HINGE
A script.
I open the notebook, I raise the dead, I make it all better. Happy birthday, Eli. I’ll finish looking for you, only if you leave my dreams. See you around, maybe next time. XXXX
Filmed on whatever stock / lens would suit the time period best. The lovers are the only faces we see in full, everyone else is profiles or shadowed. Will ask around for fashion sponsors. Shoot in Ireland, winter / spring.
Stylized documentary. Long takes, establishing, funny tricks. Practical effects. Cut to the score, as little dialogue as possible. No fat.
Comps: La Chimera. The Brutalist but somehow sadder and hornier. Wes Anderson put through the spin cycle. Agnés Varda’s fever dreams, declassified X-Files fan fiction, obviously rather indebted to David Lynch—whoa where did that red dot come from
FIGURES
Opening credits and title over aerial shots of land and sea and clouds.
Yiddish arc
The Pale, 1890
Beibi mit Honik. Brunette and long for her. Clean cut with a neat beard for him.
The young rebbe gives his final sermon as a bachelor. Packed audience. His betrothed watches from the women’s section, someone’s baby on her knee. He is talking to everybody but really her, just her. Ask Rabbi Susan to use this sermon.
Where are you? Where are you?
The beloveds play hide and seek during the final dusk before their wedding. Gnarled old oak and willow and linden trees. In 50 years, this meadow will be the burial ground of the Paneriai massacre.
The lovers find the same spot, hidden away from the younger cousins. He thinks this is the perfect time to break their chastity. She thinks that a man of God can wait just one more night.
You say tomorrow but your heart is racing now, right now. He presses his hand to her blouse, she slaps it away.
I want to make sure my investment is secure, Beibi. Now his hand is crawling up her skirts.
You mean your father’s investment?
No! I put myself through yeshiva! Who baked all the bread for the town? Who butchered your family’s cows? Who spun silver into something even the gentiles wanted, nu? Nu? I am the secondborn son, you are the only person in the world who wants me.
His hand is deep in her skirts. Let me taste you, once.
She straightens her back. You’ve waited eighteen years, you can wait one more night.
No, I will die of desire. I will haunt your every step until you surrender. I will shadow your path like—
She suddenly leans forward and kisses him on the mouth, hard. He makes a stupid sound. She kisses his cheeks, eyes, forehead, temple, ears, neck, pulse points, wrists. He mumbles his gratitude, his hands near his head, limp.
There, she says. Now you are safe forever and ever and a day. You will never be a dybbuk.
He calls her a witch. She laughs.
I am a lady, a lady until tomorrow night. Close your eyes again and count to ten, Honik! I will give you a surprise.
When he opens them, the meadow is empty. He will see her tomorrow at synagogue in her mother’s dress. He gathers himself.
In the mirror of her family’s home, she is radiant as the aunts and mothers and cousins and sister prepare her. Hair, rouge, flowers, lace after lace.
In the synagogue, he is mumbling vows and pacing even more than usual. It is getting later in the day. He counts the stars, calculates. Where are you?
The town drunk is dancing softly with himself outside the synagogue. In a hundred years, Rebbe, this will all pass but we will still be here. We shall always return, return, fish against the stream. Three candles for your birthday, and an extra one for better luck, that’s what you get. Shabbos and havdalah and something more. New, old, borrowed, blue. Wires and strings and fuses connecting and cross crossing. You can talk without saying anything, without opening your eyes, your mouth, your hands, Rebbe! Just your heart, your heart.
A whine in the air. The old man stops. Falls to his knees, groans. Oh Honik, you will meet your Beibe again, but you won’t like it. Not at all.
The young rebbe takes off towards the countryside. The drunk keeps yelling after him. His speech bells over the following scenes.
You will find her again and again and again, sir! You know nothing but you will remember it all, over and over and over! She is your Israel! The temple is broken but you are alive! You must remember her to life! She is your promise and your land, your promised land! You will find her and build her and tend to her wherever you go! Fly, fly, fly! L’chaim!
She looks like a princess’s doll in the wagon that her father drives into town. They can see the village, they are so close. The sound of hooves. The sound of metal, fire.
She is taken on the way to marry her childhood sweetheart, the shtetl rebbe.
Dawn. Her sister Aziza survives, comes to the town square for help. Honik moves like lightning. He does not wait for the other men to come.
