Susan Flakes Screenwriter
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May 1, 2018
 Part of Scriptapalooza 2018 Coverage of TO BE FREE
​Both screenplay and Author, Susan Flaeks, RCOMMENDED

Setting, Pacing, Tone and Transitions
The setting is well established through skillful visual descriptions. There is a sense of time and realistic surroundings when the setting is being described. The scenes are the appropriate length for their purpose and do not need to be shortened. The author takes care to always have a balance between action and dialogue. There is great use of tension vs. release within giving those moments of tension a true realistic and relatable point of view. This mostly comes from the Harriett, Betty and Molly’s points of view. The tone is consistent throughout and stays appropriate for the genre. The dramatic tone is effective within its genre as the reader feels for the characters. This is a historical drama that stands on that tone from beginning to the end. The transitions are well utilized and come off as translucent from scene to scene.
General Notes
The script is excellent and has a wonderful author who put a lot of time and love into this story. This is a story that should be told as it plays upon so many topics of history. Most importantly it tells Harriet’s story and point of view. The author did a wonderful job adapting Harriet’s story. This story has strength within and would do well for audiences to see it.

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January 2, 2018, from screenplay Francois Villon, the People's Poet

​GREAT HALL
DAIS BEFORE A GRAND FIREPLACE
Well-armed TWENTY-FIVE-YEAR OLDER ROBERT and his ever-vigilant assistant, PIERRE MARCHANT, 30s, who flaunts his fierce, fiendish face, put their swords to the throat of a young, tall, slim, thick wavy-haired man. This is FRANÇOIS VILLON, 25, in baggy tights and loose-fitting tunic, defiant and saucy,
François stands on the dais beside DUKE CHARLES, AKA Charles of Orléans, 50s, a nobleman’s noble, who sits elegantly on a throne on the dais.   
CHARLES
(to Robert and Pierre)
Put your swords away. I rule here.
ROBERT
(refuses to sheathe his sword)
And I govern Paris. He’s spoken the witch’s name. By law, the penalty is death.
François delivers the line again as if to a fetching, refined young woman, AMBROSE DE LORÉ, 20s who sits IN THE BACK OF THE HALL. Beside her, a large arched window. The sun glows on her, light snow seen falling outside. 
FRANCOIS
And the good Jeanne Englishmen burned at Rouen
Our gallant Jeanne of Lorraine
Excited, with joy, Ambrose clasps her hands together, puts them to her heart.
Robert and Pierre prepare to run their swords through François. Ambrose gasps. Charles rises; throws up his hands. 
CHARLES
Sheathe your swords! Now!! Or, upon penalty by law, you shall be cast into prison for insubordination.
They do so very reluctantly.
CHARLES
Here in my castle, I am the law. I’ll see to this blasphemy.
Charles yells to a SCRIBE, bald, business-like, 40s, who, like a modern court recorder, has written down François's every word.
CHARLES
Strike that forbidden line!
SCRIBE
Yes, Good sir, Duke Charles.
CHARLES
Read back the lines up to the forbidden one. 
SCRIBE
Yes, Good sir, Duke Charles.
(reads lines he’s written down)
Tell me, tell me... Where is...
Queen Blanche, like a queen of white lilies
Who sang like a siren
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
Erembourg who conquered Maine --
Scribe looks humbly up at Duke Charles.
SCRIBE
That’s all, Kind Duke.
CHARLES
(to François)
Complete your poem. About the truly great French ladies from the days of yore.
FRANCOIS
I cannot so easily find a rhyme for 
Maine, other than...
CHARLES
Don’t even speak the name of the province from which that witch hailed. 
François presses his lips tight, distressed to have a line he so valued struck out of his poem.
CHARLES
Complete your poem, or lose your hands, or be hanged on Montfaucon Gallows for the theft of men’s wallets.
Charles looks toward a shackled man in the back of the hall with Guardsmen on both sides of him. He is REGNIER DE MONTIGNY, 40s, heavy-set, reminiscent of Friar Tuck without the joviality. He focuses his anxious attention on François.
CHARLES
And your partner in crime, Regnier de Montigny, will join you in either of these punishments. 
FRANCOIS
I cannot create an entire poem so spontaneously, especially when its heart has been torn out.
Montigny gasps.
CHARLES
All of your thefts were spontaneous, how about using that talent for poetry?
(to Robert and Pierre)
Prepare yourselves, Robert d’Estouteville, Provost of Paris, with your able assistant Pierrre Marchant, to either hack off his and his partner’s hands or cart them off to Montfaucon.
Montigny tries with body language to beseech François to complete the damn poem.
Robert and Pierre joyfully look to GUARDSMEN that await at the large stone arched door. The Guardsmen respond by running their anxious fingers on the handles of their swords, and leaning their bodies toward the dais, ready for the command to grab François instantly.
Quickly François completes his poem; delivers it as if to Ambrose. She hangs on his every word. Montigny sighs relief.
FRANCOIS
Mother of God, where have they all gone?
Ask me not next week, or e’en next year
For in reply you’ll ever hear
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
Charles applauds. Charles glares at Pierre and Robert until they too applaud. Robert’s furious glare back at Ambrose stops her applause.
CHARLES
You may keep your hands, as long as you keep them to yourself, and, with one of them, write poetry such as that.
François jumps down from the dais, heads for the door opposite from where the Guardsmen stand. Montigny jumps up, holds up his shackled hands to be unshackled.
CHARLES (cont’d)
Not so fast!

