The Letter
An inspiring comedic-drama, “The Letter” follows a heartbroken New Yorker struggling with depression who finds the writing of his suicide letter punctuated by a chance meeting with a mysterious woman (and a sweater-wearing dog) who may ultimately save his life.
Content heads up: suicidal ideation with planning, suicide letter, alcohol use
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ViewHide Film TranscriptFADE IN:
1 THE SOUND OF A PEN SCRAWLING ACROSS PAPER.
THE WRITER (V.O.)
As of exactly 7:09
PM tonight, I will be dead.
ECU of the words: “DEAD”.
Continue CLOSE UPS on the following words as they are written by hand.
THE WRITER (V.O.)
Free. Gone the way of Sergei
Yesenin. Goodbye, my friend, good–
Wait, how do you even format a
letter? Address… Recipient…
Comma… No, colon… And title.
ECU on the corresponding information: “137 BARROW STREET, NEW YORK, NY”, “TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN”, a comma… a comma
redrawn to be a colon, and the title “SUICIDE LETTER”.
THE WRITER (V.O.)
It’s funny. People invariably ask
the same three questions when
someone takes their own life. First,
did I know the person who did it?
Reveal The Writer today: Lying wide awake in his bed, face up, eyes tired, distant. His hair tousled, his beard unkempt, his bedroom littered with books, finished liquor bottles and unfinished artwork.
INT. APARTMENT – BATHROOM – AN HOUR LATER 3
A rusty New York shower faucet turns on.
THE WRITER (V.O.)
The answer to that question is,
“No. You probably did not.” Not
that I blame you, I’m not an easy
person to know, I suppose, and this
town is very busy. All I can hope
is that I’m remembered as a good
person. As an artist. I hope I’m
remembered as a man who came to New
York with the girl he loved and
gave it his damndest.
The Writer stands in front of a steamy bathroom mirror. He
draws two circles, revealing his own two sad eyes. He then
etches a wide circle and an arch underneath, forming a FROWNY FACE in the cloudy mirror.
THE WRITER (V.O.)
But the truth is, I won’t be
remembered at all.
INT. APARTMENT – LIVING ROOM – MORNING
THE WRITER (V.O.)
The second question people ask is,
HOW did the person do it? For me,
the answer is “perfectly”. While I
didn’t get much right in life, I
want my death to be a work of art.
The perfect song, the perfect
setting, the perfect suicide
letter, handwritten, pen and paper,
traditional, heavy-hearted but not
heavy handed. Even the time 7:09
PM, perfect. The precise hour and
minute when, two years ago, I lost
her. When I lost everything.
The Writer places a framed photograph of Her on the table.
NEW YORK NOON
The Writer walks out of his apartment, nearly knocked down by the sirens and city ambiance. He puts in earbuds, blocking out the noise, and walks down the street.
He rides a subway car, headphones on. The Writer exits a hardware store with a shopping bag in hand. Crosses a street with heavy traffic, horns blaring. Eats noodles alone.
HE WRITER (V.O.)
And the third question, the darkest
question of all, really, is why?
Why did the person do it?
EXT. APARTMENT – NOON
As the Writer walks toward his front steps, he notices a
small DOG wearing a red knit sweater sitting on his door
step. The Dog stares at the Writer, his big brown eyes locked on his. The Writer scans the street for an owner. The Writer reaches down to pet the Dog, but the Dog suddenly scurries off, a leash drags behind him. The Writer watches him go. Sullen.
THE WRITER (V.O.)
I suppose, for me, the reason why
is because I’m, well… lonely.
Depressed… Broke… Broken…
Missing something… Missing HER…
Really fucking lonely… Tired…
WS of The Writer sitting at his table. SLOWLY PUSH IN as he
pens the letter we’ve been hearing all this time.
The Writer takes a drink of coffee. He considers, then pours
a splash of whiskey into his coffee, takes a drink. He
reconsiders, pushes the coffee aside entirely, and drinks
straight from the bottle of whiskey.
THE WRITER (V.O.)
Ultimately, I want to say that life-
– I want– I– I– I–
ECU of the letter “I” faintly scribbled by a pen that has run out of ink. The Writer tries another pen.
THE WRITER (V.O.)
(a whisper)
I want to say that life–
The Writer tosses aside the inkless pen. He grabs a SHARPIE.
THE WRITER (V.O.)
(a shout)
I WANT TO SAY THAT LIFE–
The Writer stops. He holds up the blotchy letter. The Sharpie ink has bled through. He SLAMS the letter on the table and lets out a deep sigh.
AFTERNOON – NEW YORK
The writer heads outside, earbuds in his ear. He notices a FLIER printing. It reads: “MISSING: SEBASTIAN. LAST SEEN: WEARING RED SWEATER. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION PLEASE, PLEASE CONTACT ROSALIE”. CU on the photo of SEBASTIAN – a familiar looking dog in a red knit sweater. The Writer looks up from the flier to see ROSALIE.
ROSALIE (V.O.)
(a gentle, french accent)
I want to say that life is
beautiful… Some days.
11 EXT. APARTMENT – AFTERNOON 11
The Writer and Rosalie stand near the spot where The Writer
earlier encountered the Dog. No sign of Sebastian.
ROSALIE (V.O.)
But some days, life, it is shit.
Distraught, Rosalie tapes a flier to a tree. Then another.
Then another. Tears well in her eyes as she begins to appear
frantic.
ROSALIE (V.O.)
But these days, they pass.
The Writer nods and turns to walk in his apartment. Rosalie
reaches out and takes The Writer by the hand.
EXT. STREET CORNER
Still wearing his earbuds, The Writer holds the stack of
fliers and watches as Rosalie tapes a poster to a pole.
ROSALIE (V.O.)
And some days will break your
heart.
Rosalie’s shirt slides up, revealing a TATTOO on Rosalie’s
lower back. The name “SAM” is enclosed in angel wings.
ROSALIE (V.O.)
In time, these days pass too. I
know these days. I know loss. I
have lost much. But I have not lost
everything.
The Writer notices her tattoo but acts as though he didn’t.
He just hands her another flier, watching as she tapes it
down.
WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK – EVENING
The Writer passes a barefoot Musician alongside Rosalie.
She reaches over and removes the earbuds from his ears. We
hear the Musician’s song. It’s beautiful. The Writer
considers. He drops a dollar into his case. As he comes back
up, Rosalie is gone.
ROSALIE (V.O.)
Neither have you. Not everything.
Not yet. I know you’re tired. WAKE
UP!
A hand reaches out and pulls The Writer into the fray.
Rosalie dances, and reluctantly he does as well. Awkward.
Laughing. Carefree.
Discuss