He finds the killers, drunk and asleep from the stolen wine and his beloved. She is on the floor, far from the roaring fire. She is so small, so still. Her skirts are torn. He moves silently. The drunk’s speech has ended. All the world is quiet as a grave.
Her throat is open. He cannot tell if she is still with him, or if it is just the flames reflecting in her eyes. He does not touch her yet.
The sleeping men do not ever wake. He washes his hands, tries to bless himself, cannot. He can hear other men from the town coming to help. He cannot wait.
He carries her closer to the fire, smooths her dress, puts her head to his chest. His heart. He kisses her open throat so, so softly and comes away with his face bloody. He takes off his silver chain and puts it over her wound. He puts their rings on. Where are you?
He slits his throat the same way they cut hers. Lights out.
French arc
Paris, 1940
Bébé et Miele. Ginger braids for her, cropped hair and stubble for him, could be growing out a shaved head or a military cut.
On the move, hiding, being as quiet as they can. This was how it happened, usually: a boy and a girl could pass as a couple. Smuggling messages, people, arms.
The word is kashariyot, she explains. Connectors. Like a radio wire or telegraph pole or fuse.
Or khutt hashani, he adds.
Sure. Yes. If you say so.
Engagement rings of daisy chains. Living in sin, sleeping rough. An old farmer, tipsy enough to survive the current war, offers them a barn for the night. To the newly-weds, he says, lifting up a hidden bottle of champagne.
We aren’t married, she says. Yet, her partner says.
We can change that now! I was a captain before everything went, you know.
So we can use your boat for the honeymoon? The young man negotiates. We have tons of tobacco. I can take your photo? He pulls out the camera that they’ve used for fake papers, reconnaissance.
No, this is a good deed. A good deed! I will take nothing from you. I am a captain, I will officiate. You can be made honest people tonight.
The partisans look at each other.
We don’t have rings, she argues. I do, he replies.
Where were you hiding those? If you sold any of the inventory, I swear to God—
He shakes out some spent bullet shells, then takes a sharp knife from the captain’s butcher block. He slices rings from a bullet, holds them with his bare fingers over a flame to melt off the rough edges.
Careful, she says. You’ll burn.
No. I won’t, he says. Not tonight. He wipes off the new rings. Look, it’s your favorite stone. Lead.
He kneels. She laughs, pulls him up by his lifted chin.
The captain has almost finished the champagne. To the canal, then!
He pulls out a Byzantium ring of keys, then leads them to the canal lock. There are four parts to a door, you know, he says as he tries and fails repeatedly to unlock the barge’s entrance. The wood, the knob, the lock, the hinge. So many hinges! So many places to turn and swing!
What about the peephole? She asks.
Ah, there’s more ways to know when someone’s coming. The captain gets the right key, at last.
He marries them on the docked barge. The boy breaks the empty champagne bottle under a loose balaclava. The girl holds a bouquet of weeds and wildflowers. Wandering Jews, the petals like blue stars. They kiss and kiss. The captain leaves. The lights go low.
Why did you sign up? He asks, rolling her a loosie in a hammock on the barge.
Where else would I have gone?
He shrugs, rolls his sleeves so she can see the numbers.
You got out? She gasps.
I had to find you.
He lights a cigarette in his mouth, hands it to her. A lady never lights her own.
I am not a lady anymore.
One day, I will take you dancing in silk and lace and pearls. And there will be so many chandeliers, you’ll be dizzy. And I will turn you around and around, Bébé.
Whatever you say, Miel.
You still smoke like a rich girl.
What?
Yes, between those two fingers, held away so it doesn’t make your hair smell. You need to smoke like a solider. Here.
He shows her: the rollie held between the same index and pointer, but pointed inwards, away from wind and sniper sights. Quick, furtive puffs, blown out the side of the mouth. She practices.
Good job, he says. They’re still bad for us. But everybody needs a vice.
Morning. They move before sunrise. There is always another mission, another delivery, another escape. Fog. She gives away their position with an ill-timed cigarette. The occupying soldiers come over them like a rip tide.
He smuggles his ring to her before they tear him away. He won’t pass, he knows this. She might. He begs their apologies for bothering a gentile woman. It works, barely. Lucky to have a pretty face, smooth hair.