J
​​GREAT HALL
DAIS BEFORE A GRAND FIREPLACE
Well-armed TWENTY-FIVE-YEAR OLDER ROBERT and his ever-vigilant assistant, PIERRE MARCHANT, 30s, who flaunts his fierce, fiendish face, put their swords to the throat of a young, tall, slim, thick wavy-haired man. This is FRANÇOIS VILLON, 25, in baggy tights and loose-fitting tunic, defiant and saucy,
François stands on the dais beside DUKE CHARLES, AKA Charles of Orléans, 50s, a nobleman’s noble, who sits elegantly on a throne on the dais.   
CHARLES
(to Robert and Pierre)
Put your swords away. I rule here.
ROBERT
(refuses to sheathe his sword)
And I govern Paris. He’s spoken the witch’s name. By law, the penalty is death.
François delivers the line again as if to a fetching, refined young woman, AMBROSE DE LORÉ, 20s who sits IN THE BACK OF THE HALL. Beside her, a large arched window. The sun glows on her, light snow seen falling outside. 
FRANCOIS
And the good Jeanne Englishmen burned at Rouen
Our gallant Jeanne of Lorraine
Excited, with joy, Ambrose clasps her hands together, puts them to her heart.
Robert and Pierre prepare to run their swords through François. Ambrose gasps. Charles rises; throws up his hands. 
CHARLES
Sheathe your swords! Now!! Or, upon penalty by law, you shall be cast into prison for insubordination.
They do so very reluctantly.
CHARLES
Here in my castle, I am the law. I’ll see to this blasphemy.
Charles yells to a SCRIBE, bald, business-like, 40s, who, like a modern court recorder, has written down François's every word.
CHARLES
Strike that forbidden line!
SCRIBE
Yes, Good sir, Duke Charles.
CHARLES
Read back the lines up to the forbidden one. 
SCRIBE
Yes, Good sir, Duke Charles.
(reads lines he’s written down)
Tell me, tell me... Where is...
Queen Blanche, like a queen of white lilies
Who sang like a siren
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
Erembourg who conquered Maine --
Scribe looks humbly up at Duke Charles.
SCRIBE
That’s all, Kind Duke.
CHARLES
(to François)
Complete your poem. About the truly great French ladies from the days of yore.
FRANCOIS
I cannot so easily find a rhyme for 
Maine, other than...
CHARLES
Don’t even speak the name of the province from which that witch hailed. 
François presses his lips tight, distressed to have a line he so valued struck out of his poem.
CHARLES
Complete your poem, or lose your hands, or be hanged on Montfaucon Gallows for the theft of men’s wallets.
Charles looks toward a shackled man in the back of the hall with Guardsmen on both sides of him. He is REGNIER DE MONTIGNY, 40s, heavy-set, reminiscent of Friar Tuck without the joviality. He focuses his anxious attention on François.
CHARLES
And your partner in crime, Regnier de Montigny, will join you in either of these punishments. 
FRANCOIS
I cannot create an entire poem so spontaneously, especially when its heart has been torn out.
Montigny gasps.
CHARLES
All of your thefts were spontaneous, how about using that talent for poetry?
(to Robert and Pierre)
Prepare yourselves, Robert d’Estouteville, Provost of Paris, with your able assistant Pierrre Marchant, to either hack off his and his partner’s hands or cart them off to Montfaucon.
Montigny tries with body language to beseech François to complete the damn poem.
Robert and Pierre joyfully look to GUARDSMEN that await at the large stone arched door. The Guardsmen respond by running their anxious fingers on the handles of their swords, and leaning their bodies toward the dais, ready for the command to grab François instantly.
Quickly François completes his poem; delivers it as if to Ambrose. She hangs on his every word. Montigny sighs relief.
FRANCOIS
Mother of God, where have they all gone?
Ask me not next week, or e’en next year
For in reply you’ll ever hear
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
Charles applauds. Charles glares at Pierre and Robert until they too applaud. Robert’s furious glare back at Ambrose stops her applause.
CHARLES
You may keep your hands, as long as you keep them to yourself, and, with one of them, write poetry such as that.
François jumps down from the dais, heads for the door opposite from where the Guardsmen stand. Montigny jumps up, holds up his shackled hands to be unshackled.
CHARLES (cont’d)
Not so fast!

