This a rewrite of an audience sitcom I posted before with a new character added. I'd like opinions on the funny factor, and also the dynamic between the two principle charactes, Moira and Suzie.
Cheers me dears.
SCENE 1. INT. SKIN DEEP SALON. DAY 1.
SKIN DEEP IS A GRUBBY TANNING / BEAUTY SALON IN DARKEST MANCHESTER.
MOIRA, (LATE THIRTIES, TARTY) HAS HER FEET UP ON THE RECEPTION COUNTER, READING BELLA MAGAZINE. HER YOUNGER SISTER SUZIE (MID-TWENTIES, BETTER-DRESSED, SLIGHTLY NEW-AGEY) IS SITTING NEXT TO HER ON A STOOL, RELUCTANTLY PAINTING MOIRA'S TOENAILS. SHE'S WEARING ONE OF THOSE ANTI-POLLUTION PAPER FACE MASKS.
INSTEAD OF PLASTIC TOE-SPACERS, MOIRA HAS CIGARETTES STUFFED BETWEEN HER TOES, ONE OF WHICH IS LIT.
ON THE COUNTER IS ONE OF THOSE CHOCOLATE FONDUE FOUNTAINS THAT EVERYONE GOT FOR CHRISTMAS AND USED ONCE.
MOIRA TAKES THE LIT CIGGIE FROM BETWEEN HER TOES AND PASSES IT TO SUZIE.
MOIRA:
Do the honours, Suze.
SUZIE ROLLS HER EYES, DIPS THE FILTER END IN THE MELTED CHOCOLATE AND GIVES IT BACK TO MOIRA.
MOIRA:
Mmmm. Choccyfags. Heaven. (SUCKS CHOCOLATE OFF FAG)
SUZIE:
(REMOVING FACE MASK) Well I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. I don't know why you want these…diseased pegs of zombie-flesh painting anyway.
MOIRA:
I told you why. I'm looking for a man, aren't I?
SUZIE:
What, barefoot? I'd keep your shoes on if I were you. I can't think of anything more likely to put a man off than seeing those cloven trotters clip-clopping towards him. When's it my turn for a pampering, anyway? It's half my business, where's my half of the good life?
MOIRA:
You had your treat yesterday! Full bikini wax I give you.
SUZIE:
Treat? Moira, I have never experienced such a wide spectrum of agonies in my entire life. (SHIFTS BOTTOM ON STOOL GINGERLY) I'm going to need counselling.
MOIRA:
(SHRUGS) I'm thorough, that's all. Not my fault you're so hairy. If you don't want me to do it, fine. Let's see how far you get down the Roxie with a Minnie-moo like Chewbacca's face.
SHE BRIEFLY OPENS HER LEGS AND DOES A CONVINCING CHEWIE IMPRESSION. SUZIE ISN'T AMUSED.
SUZIE:
Must you be so vulgar? Anyway, I do not frequent the Roxie any more, as you well know.
MOIRA:
Oh yeah, I forgot. It's "beneath you", innit? Come on Suze, we're sisters, you can't fool me. You might've married – or should I say divorced - into money, but you're still the same old Moss Side girl underneath.
SUZIE:
(LOOKING AROUND TO SEE IF ANYONE HEARD) Shush! I may have been brought up in Moss Side…but my heart was always in Didsbury.
MOIRA:
Whatever. All I know is, you wear them posh Marksies knickers now but it weren't that long ago you'd only buy Primark 'cos they were easier for a bloke to rip off.
STALEMATE. WE HEAR A "GOOD, BAD AND UGLY" STING AS THEY SCOWL AT ONE OTHER, CUTTING BACK AND FORTH BETWEEN THEM.
DALLAS, (17) ENTERS FROM THE SIDE DOOR THAT LEADS TO THE UPSTAIRS FLAT, BREAKING THE ATMOSPHERE. HE LOOKS A LITTLE WORSE FOR WEAR. HE'S DRESSED IN TYPICAL GOTH GARB, COMPLETE WITH HEAVY BLACK EYE LINER.
