Sing Street Page #2

Brendan laughs.

ROBERT:

Don’t act so entitled. I grew up in

a council house with five brothers.

BRENDAN:

(mock surprised)

Really? Tell us about that dad. For

the first time ever.

(CONTINUED)

PENNY:

A school that’s close by. So

there’s no transport costs. You can

cycle in. And you can get lunch

back here. There’s two savings

already! It’s a non-fee paying

school.

ROBERT:

Those Jesuits are far too soft on

you anyway.

BRENDAN:

The Jesuits have a long history of

education.

ROBERT:

So do the Christian Brothers.

Silence.

CONOR:

Who are the Christian Brothers?

BRENDAN:

The Christian Brothers, Conor, are

a order of the Catholic Church,

appointed in the education,

formation, and beating of their

young charges.

ROBERT:

Oh be quiet Brendan! Six years at

the hands of the Jesuits yourself,

and look at what they did for you!

BRENDAN:

Well they didn’t beat me.

PENNY:

Brendan! Cut that out. Synge Street

is a perfectly reputable school.

You’ll settle in in no time.

CONOR:

You can’t just change in the middle

of the year. Just when I’m making

friends and settling in. This could

scar me. Long-term!

ROBERT:

Just deal with this, Conor. You

know what the Christian Brother’s

motto is? “Viriliter Age”. That

means “Act Manly”.

This meeting is over.

7.

(CONTINUED)

8.

Brendan gets up. He squeezes Conor’s shoulder, big brother

style, and exits. His parents go about their business. We

push in on Conor, alone.

EXT. CONOR’S HOUSE (CONTINUOUS) - DAY

The door slams as Conor exits his house, zipping up his

jacket. He marches down the driveway. He wears brown cords

with a slight flare to them. Leather shoes. Jumper.

This is a leafy suburb of Dublin. Middle class, safe,

protected. But Conor’s house stands out. It has seen better

days. It needs a new coat of paint, and the garden could do

with a mow. A car is parked in the driveway, but hasn’t been

used in a good while. Three push bikes are leaning against

the gate instead.

He walks up the street with his hands in his pockets.

EXT. JESUIT SCHOOL SPORTS GROUND - DAY

This is a large sports ground in a leafy Jesuit school. Nice,

red brick buildings, very peaceful. It’s the weekend, and

students are practicing track, rugby, cricket. A big copper

beech tree shades the Cricket Training net.

Conor is at the wicket, bat in hand. Two FRIENDS are playing

with him. They all speak with posh, South-side accents.

CONOR:

So guys, I’m not coming back after

the break.

FRIEND 1

The hell? Why?

CONOR:

The old pair are moving me to a

different school.

FRIEND 2

D*cks. Why?

CONOR:

They say they have no money.

The ball whizzes past him. He misses by a mile, throwing down

the bat in frustration. They take a break.

CONOR:

But we still hang out, yeah?

FRIEND 2

Totally man.

(CONTINUED)

9.

CONOR:

At weekends and stuff. Right?

FRIEND 1

Absolutely. So where are you going?

Conlets?

Conor doesn’t respond.

FRIEND 2

Gonzaga?

CONOR:

Synge Street.

His friends exchange looks after they see he’s not joking.

CONOR:

What?? It can’t be that bad?

One of them mock-hugs him.

FRIEND 2

Seriously bro, it’s been nice

knowing you.

His friends laugh. We hold on Conor, the gravity of his

situation sinking in.

INT. JESUIT SCHOOL OFFICE - MOMENTS LATER

Conor is sitting in a cosy, large office. Across from him,

his history teacher, and headmaster, FATHER WAITS (late 50s).

Fr. Waits smokes a pipe, sitting on the edge of his desk. He

is prematurely grey, and has a warm, understanding

appearance. His SECRETARY, a heavy woman in her fifties, sits

in an anteroom, typing, off.

FATHER WAITS:

We’ll be sorry to be losing you.

Synge Street was a fine school in

its day. It has a poor reputation

now, but I’m sure that’s

exaggerated. The Christian Brothers

can be a little tough to my mind,

but they get the work done.

CONOR:

No more rugby. No cricket practice.

Debating. School plays??

FATHER WAITS:

They’ll have their own

extracurricular activities I

suspect.

(CONTINUED)

10.

CONOR:

Yeah, like flick knife practice.

And corporal punishment.

FATHER WAITS:

I’m sure that’s not true.

CONOR:

I’ve heard it is. I can’t do

corporal punishment. I’m light-

boned.

Father Waits laughs. Though Conor is wise-cracking, he’s

clearly genuinely nervous.

Father Waits gets up, putting a hand on Conor’s shoulder and

walking him to the door.

FATHER WAITS:

You’ll be fine, Conor. Trust me.

You know what’s gotten us to where

we are today, us humans? One

quality?

They pause at the open door.

FATHER WAITS:

Adaptability.

He winks, shaking Conor’s hand. Conor shuffles off down the

corridor.

Father Waits looks over to his secretary who has been

listening. He makes a doubtful expression. She nods in

agreement.

INT. CHURCH - DAY

A church on a school campus. 30 choir boys are at choir

practice on the alter. They are dressed in their own cloths.

There is no congregation. It’s Saturday rehersal. They sing

BACH.

We slowly ZOOM in to Conor, who is standing on the edges of

the back row. He sings, but is lost in thought.

A TEACHER is conducting them.

EXT. SYNGE STREET SCHOOL - EVENING

Conor walks past Synge Street School that evening. The gates

are open. The deserted school looms grey and forboding in the

dusk sky. He pushes the gate open and enters, looking around.

Litter rolls like tumbleweed across the pot-holed yard.

Stripped-down bicycle frames remain locked to the outdoor

bike shed. Old windows rattle in the wind.

(CONTINUED)

11.

The walls read like a tabloid newspaper: “IRA” “BRITS OUT”

“JENNY GREEN IS A SLUT ” are among the headlines.

The playing field of his previous school is another world.

INT. BRENDAN’S ROOM - EVENING

Back in his house, we are in Brendan’s attic lair. As far

away from the rest of the house as possible. This small room

is a shrine to music and art. And hash.

We have numerous ash trays. A homemade hammock. Posters of

bands on the walls. Shelves of books on pop art, philosophy,

and music. A poster of SIGMUND FREUD on the wall next to his

bed. A voice bubble has been drawn in, saying “It’s all your

mother’s fault”.

A portable TV on a box. An acoustic guitar with two strings.

But most importantly, a huge collection of Vinyl. Proudly

alphabetized. The only thing so in Brendan’s life.

The windows are blacked out with hanging blankets, and the

lighting is low; easy on the eternally stoned eye.

Brendan sits in his huge, collapsed armchair in a mist of

marijuana smoke, a king of his own domain. He is taking a

drag from one. The door is ajar.

Outside, Conor knocks.

CONOR:

You in there?

BRENDAN:

Where else would I be?

CONOR:

I don’t know. The kitchen?

BRENDAN:

I’m in here.

Conor enters, leaning against the wall by the door.

BRENDAN:

(sage-like)

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