Second Excerpt

8/7/2017

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Here is the entire short story, which will also become a short play:

​BOBBY AND FRANÇOIS TALKIN’ WORLD WAR III BLUES
                               
          By Susan Flakes
 
Bobby, scruffy, surly, a full head of thick oily hair, in his twenties, slams down a typewriter on a pasteboard desk in a shabby hotel room; mutters: “Went an’ took my guitars, huh?  Could’a least left me the acoustic. Maybe your guests need to be rock and rolled out of their doldrums. Vagabond? Yeah, that’s me. The world needs more vagabonds.”
He plops down in front of the typewriter, puts in paper; bangs at keys. Rips the paper out of the typewriter; tears it to shreds.
He shoves open his dilapidated suitcase; throws out some books. Grabs a few of the books; snuggles on the bed; rummages through the books; selects one of them. “Monsieur Paul Verlaine.” He thumbs through the book. “No, no inspiration from you. Your poems are too pretty for how I’m feelin’ tonight. Nineteenth Century’s too far back.”
He tosses that book; picks up another. “Arthur Rimbaud.” He thumbs through it: reads, “A Season in Hell. It’s not Hell yet, but I’m getting there.”
         He seizes a book crumbling from age: “The Poems of François Villon, translator H.B. McCaskie, London, 1946. Why the hell did I get given this one?  Five hundred years ago. Half a millennium. Sure don’t wanna go back that far.”    
He thumbs through the Villon book anyway, stops and chuckles at some of the artsy black-and-white faded tints that illustrate the poems. Fingers an illustration at the end of the book; reads under it: “A poem he wrote after he was sentenced to hang on Montfaucon Gallows, Paris.  Nice picture of corpses, and ravens waiting to eat them. Hey, François, you were a genuine vagabond poet.”  
           He reads in awkward French, “L’Epitache Villon: Freres humain qui après nous vivez.” He chuckles. “Ah, bien! An English translation on the opposite page. Good for you, Monsieur McCaskie. Le français n’est pas ma forté.”  He reads:
“Fellow humans that after us remain
Don’t be harder on us than what’s our due
For if you show some pity for our pain
The sooner God’ll show mercy to you”
 