HE NOTICES HIS MUM WITH HER BARE FEET ON THE COUNTER AND PULLS A NAUSEATED FACE.
DALLAS:
Oh God…
MOIRA:
Oh here he is. Max bloody Factor. Afternoon Dallas, pleased you could make it.
DALLAS:
Mum. Auntie Susan.
SUZIE:
Don't call me Auntie, Dallas. It makes me feel old and warty… like those. (NODDING TOWARDS MOIRA'S FEET)
DALLAS GAGS INVOLUNTARILY.
MOIRA:
Heavy night were it?
DALLAS:
Mmm. Vampire night at Blaises. Two Van Helsings for a quid.
SUZIE:
Van who sings?
DALLAS:
Van Helsings. It's a Goth cocktail. Four parts Baileys to three parts crème de menthe, with a big chocolate crucifix in it. (HE GRIMACES AND SWALLOWS HARD.) Can I go back to bed please?
MOIRA:
Can you balls! The local Weightwatchers club's coming round for a tanning sesh this afty. I dread to think how much sweat there'll be left on them sunbeds after they've finished. You'll need a ship's bilge pump, never mind a sponge.
DALLAS GRIMACES AND SWALLOWS AGAIN.
DALLAS:
Lovely.
MOIRA:
Anyroad, I need you to look after t' shop while I check how I'm doing on lovefinder.com. Them photos I uploaded should've stirred a few loins. They'd better have anyway. I knackered a perfectly good bra making it into a peek-a-boo. And I went through six pair of pants before I got the crotchless look right. Me knicker drawer looks like I've been groped by Edward Scissorhands.
DALLAS:
Mum, please. Dad'll be turning in his grave.
MOIRA:
He can go onto full spin cycle for all I care! (SOFTENS) Look, I know you miss your Dad, Dallas love, and so do I. But I'm a woman in the prime of her life. I want to start life anew, while I'm still attractive to men. Can't let the grass gather moss beneath me feet, can I?
SUZIE:
(STILL PAINTING RELUCTANTLY) No need, there's already moss on them.
A BEEPING ALARM SOUNDS AND A MALE ELECTRONIC VOICE, SOUNDING FOR ALL THE WORLD LIKE HAL 9000 FROM 2001, A SPACE ODYSSEY, SPEAKS.
ELECTRONIC VOICE:
Warning. Maximum tanning period exceeded.
DALLAS:
What was that?
MOIRA:
(GRINNING PROUDLY) New machine. Booth two.
SUZIE AND MOIRA GRIN AT EACH OTHER EXCITEDLY AS DALLAS PULLS BACK THE CURTAIN ON BOOTH TWO TO REVEAL THE NEW TANNING MACHINE, "THE DICKINSON 9000...MAKING YOUR FUTURE ORANGE".
IT HAS A LIFE-SIZED PICTURE OF DAVID DICKINSON ON IT, GRINNING AND HOLDING THUMBS ALOFT. THERE'S A BIG SPEECH BUBBLE COMING FROM DAVID THAT READS "£4.99 A MINUTE? CHEAP AS CHIPS!"
DALLAS:
The Dickinson 9000? But that's been banned in 17 countries! The tubes're powered by depleted Uranium, for God's sake! It's got a carbon footprint the size of Sheffield!
SUZIE:
I know, isn't it wonderful? Oooo, I love the Dicko, he's so…
MOIRA:
Distinguished?
SUZIE:
(SQUIRMS EXCITEDLY)…leathery. But real leather, you know? Top quality leather like the seats in my Jag. (TO MOIRA) Not like that plastic shit in your Tipo.
MOIRA FLASHES A SARCASTIC SMILE.
SUZIE:
No, he's going to bring some much-needed class to this salon, mark my words.
