To Be Free Moondance International Film Festival Screenplay competition win 2017

Susan Flakes Screenwriter

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.

My Blog

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!