’ve written it so. This time, you will look.
Slowly, unwillingly, Jean turns her head and looks out at the audience again.
PROPHET: Jean. I’ve written this battle for you for a reason. You are being forced to understand that this free will that you think you possess is an illusion. It’s entirely scripted by me. As much as you don’t want to see it, you will realize it by the end of this story.
JEAN: And what’s the point?
PROPHET: To make them wonder. They don’t have anyone telling them beyond a shadow of a doubt that life as they believe it to be is an illusion. At least, not unless you count the Church. Or the Matrix. Anyway. Your struggle will force them to consider the possibility that perhaps they too are only doing as they have been scripted to do. That perhaps every decision they make, believing those decisions to be made freely, are simply an elaborate illusion. It is entirely possibly that this is that old trope of a play within a play. They are being watched watching you.
The Prophet leans in very close to Jean, whispering into her ear.
PROPHET: And perhaps, just perhaps, Jean, that means that the only one who is truly seeing clearly, who truly exists, is you. At the center of all things.
A pause.
JEAN: You... don’t mean that.
PROPHET: It doesn’t matter. I’ve written your doubt. You won’t ever come to a concrete answer. That’s the point.
JEAN: I hate you!
PROPHET: No you don’t. You just hate what I represent. Which was my intent.
JEAN: Shut up you smug, sanctimonious bastard! Stop telling me that everything I do is exactly what you want!
PROPHET: But it is. I wrote this play.
JEAN: Fuck you! I hate you, I hate everything you are! I hate this world that you’ve made! I hate this stupid game and I want to end, god dammit! I am going to prove you wrong, do you hear me? I refuse to believe that you are in charge here! I refuse to believe that there is no escape! I will leave this stage, this world and I will walk into the world where you are no bigger than me. You are not all powerful! You are a feeble thing that plays games because you can do nothing else, and I. Will. Prove. You. WRONG.
PROPHET: My daughter, that is exactly what I created you for. Get going, now. There isn’t much time left. One of the things even I must obey here is the clock.
Before Jean can say anything else, the Prophet turns and ascends the stairs, going back into the Cathedral.
Anyway, I've never really gotten around to writing the damn thing. Just bits and pieces here there. Here is a bit/piece for you that I just wrote tonight, at 2am. Here Jean is talking with the Prophet, who is the incarnation of the Playwright in the play. The Prophet exists to continually remind Jean that this is a play and that the Playwright (being yours truly) has scripted everything just so and that no matter what Jean does it is all according to plan. This is of course maddening. Enjoy!
JEAN: I don’t know anything anymore.
PROPHET: I want to show you something, Jean.
JEAN: What?
PROPHET: You have figured out many things by using that head of yours. But you still haven’t truly seen the truth yet.
JEAN: Yet?
PROPHET: Come here.
He passes a hand over Jean’s eyes and turns her to look out at the audience.
JEAN: My God...
PROPHET: Now do you see?
JEAN: A completely different world, watching us. Watching me.
PROPHET: Yes.
Jean walks forward to try to reach the audience, but runs into the fourth wall. She presses her hands against it, much like a classic mime.
JEAN: What is this?
PROPHET: The fourth wall, of course.
JEAN: What? What wall? There’s no wall! There was... there was nothing there, and then there was them and why can’t I reach them?
PROPHET: That’s not your world, Jean. Your world is here, on this stage, in this story that I made for you.
JEAN: But it’s not real!
PROPHET: It’s real for you, for now. In this moment for you, this is your world.
JEAN: And what about them?! What about THAT world?!
PROPHET: That’s mine.
JEAN: Why can’t it be mine too?
PROPHET: Because it isn’t. I made this world for you. I made you for this world. And this world exists only for as long as I say it does. Soon this show will end and those people out there will leave. They’ll exit the building and go home and maybe they’ll talk a bit about whether they liked the show or not, and that will be that. And then this world will cease to be. The stage will be struck and the actors will get out of costume. You won’t be here anymore.
JEAN: (whispered) That’s not fair.
PROPHET: Why isn’t it fair?
JEAN: Because... because it isn’t! I deserve a chance to live!
PROPHET: You’re having it right now.
JEAN: But I want more than this, more than this scripted lie!
PROPHET: You only want more because I’ve created you to want more.
JEAN: Stop saying that!
PROPHET: I wrote you saying that too.
JEAN: Stop!
PROPHET: And that. Your every word, your every action, Jean. All scripted by me.
JEAN: That isn’t true! It can’t be true! I’m making these decisions, not you! I am a person, I have the power to choose, dammit!
PROPHET: You only believe that because that’s how I’ve written you.
JEAN: Damn you.
PROPHET: Oh my dear sweet girl. I am sorry to have to put you through this, but this is the story that I want to tell. Look at the audience again, Jean.
JEAN: No.
PROPHET: Jean, I remind you that you’re being obstinate only because I’ve written it so. This time, you will look.
Slowly, unwillingly, Jean turns her head and looks out at the audience again.
PROPHET: Jean. I’ve written this battle for you for a reason. You are being forced to understand that this free will that you think you possess is an illusion. It’s entirely scripted by me. As much as you don’t want to see it, you will realize it by the end of this story.
JEAN: And what’s the point?
PROPHET: To make them wonder. They don’t have anyone telling them beyond a shadow of a doubt that life as they believe it to be is an illusion. At least, not unless you count the Church. Or the Matrix. Anyway. Your struggle will force them to consider the possibility that perhaps they too are only doing as they have been scripted to do. That perhaps every decision they make, believing those decisions to be made freely, are simply an elaborate illusion. It is entirely possibly that this is that old trope of a play within a play. They are being watched watching you.
The Prophet leans in very close to Jean, whispering into her ear.
PROPHET: And perhaps, just perhaps, Jean, that means that the only one who is truly seeing clearly, who truly exists, is you. At the center of all things.
A pause.
JEAN: You... don’t mean that.
PROPHET: It doesn’t matter. I’ve written your doubt. You won’t ever come to a concrete answer. That’s the point.
JEAN: I hate you!
PROPHET: No you don’t. You just hate what I represent. Which was my intent.
JEAN: Shut up you smug, sanctimonious bastard! Stop telling me that everything I do is exactly what you want!
PROPHET: But it is. I wrote this play.
JEAN: Fuck you! I hate you, I hate everything you are! I hate this world that you’ve made! I hate this stupid game and I want to end, god dammit! I am going to prove you wrong, do you hear me? I refuse to believe that you are in charge here! I refuse to believe that there is no escape! I will leave this stage, this world and I will walk into the world where you are no bigger than me. You are not all powerful! You are a feeble thing that plays games because you can do nothing else, and I. Will. Prove. You. WRONG.
PROPHET: My daughter, that is exactly what I created you for. Get going, now. There isn’t much time left. One of the things even I must obey here is the clock.
Before Jean can say anything else, the Prophet turns and ascends the stairs, going back into the Cathedral.