THE ALARM RINGS OUT AGAIN
ELECTRONIC VOICE:
Warning. Risk of bodily harm imminent.
DALLAS:
(HORRIFIED) Don't tell me someone's actually in there!?
MOIRA:
Yeah, some weirdo. Said he wanted the fastest tanner we had.
DALLAS:
Well how long's he supposed to be in?
SUZIE:
(FLICKING THROUGH MANUAL) Two, maybe three minutes.
DALLAS:
And how long's it been now?
MOIRA:
No more than two and a half.
DALLAS:
Right. (CHECKS WATCH ANXIOUSLY)
MOIRA:
(QUIETLY) …hours.
DALLAS:
Hours?! We've got to get him out!
HE APPROACHES THE TANNING BOOTH AND KNOCKS ON THE DOOR LIGHTLY.
DALLAS:
(KINDLY) Excuse me sir, are you alright in there?
MR LOWDER: (O.O.V.)
(GIELGUD-TYPE THESPY-VOICE) Yes, fine thank you, dearheart. Bit hot. I'll probably have a dip in that lovely cool-looking oasis in a second.
DALLAS:
Oasis? What's he on about?
SUZIE:
(CHEWING A FINGERNAIL) Oooo…maybe we should get him out then. I think he just saw a mirage.
DALLAS:
Oh God. I think it's time for you to come out now sir. I'm opening the door for you.
SUZIE AND MOIRA WALK OVER TO JOIN DALLAS, MOIRA HOBBLING BECAUSE OF THE CIGGIES STICKING OUT FROM BETWEEN HER TOES.
MR LOWDER: (O.O.V.)
Oh, very well.
DALLAS PRESSES A BUTTON AND THE TANNING BOOTH DOOR SLIDES OPEN IMPRESSIVELY WITH A HYDRAULIC HISS.
MUSIC:
2001 A SPACE ODYSSEY THEME (Sprach Tharathustra)
THEY ALL PEER INTO THE BOOTH, BUT CAN SEE NOTHING BUT LOTS OF STEAM, BACKLIT WITH ETHEREAL BRIGHT LIGHT.
MOIRA:
(SQUINTING AGAINST THE GLARE) Where is he?
DALLAS:
Look! It moves!
THROUGH THE STEAM AND LIGHT WE SEE SOMETHING MOVING EERILY, A BLURRED, THIN, ALMOST ALIEN-LIKE FORM.
THEY ALL UNCONCIOUSLY TAKE A STEP BACKWARDS AS THE BEING SLOWLY EMERGES TO THE CRESCENDO OF THE MUSIC.
IT'S MR LOWDER, AND HE'S AN ALBINO. HE HAS A SHOCK OF CURLY WHITE HAIR, COMPLETE WITH WHITE EYEBROWS.
HE'S NAKED BUT FOR A PAIR OF Y-FRONTS. HE PUTS HIS FACE NEXT TO THE PICTURE OF DICKINSON ON THE FRONT OF THE MACHINE, TO MAKE A COMPARISON.
MR LOWDER:
Well? Has it worked? Am I even darker than the great mahogany one himself?
THEY ALL SHAKE THEIR HEADS SLOWLY.
MR LOWDER:
I see. Would I be right in assuming that my complete lack of skin pigmentation has had a detrimental effect on my efforts to secure a tan?
THEY NOD THEIR HEADS SLOWLY.
MR LOWDER:
F**k.
CUT TO:
SCENE 2. INT. SKIN DEEP UPSTAIRS FLAT, LOUNGE, DAY 1.
MOIRA'S ENGROSSED IN THE COMPUTER IN THE LOUNGE OF THE MODEST FLAT ABOVE THE SALON, WHERE SHE LIVES WITH DALLAS.
SUZIE ENTERS, READING MOIRA'S BELLA MAGAZINE AS SHE WALKS. BY THE LOOK OF HAUGHTY DISGUST ON HER FACE SHE'S OBVIOUSLY NOT IMPRESSED.