Girls could pass easier. They pull her away. She makes herself watch them cut him apart.
In the leathery long Volkswagen back to their headquarters, she thanks the soldiers for saving her. She would do anything to repay them.
In the general’s suite, she undresses in a corner, facing away. He is red and excited on someone else’s bed. He never hears the shot that kills him. By the time his commanding soldiers do, she has found the MAS-36 rifle. Massacre.
She gets away, survives the occupation, receives the Légion d’honneur alongside her sister. She tells Aziza she is fine. She will be. She throws the medal off Pont Saint-Michel: in 1961, police will throw FLN protestors from the same bridge. She goes back to her hotel, kisses the rings she has always worn on the chain around her neck. Where are you?
She shoots herself in the temple the same way that the soldiers executed her beloved. Lights out.
Ukrainian arc
Kyiv, but they’re calling it Kiev. 1990
Dytyna i Med. Blonde, long, splitting ends tucked into a kerchief. He has the standard-issue cut of all men his age and rank.
Married finally and living high enough up that the times seem okay. New year’s party with their families. He still looks at her like a newlywed, so lucky to be near her. The cupboards are bare. He feels like less and less of a man, let alone husband and father.
He is pressured into doing something by somebody. It is more food for the coming baby. It is.
He fucks his wife carefully, medically. He thanks her. She asks why? Am I a prostitute?
He says no, only my god and sovereign that I worship like the sun. My Dytyna.
She turns the radio up, closes the curtains. Runs water for a bath, gestures for him to join her. He looks too happy.
What?
I’m tired of being overheard.
They’re not all so bad. Some of them are good angels.
I will not raise a child with a kapo.
Well, you’ll never need to worry about that, my queen.
She undresses again. He can look but not touch. He crawls towards the bathtub.
My sun, my moon and stars. The first bird of spring. My ruby and diamond and sapphire. My gold and silver. I pray, I worship, I kneel, I sing—
He is allowed into the water. She removes his watch, stops its ticking, tosses the timepiece gently into the next room. She straddles him.
She tells him You need a new job, Med.
Whatever you want, Comrade.
She slaps him. He turns to offer his other cheek. She strokes his face, so softly.
If something happened to you, I would lose my mind. I would never forgive myself.
But you’re not doing anything. You’re clean.
She kisses his face. That’s not how anything works.
She rolls over, rests against his chest. They are so perfectly sized for each other, he marvels at it daily. Her hands roving over him, she doesn’t even need to look. He cannot look anywhere else. His hands on her breasts, hips, belly. Seven more months. They haven’t told anyone else yet. This is the only kind of secret he wants.
He tries to do what she says.
They show him pictures of her, the medical records, ultrasounds. He does what they ask. They disappear him anyway. She makes it through a very small funeral before miscarrying. Her old uncle the fool comes to cover the mirrors in their old apartment, lights the right candles. Her sister Aziza leaves the fridge full of food. The widow can tear her clothes herself.
Once she understands that she has lost the last piece of him, she disappears into herself. They find her screaming for him in the train station, then she is never heard from again.
Where are you where are you where are you where did you fucking bastards take him don’t you fucking touch me where
Lights out.
English arc
North Beach, 2040
Baby and Honey. Blonder, near white. His hair is loose, longer, darker, as though he has not seen sun in a while.
First date matched via Hinge. Stupid conversation, days of texting. They agree to meet.
She changes outfits three times before settling on the right look, FaceTiming her sister. She rubs oil on the strange marks on her body: thigh, temple, stomach, others. Birthmarks or scars? She selects a phone and bag from a lineup of burners and fakes.
He shaves, nicks himself, swallows his curses. He sits in his hotel room, staring out the window, at her picture, back and forth, before standing to leave. He has so many freckles, so many angel kisses.
He pawns a silver chain, an old camera, a watch at a corner store. The owner, as always, seems familiar.
You think you’ll be back for it, man?
Yeah, I always come back, I’ll be good for it.
His gaze lingers on a pair of rings. Not yet, not yet.
The owner notices. For you, son? Half price.
No thank you, sir. I always pay in full. I’ll keep a promise if it kills me, man. I never forget a debt or a pair of eyes or hair color or—
The owner clears his throat. When young men talk like that it makes me real nervous. Surely you’re late for something. 3600 cash for you, extra dollar for luck. Get out of here.
