Birthday Girl

FADE IN:

In a Russian summer meadow, a young girl spins around and

around. A simple guitar theme plays as the low sun catches

her hair. Around her neck is a pair of field binoculars, and

she runs through the meadow with them pressed to her face,

spying butterflies, birds, rabbits. She reaches the top of a

hillock, and jumps into the air, and flies up into the sky.

We float up and up with her as she aims the binoculars up,

up, into the sun.

FADE THROUGH SUN TO:

An aerial shot of the rolling English countryside. Nothing

but fields and trees for miles. The shot describes a panorama

before looking directly down, at the earth, and we begin to

move.

We fly low over a field, a ditch and straight out over six

lanes of motorway. Cars and lorries tear below at a hundred

miles an hour. We fly over the hard shoulder to another field

beyond.

We descend on two young boys in the field. A pornographic

magazine is spread out of the flattened grass. One of the

boys puts a match to the centre page and as the flames lick

up, we begin to move again, across the field, over a path

and into a suburban garden.

We fly over five or six gardens, over a barbecue, over

children splashing in a pool, over a woman sunbathing, a man

mowing his lawn, a young boy bouncing up and down on a garden

trampoline, to arrive on the patio of John Buckingham. He

walks out onto the patio, where he sits in a chair, facing

his house, setting down a mug of tea.

CUT TO:

A blurred face sharpening into focus, John Buckingham, about

thirty-two, sitting on his patio, his garden behind, fields

beyond.

JOHN:

Hello.

His hand adjusts a microphone on his lapel.

JOHN:

Hello, hello. Hello...

He shifts in his chair. Coughs. He looks straight at us.

JOHN:

I don't believe in perfect love. You

know, love that comes out of the sky

like a thunderbolt and uh... This is

ridiculous.

He removes the microphone. He sits there, thinking very hard.

JOHN:

No. No no no. Nope.

He stands, turns and stretches.

BLACKOUT:

FADE UP:

He is sitting as before, looking at us.

JOHN:

Running. Reading. Going out. Staying

in. The countryside. Films, if they're

good.

BLACKOUT:

FADE UP:

JOHN:

Thoughtful. Outgoing. Ambitious.

Well-read. Reasonably popular.

Balanced. Trusting. Quite attractive.

Outgoing.

BLACKOUT:

FADE UP:

JOHN:

Someone intelligent, of course. Kind.

Pretty I suppose. But its not

critical.

EXT. JOHN'S STREET - DAY

John watches while two removal men lift a new double bed

from the back of a van.

JOHN (V.O.)

Someone with a sense of humour.

Someone you can communicate with on

the same level. Someone you can really

talk to. I think communication is

key.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

John's hands smooth a crisp white sheet over the double

mattress. An ant runs across the sheet. John squashes it and

picks it carefully off.

JOHN (V.O.)

I think that by the time most people

turn thirty they know where they're

going.

CUT TO:

EXT. GARDEN - DAY

John encircles his house, leaving a thick trail of yellow

powder behind him.

JOHN (V.O.)

And where they've been. I suppose

they have some baggage stroke history.

EXT. THE GARDEN RECORDING - DAY

We see that John is talking to his PC. It has a small digital

camera on the side.

JOHN:

We all have someone in our past who

uh... one skeleton, if you like.

We've all got at least one person,

as it were, under the patio. Not

literally of course. I suppose I

only say this because I always thought

people who did this sort of thing

were... I had an image that they

were losers. Not losers. A bit sad.

But I think this is the modern world.

And I think really it's quite a brave

move. Quite a brave, reasonable thing

to do.

He smiles.

JOHN:

Sorry can we start again?

SINGLE CARD ON BLACK:

BIRTHDAY GIRL:

John's fingers in close-up, type JOHN BUCKINGHAM, and his

AMEX number into his PC. Finished, he stops, and rests his

face on his hands.

He hits SEND. That instant, a worry of black crows bursts up

in the field behind him and takes to the swirling air.

Blackout. Music. Titles.

The titles pop and slide over footage of Russian women, on

computer video, advertising themselves. They mostly speak in

Russian, some of which is subtitled, some speak in English.

The women slide on and off the screen, overlap and collide,

as the titles appear. Close-ups on mouths and eyes, tight

and pixellated. It becomes a wall of image and sound.

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