SHE SITS NEXT TO MOIRA AT THE PC, STILL UNABLE TO TEAR HER EYES OFF THE MAG. SHE CURLS HER TOP LIP IN DISTASTE AT WHAT SHE'S READING.
SUZIE:
Honestly, what is it about you middle aged women that makes you want to read this garbage?
MOIRA:
What?
SUZIE:
This magazine of yours. It's horrible. It reminds me of an old woman sat on a park bench with her legs open.
MOIRA:
What you on about?
SUZIE:
Well, it's like, you really want to stop looking, but it just kind of...draws you in against your will, forcing you to peer deeper into its hideous depths. It's the articles. Listen to this. (SHE FLICKS THROUGH THE PAGES) "My Prolapse And Me, The Day I Sneezed My Fallopian Tubes Out".
(TURNS TO ANOTHER PAGE) "My Hysterectomy Hell; Drunken Doc Leaves Anaesthetic Trolley In Womb Cavity". It's just relentless gynaecology isn't it? Here's another one. Apparently one in two menopausal women suffer from Atrophic Vaginitus, dryness of the intimate area.
SHE PULLS A FACE.
MOIRA:
Urgh that's horrible! Well, it'll never happen to me. Not as long as I've got Ronan with me, anyway.
SHE WHIPS A PICTURE OF RONAN KEATING OUT OF HER POCKET AND KISSES IT.
MOIRA:
Oh Ronan you wobbly-voiced sex-leprechaun…you'll keep me moist forever...
SHE PLANTS A KISS ON RONAN AND REPLACES HIM BACK IN HER POCKET.
COMPUTER: (V.O.)
You have…one…messages.
MOIRA'S EYES WIDEN.
MOIRA:
Oh my God oh my God oh my God! I've got a message! From a man! A real man! See? I told you I've still got it! That Botox I injected in me
gob-wrinkles must've worked, look, million dollar smile. How does it look?
SHE SMILES LOPSIDELY.
SUZIE:
Like Jackie Stallone's reflection in the back of a spoon. (SIGHS) Oh Moira…can't you see how tacky and pathetic this is? Any man advertising himself on there is only going to be after one thing. You're better than that.
MOIRA:
(THOUGHTFUL PAUSE) No I'm not. And neither are you. You've not had a bloke since you divorced. You can't tell me you're not frothing for it as well.
SUZIE:
(LAUGHS CONDESCENDINGLY) The difference between you and I, Moira, is that I've learned to keep my baser instincts under control. (SHOWS MOIRA A PIECE OF RED STRING AROUND HER WRIST) You see, with yogic exercise and Kaballah meditation, I find that spiritually…(SHE NOTICES AN INCREDIBLY - FIT BLOKE POP UP ON THE SCREEN)…shag me sideways, who's that?
JEFF'S A GOOD-LOOKING GUY WEARING A PLAIN NAVY CUT AWAY
T-SHIRT, REVEALING HIS TANNED MUSCULAR ARMS. HE SPEAKS STRAIGHT TO CAM.
JEFF:
Oh Hi Moira, the names Jeff. Sorry, you'll have to excuse the sweaty t-shirt. Just got back from the gym. Four hundred press-ups aren't as easy they used to be, I can tell you.
HE FLEXES A WELL-DEVELOPED BICEP.
QUICK SHOT OF MOIRA AND SUZIE BOTH LICKING THEIR LIPS. (SYNCHRONIZED, LICKING FROM LEFT TO RIGHT)
JEFF:
So, a bit about me then, I'm basically a fun guy to have around, not short of a bob or two, and I'm...well, let's just say I'm 'tri-sexual', as in I'll "try" anything once. (LAUGHS AT HIS SHIT JOKE, THEN THINKS FOR A SECOND) Actually, no poo games. I won't try poo games. Get in touch. Ciao!