He flips to the preface; bursts into laughter. “Born 1431. Died nobody knows when. Hey, François, maybe you’re still alive?” He reads further, “Hmmm.  Last name ‘de Montcorbier’?  When did you change it, and why?  I changed my last name too. I like Villon, but not François. I think half the men in France must be François’s.”
          Bobby clears the bed of all the books, crashes, exhausted onto it. The Villon book atop his chest, he falls into a deep sleep. Dreams.
In his dream François is about to be hanged. A noose swings in front of him. Bobby appeals to François. “Hey, come to me, come to me, maybe your future’s brighter than you think. C’mon. You’re in a dream. You can do whatever you dream.”
             François attempts what Bobby suggests. He wills the bonds to fall off his hands; moves the rope away from his neck. No one seems to be there to put it back around his neck. 
As he enters Bobby’s hotel room it’s as if his body is still on the gallows.
 François looks around, totally mystified.
            ”So, take a seat. I’m Bobby. I know who you are, François.”
He produces a chair.
François doesn’t sit; looks around, amazed, terrified. ”Have I died? Is this Hell?”
           Bobby bursts into laughter.  “Could be!  But them in charge at this establishment seem to think it’s Heaven.”
“Me in Heaven? Not possible. Who’s in charge?”
“Actually, I am. King of the Room. My famous friend insisted they give me a room at the inn.”
           ” Famous friend?”
“They wanted to throw me out ‘cause I look kind’a funky. She demanded a room for me who’s one day’s gonna be America’s greatest songwriter, or she’ll sing ‘cross the wide world somethin’ ‘funky’ ‘bout them.  Good thing, François, you speak English.”
          ”English?  I would never speak a word of the tongue of those goddamns that burned my Jeanne d’Arc to ashes. ‘Cept her heart! It refused to burn! I was born the very day she rose to Heaven, where they no doubt opened the doors wide for her. Only they’ve slammed the doors on her here on earth. Forbidden to even speak her name.”
”She is now the patron saint of France!”
          “Not possible. Where are you from anyway? What country? England?”
”America. Yeah, that’s right.  America wasn’t discovered yet when you walked the earth.”
”What year are you?”
“It’s 1963. Five hundred years after your time, give or take a decade.”
          ”Human beings still on earth in five hundred years? I figured by then they’d all die of the plague.”
”No more plagues. Wiped out. You lived in a whole other lifetime, when blackness was a virtue. Of course this century’s been pretty black. There was two world wars.”
              ”World wars?”
             ”Just about all of the countries on earth fightin’ each other. Oh, the world is round, not flat, and there’s millions and millions of people, more than you guys ever dreamed there’d be.”
             ”The world wars didn’t kill everybody?”
             ”No, but World War III will. If it comes. No. When it comes. I dreamed, like I’m dreamin’ now, but not of the past, of the future. I was the only one left on earth. When I told my dream to a psychiatrist he said he was havin’ the same dream, only he was the only one left on earth, so we agreed to be in each other’s dreams, so as not to be alone, you dig?”
            ”What I see is that I don’t want you and me in the same dream. Before I go back to the noose, just tell me, Future Man, how does my story end?  Any deus ex machina waitin’ in the wings?”
            ”You know ‘bout deus ex machina’s?” 
             ”’Course I do. I read Aristotle. No bringin’ in gods on machines to save the day. Earn it! But such endings do happen in real life!”
            ”Nobody knows how and when you died, that’s what your bio says.”
           ”There’s public record even of the thousands of poor schmucks hanged on Montfaucon Gallows. Only schmucks got hanged, no royalty. I ain’t royal, but no poor schmuck either. There’d surely be a public record of it if I got hanged.”
            François thumbs through Bobby’s book of his poems. ”Not hand-copied by monks?” 
           ”Printin’ got invented.”
          ”Oh, yeah, I heard somebody in Germany printed 200 Bibles.”
          ”Now millions of books in all subjects are printed all over the world. Every day.” Bobby pats the book. “I don’t care to go back further than the nineteenth century. Verlaine and Rimbaud are quite enough.”
           ”Who?”
”Arthur Rimbaud: I die of thirst, I suffocate, I cannot cry out.  This is hell--eternal pain!  See how the fires flare up! I’m roasted to a turn. Demon, charge on!”
         ”No more about Hell, all right?”
         François goes to Bobby’s typewriter; runs his hands across the keys.
          ”What’s this?  A printing machine?”
         ”Sort of.”
          Bobby sits in front of it; plunks out a few words. “Workin’ on a song that will make famous the infamy of the hoteliers here.”
          ”Song?”
         ”Poem with music. Some say I’m a poet.”
         ”So, sing me one of your poems.”
         ”They confiscated my guitar.”
          He sees François doesn’t know that word. He mimics strumming.
”I strum the music I sing to. The heads of this weird-ass joint don’t want me wakin’ all the snorin’ bastards. Besides, I never sing on demand.”
           ”Me neither. I think I want to go back to my ‘destiny.’ Whatever it might be.”
François heads back toward the noose.
“Let me into your memories,” Bobby appeals, “Think the Future. Poeticize what’s coming if human beings don’t change. Love Jeanne d’Arc more, Hate all-powerful merciless institutions more. Herald your poem,” He thumbs through until he finds one of his favorite François Villon poems, reads it:
“Outside his doors, freezing, on our knees,
Inside his whores, teasing, do as they please. 
Through colored pane glass of Virgin Mary
We lust the roasted bird, the toast an’ caviar
His servants carry To the Archbishop of Paris
Who fails to see we are dying
While he’s wining and dining the life of ease.”


François shrugs his shoulders. “One of my best, but who listens?”
“Maybe now?”
“Maybe we should stop talkin’ maybe’s.”
He puts the noose around his neck. Awaits. Bobby awakens, mumbles, “Wish I coud’a stayed dreamin’ till the end… See if there was a deus ex machina.”
                                                END
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    Susan Flakes is an award-winning playwright, screenwriter, writer of short stories and feature articles. .

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