In the coffee shop, she is so, so late. When he looks up, she recognizes his eyes. But they have never met before. Vertigo pull. The flash of his first look at her from each previous life, backwards.
She is very cautious. She is sorry for being late, and she does not apologize to strange men, so he should appreciate that. He leaps up to get her drink.
Their cups are empty soon enough. Did you have lunch yet? He asks. She could eat, sure.
Great, there’s this [INSERT FOOD] spot around the corner—
The owner owes him a favor, which is perfect because he still has to cover the hotel room.
So what do you do with your days? How do you normally pay for [FOOD]?
I’m a writer.
Oh, so you’re a nightmare.
In the right context, sure.
What’s your genre?
Pretty heavy in nonfiction right now. But I started in poetry. To piss off my parents and make girls want me, obviously.
Did it work?
No, that’s why I’m still doing this. He gestures around himself, tousles his own hair. Can I draw you? You look really nice.
She raises half an eyebrow.
Well, now you look mean, but that works too, please don’t move. What do you do? Model?
She snorts. She resumes her pose. I work in technology.
Oh, so you’re evil?
Yes.
What kind of tech?
I read the markets, tell the right people the right things, wrong people what I want. That sort of deal.
Am I a right people?
Maybe.
I really hope so. I’m tired of it turning out wrong.
What do you mean?
Ah, you know. Right time, right place.
Sure. Who do you write for?
The people.
What do you write about?
Ah, I’m sorry. I try to not talk about work with folks I care about.
You care about me?
I care about everybody.
I don’t.
Yeah, you work in fintech. You wanna redistribute some funds to get ice cream?
Ice cream at the beach. It is freezing but they are warm. He has something on his cheek, she wipes it away.
Thank you, sugar mommy.
Shut up!
She tries to get him to take a skinny dip. Anything for her, anything.
Panting and wet in the sand, looking at the stars.
I know we can’t see that many now, with the clouds and smog and satellites and all, but I feel like I know where every single one is anyway. He keeps glancing at her, damp in his jacket.
She leans an inch, two inches closer. She says I always feel like such a morning person, since I was born around dawn. Do you know when you were born?
He rattles off his birth chart data. She is taken back. He rolls over to look at her. You know, I’ve met women before. And my grandma is super into that stuff. She’d love you, actually.
She allows herself a smile and responds with her own star information.
Oh, he says. I’m supposed to be really good to you. You have all these placements in X, and that’s my karmic wounds.
Are you gonna be good for me then?
Are you cold? He asks.
She pauses. Yes.
Okay, I was going to kiss you if you said you were cold. Can I kiss you now please?
She moves over him like a wave. When she’s over him, her hair loose over his face, she is the entire world. Vertigo pull for him now: every other time she kissed him first from his old lives.
Walking back to the hotel. It seems like every couple they pass is kissing or dancing or making stupid eyes at each other.
Something’s in the air, she remarks.
Hormones, yeah, he replies. But whenever the news get weird, people act this way. Something about the threat of your impending mortality really makes you want to touch—
He flings an arm out to keep a car from hitting her as she crosses the road, a step or two ahead of him. He pulls her close to his chest, too close. She goes a little stiff.
Whoa, sorry, I should’ve kept my eyes up.
No, no, it’s their fault. He makes a gesture that a rabbi would not at the receding car. Let’s stay on this side for now though, yeah?
She recognizes that he walks the same way she does: nonchalant but aware. Anyone attempting to follow them would never notice they were being watched back.
At the hotel, he negotiates with the concierge. Tries to get a deal, pay tomorrow in cash, anything. Concierge is not budging, bro. Then she saunters inside from her smoke. He approves, gives him the honeymoon key.
On the way to his room, he pulls her into an unlocked, unlit room. She’s annoyed until the chandeliers go on: it’s the old ballroom.
Do you dance? May I have this one?
They waltz slowly, then faster.
Where did you come from?
Wherever you did.
Lace and chandeliers and silks.
Sorry, she slows again. I’m getting dizzy.
That’s fine, of course. He stops, gently. I’m out of practice anyway.
It’s your fault, she mutters.
He holds back a smile, he does. I accept it.
In the elevator, they can’t seem to quite meet each other’s eyes at the same time.
All the way up, huh?
Yes ma’am.
You must be a pretty good writer.
That’s for you to decide. I definitely know a lot of words. It’s just the uh, the order that trips me up. But I have a great memory.
Sounds like you need a better editor.
God, you’re telling me.
And proofreader.
I can draw up a contract tonight, if you’re offering. Do you take bitcoin?
No, I’m all set for NFTs.
Oh yeah? Who do you like? I’ve been partial these days to—
Nice Fucking Tits.
Oh. Oh! Well. I wouldn’t know anything about that.
In his white hotel room like a seashell. The bed is made, military corners. She looks at it without looking. He sets the kettle up, tidies his gear while rambling, definitely not nervous. She settles on some velvet piece of furniture, a cat come indoors.
How do you take it? He asks, the tea well-steeped.
Honey and milk, if you’ve got it. She is loosening her heels.
He prepares the cups, then stumbles over to remove her boots for her. May I? You are a lady. And way richer than me, I think.
She allows it. So forward! Now he’s rubbing her feet. Somebody’s had a girlfriend before. She rustles through her purse.
Party favors, huh?
Oh yeah. It’s a tiny jar of cherry jam, like from a hotel breakfast tray. His mouth opens, just a touch.
I always put it in black tea, it’s how my mom did it. She stirs a silver spoonful into their cups.
Like Tolstoy. Sorry, there’s probably a better reference, my family didn’t know a ton about old stuff.
She nods, gestures for his hand. He offers both.
Tell me where I should invest?
She rubs her thumbs over his palms. You’re a runner.
Every day at six am. I could do a half-marathon right now, like my brother’s taller but I’m definitely faster—
Your path is long and narrow but your way is pure.
Oh. I hope so. Your lips to God’s ears.
She smiles. I have a direct line these days.
He rises towards her, slowly, like moving near a strange animal. Can you ask if the girl I like, if she likes me back?
Overhead shots of all their previous kisses.
Turn after turn. Open suitcase, his press vest, equipment, forget cleaning. Her whole outfit flung. He’s in his tank top, she’s in his t-shirt. They have not left the room in hours or years. She is telling him harder and he slows down. No.
Please.
He holds her hands over her head, fingers entwined like they are under a wedding canopy. What’s the hurry. We have so, so much time.
She moves like something feral, a fish on a hook. She twists her legs, puts him on his back, his hands over his head. He smiles and settles in. She’s so strong, of course she is.
You’re not going anywhere either then, she says. No, he replies. Only wherever you are.
Softer, she says. I want to feel your pulse.
Witch, he gasps. She laughs. Whatever you want, Honey.
Lights off.
Lights on, low. She is smoking on the balcony, collecting her thoughts. He limps over, she wipes her eyes, he gestures to pass the cigarette, then stubs it out. Those are bad for you, he says.
I know.
Well, I need you to live forever.
She stares back out into the night skyline. He holds her from behind, like a cloak or shield or shadow.
You have so many funny birth marks, he mumbles. On your neck and ear and tummy. What do you think they mean.
From high enough, she says, at night, my sister thinks every city could be the same. That it’s all connected.
He nods into her hair, inhales. That’s Aziza right? At the divinity school?
Yes, she says. You remembered.
His hands over hers again. I want to know everything about you, baby dytyna bébé beibi.
She relaxes, she does. She leans back into him, lets her weight fall into his trust. Honey med miel honik.
Mine.
Alright.
What’s your name short for, Anya?
Wouldn’t you like to know.
Okay, princess. He kisses her hand, bows his head. I’m Danny. I’m not short on anything. And my mother hates when I let strangers call me Danny, so it means a lot when you say it.
Danny.
See, I felt that immediately.
I don’t think I’m a stranger anymore, Danny.
No, no. I don’t think so.
He sweeps her up to carry her, bridal-style, back across the threshold. The lights are dim. He flips them back on.
You know I’m nowhere near done with you.
What do you want now? Are you going to paint me again?
No, I need years of practice before I can capture you. Open your mouth.
What?
I brought my guitar.
You are a traveling musician. Of course. I’ve been warned about your type.
Don’t believe the rumors, baby.
He plays the first chords of “Take This Waltz” by Leonard Cohen. She gives in, sings. They play the whole song together as credits roll over them.
They live!
Happily ever after.