THE CAMERA REMAINS ON JEFF FOR A FEW SECONDS AS HE STANDS UP. HE IS WEARING VERY TIGHT SPORTS SHORTS, THROUGH WHICH WE CAN SEE THE COMICALLY-LARGE BULGE OF A MAN ENDOWED LIKE A SILVERBACK GORILLA. (ASSUMING SILVERBACKS DO INDEED HAVE BIG KNOBS)
THE SCREEN GOES BLANK. IN A DAZE, MOIRA JABS THE 'PRINT' BUTTON SEVERAL TIMES.
SHORT PAUSE AS MOIRA AND SUZIE SIT AND STARE, MOUTHS HANGING SLIGHTLY OPEN. JEFF'S DETAILS BEGIN TO PRINT.
SUZIE:
(NONCHALANTLY) Right. So. Does it have his number there?
MOIRA:
(SUDDENLY JERKED OUT OF REVERIE) Not telling!
SUZIE:
Give!
MOIRA:
No! Mine! He's mine!
SUZIE:
Gimme that frigging paper...
SUZIE TRIES TO GRAB THE PAPER FROM THE PRINTER BUT MOIRA GETS TO IT FIRST.
A SHORT SCUFFLE ENSUES, WITH THEM DANCING AROUND THE ROOM AS SUZIE ATTEMPTS TO GRAB THE PAPER FROM MOIRA.
MOIRA STUFFS THE PAPER DOWN THE FRONT OF HER JEANS. SUZIE GASPS IN OPEN-MOUTHED DISBELIEF.
MOIRA:
Hah!
SUZIE LOOKS AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN AND GRINS EVILLY.
SUZIE:
Hah!
MOIRA:
No!
SUZIE TRIES TO GET TO THE PC, BUT MOIRA TACKLES HER TO THE GROUND.
SHE HOLDS ON TIGHT TO HER SISTER'S LEGS AS SHE DRAGS HERSELF BY HER FINGERNAILS EVER-CLOSER TO THE COMPUTER.
SUZIE:
Let go...you monstrous...hag!
MOIRA:
Never!
WE SWITCH TO SLOW MOTION.
SUZIE GETS TO THE COMPUTER AND MANAGES TO RAISE HER HAND UP TO THE KEYBOARD. DRAMATIC, ROCKY-STYLE MUSIC PLAYS AS THE TITANIC STRUGGLE PLAYS OUT.
MOIRA: (SLOWED DOWN)
Noooooooo….
SUZIE'S FINGER FINDS THE 'PRINT' BUTTON, AND JABS IT. HER MANIC GRIN OF VICTORY FADES HOWEVER, AS THE PC SUDDENLY TURNS OFF.
WE RETURN TO NORMAL SPEED.
SUZIE:
Uh? No! No!
SHE TURNS TO LOOK AT MOIRA WHO STILL HAS HOLD OF HER LEGS, BUT NOW HAS THE PC'S POWER CABLE BETWEEN HER CLENCHED TEETH, PLUG DANGLING.
SHE GROWLS AND SHAKES HER HEAD LIKE A TRIUMPHANT TERRIER. SUZIE GOES TO TAKE IT OFF HER BUT SHE SNARLS AND SNAPS AT HER FINGERS.
SUZIE:
Ooo! Bitch!
CUT TO:
SCENE 3. INT. SUN 'N' SURF STAFF KITCHEN. DAY 1.
MR LOWDER IS SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, STARING BALEFULLY AT A DOG-EARED HOLIDAY BROCHURE WITH A GROUP OF TANNED LOVELIES ON THE FRONT, BASKING ON AN INVITING-LOOKING BEACH.
HE SIGHS SADLY. DALLAS BRINGS HIM A MUG OF COFFEE.
DALLAS:
Here you go, Mr err…
MR LOWDER:
Lowder. Malcolm Lowder.
DALLAS:
Right. Nice cup of coffee for you Mr Lowder. You do take it white, don't you...(REALISING)oh, I'm sorry...I didn't...
MR LOWDER:
Fear not dear boy, my skin may be pale, but it is also thick.
DALLAS GIVES HIM HIS COFFEE.
MR LOWDER:
Thank you, dearheart. Truly, you are an angel. Tell me boy, are you albino too?
DALLAS:
Me? God no.
MR LOWDER:
Then what is this pallid substance that adorns your visage?
DALLAS:
Sorry?
MR LOWDER:
What's that white shit on your face?
DALLAS:
Oh, this... it's just foundation. I'm a goth, see? It's a statement.
MR LOWDER:
And exactly what is this statement? "I wish to look like a corpse"?
DALLAS:
Erm...well yeah, basically. You should try gothism actually. You'd save a fortune on make-up.
DALLAS SMILES AMIABLY AND THEN REALISES WITH CONCERN THAT HE MAY HAVE OFFENDED MR LOWDER AGAIN.
DALLAS:
Oh...I didn't mean to...
MR LOWDER GLARES AT DALLAS A SECOND, THEN SUDDENLY STANDS UP AND SLAPS HIM ON THE SHOULDER.
MR LOWDER:
Hah! By the great goolies of Gielgud, I like you boy. You have a good and kind heart inside you, I can sense it. Tell me. What is your name?
DALLAS:
Dallas. Dallas Lovett.
MR LOWDER:
Dallas? An unusual moniker.
DALLAS:
I know. It was Mum's favourite TV show. I should be grateful really. I was very nearly Falcon Crest.
MR LOWDER:
Poor child. My parents were also less than kind to me…
THE LIGHTS DIM AND A SINGLE SPOTLIGHT IS TRAINED UPON HIM, AS HE GETS A FARAWAY LOOK IN HIS EYES. SINISTER, ECHOEY FAIRGROUND MUSIC PLAYS IN THE BACKGROUND.
MR LOWDER:
As soon as I was wrenched from my mother's womb and their gaze fell upon my pale, hueless skin, my fate was sealed. I was sold to a travelling freakshow where I was kept naked in a straw-lined cage until I was sixteen, shackled and chained as hordes of leering cretins stared at me endlessly, the ringmaster encouraging them to loudly jeer the cruel slogan that still haunts my every dream,
"Malcolm Lowder, Malcolm Lowder, Looks a bit like talcum powder!"
LIGHTS UP.
DALLAS:
Bummer.
MR LOWDER:
Indeed. (HE SITS AGAIN) But then, if it were not for the circus I would never have developed my passion for show business, and became an act-or.
HE MAKES AN IMPRESSIVE THESPY FLOURISH.
DALLAS:
You're an actor? Wow! Have you been on telly then?
MR LOWDER:
Just the once. I was Caspar The Friendly Ghost's stunt double.
DALLAS DOESN'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY.
MR LOWDER:
A joke, darling.
DALLAS DOESN'T REACT. MR LOWDER CLEARS HIS THROAT IN EMBARRASSMENT.
MR LOWDER:
Comedy was never my oeuvre. No, I have yet to grace the small screen, but tomorrow that could all change. I'm auditioning for a part in a new drama series set on the North East coast. Working title, 'Whitley Baywatch'.
DALLAS:
Whitley Baywatch?
MR LOWDER:
Yes, it's much the same as the American version except with less sun and more dead tramps and dogshit. Nevertheless I need this job, Dallas. That's why I am trying to secure a tan. If they ask me to take my shirt off in the sun I could blind several cameramen. You've got to help me, Dallas. You've simply got to help me!
MR LOWDER WRINGS HIS HANDS THEATRICALLY. DALLAS TAKES HOLD OF THEM TENDERLY.
DALLAS:
Malcolm, you're going to get that part. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be as tanned as…as…Jodie Marsh.
MR LOWDER REACTS
MR LOWDER:
I wish to resemble a sunkissed demi-god dear boy, not some fake-titted Umpah Lumpa.
CUT TO:
