Script to Book Adaptation

Beauty

 An advance from a publisher is sought to write the literary adaptation of Beauty from script form (see BEAUTY pitch page in the menu). The book proposal consists of the complete 98 page feature script serving as the full book outline, along with twenty sample pages of the book.

 The writing is very unique as the entire story is told in the first person from the internal POV of  Beladi. Beladi is presented as three characters of different ages that interact at once: the small adorable & bright girl she was before the abuse (7), the young terrified ghost-like girl that went through the abuse (12), and the coiffed self composed adult that distances herself from her past (23). Coming from an extensive theatre background & formal training master's class of over seven years, Clark is able to sculpt the perspectives & unique voices of Beladi, narrating the book in first person perspective, shifting between the three ages and unique personality traits.

 While the external interactions of the book are kept very similar to the film, the perspective of the story itself is completely different as we get more access to Beladi's inner world & her well guarded feelings. The book is a literary wonder on its own, yet is the perfect companion for the filmic realization of the story.

The Larger Plan






BEAUTY First Seven Pages of Scrypt to Book Adaptation

 In a perfect world the book advance would be secured first. It is well known that creating an audience through a literary work prior to the feature, benefits the sales of both. While writing the book & releasing it, pre-production with the film would commence, with high level attachments being more easily gained with a literary deal already in the works. Once the film is released, literary sales of the book obviously would further increase, & so too for the prequel & sequel.
 

Sample Pages
 

1.

Perhaps, when I think of it, people would find the mansion to be intimidating. In fact it is an old chateau, owned of a long founding family of Mount Royale, wherein this quiet tradition boheme lives. If I had not found it, had not received the invite, I would know of no affection in existence. Many would say I am exquisite, or... lovely to regard yet not guess at my solitude, and in truth their considerations are not welcome. 

 Having entered and passed through this den of long candles pillared floor bound, macabre dress, regal furnishings, and unusual acoustics thick of eclectic muses; I have witnessed oddities and people that found both themselves, and one another, within this seclusion of taste and abandon. It is the deep web that chills my skin. I care not to view the animals therein that pile on top of one another, on children, on slaves, upon their dead. Unending appetites for wreckage it appears. With cameras and intimacies sold and broke with an obsession with rape. I have glanced and know that most men are weak and ill, and with anonymity, they are brutes. Their eyes are not welcome here where we giants play.

 I am a... select virgin in most ways, except for having been known when far too young. So it was said to me. Only my Phyn, he, alone, to me is a man. A worthy man I may think to be with, one day perhaps, yet I would not ever let him know. Sometimes... I allow myself to think of it. In my quiet. But something always gets in the way.

 When you first visit the chateau one usually comes masked. The stories terrify, so one is prepared to flee back to that cloak of a soft glow monitor and keyboard. The sideways glances to ensure that nobody saw or knows your deepest wants, except for the monsters that weave your desires on the other side. To silken cocoon you there for when their appetite speaks of your name. Within the chateau, to voyeur in person a ravishing you may all but softly lay your palm upon yourself, a strange man worshiping of a little person for escape of his yearns of children, an old male couple in delicate dress that still adore the other in a slow dance of the ages. When it exists, around you, in front of you, it is sure to seed within you. People fear themselves and what they may find lives there within... yet it is to live at all, is that not the idea? What if you were to find it? Find another, with that sweet love of your most hidden want that you coddle and nest on a disc drive for fear of its wings seeing it leave you far... far off to not return. Now you feel old. Now you know the time came and went and you sat through it in a swivel seat or up on your bed and not buried within it. Yet here... here we see everyone, every sort, and usually it is found. For me, not quite... yet.

 I cannot keep but for a swagger of my hips as I move through the main room to the music. Nods and acknowledgements, I am known here yet I am of the few to not ever remove my mask. Knowing me would be Phyn's power, we are not quite ready for that. Phny, no, I think he is no man. He is no man as any man I have seen in their behaviors. His self control is intoxicating, and I feed it. I require it. Bruises exist within my flesh, I had to know this of myself prior to seeking intimacy. Every part is soft with it. I regard the monsters of the net and know, not any, not a one of them may ever know me. My Phyn, he is devoted. He is near to a god as any, as I think he is no man. This as well, I would not ever tell him. He would perhaps, not even believe it of him.

 We have our own room. I know not whether it was granted or placed aside. Phyn's family is old money yet we have not ever discussed it. It has no place here. A mention of wealth offends me and would have consequences. My interests in him are... other. The hall is thick with bodies, some influenced, others peering though small holes in the wall seeing into our private space. I want Phyn to know I see him. He is seen. His actions are seen, and so they gaze on. Sometimes their eyes feel admonishing for him, other moments a sensual indulgence feeding his eros. He must be in the room presently... waiting for me. He said a word. It is a forbidden word that he is not ever to utter, and so I have not returned to him for weeks with no mention that I ever would. Yet he perhaps knows. My Phyn knows me. I would come back for him.

 I enter the room that is quiet except for a deep base pounding of music, that is lit by a sole candle. There is a dark table and seat, yet he kneels in the corner with his head bowed. So devoted. No, there are no men alive as my Phyn. I close the door, he knowing I have arrived yet he will not look at me. He is being respectful. What he said was... incorrect. I must be hard. I must be firm and make it clear that this is no game. He cannot, ever, go back on these small rules. When I whisper, I in fact am more commanding and admonishing. If I grow silent, he knows my temper is livid. So here I whisper his name in the din, 'Phyn'. He knows from this that he is not quite forgiven, and I see his consideration for the better means of reply. Sometimes, his un-sureness causes a slight quiver or hint of a stutter of calculated tone that I find... so lovely. I can see the ideas, the words, direction, consequence, action run through his mind of intimacy we have built for knowing one another so well. He cannot hide from me, I see all of him, and that insight within him drunkens me. He is art that cannot critique itself.

 'Madame' he speaks softly. I smile. I know we will be well together again. Presently I wear a bodice and tall boots of gothic Victorian reminiscence. I prefer to be elegant yet protected. Phyn wears solely soft black leather pants, no shoes, nothing else, somewhat monk like. I move to him firm in intent. 'Phyn', I whisper harshly. 'Have you been here these few weeks so that I would forgive you?' He pauses in consideration and softly offers 'Yes madame'. I move down to meet with his eyes yet he will not look at me yet. I stare into him and I know he feels my heavy gaze on he. He loves that, yet he tries to keep it from himself. He, admonishing himself from within to control his smile. He is getting what he wants finally, I am here once more.

 'What did you say that was incorrect Phyn?' I speak more harsh and vocal in tone that causes him to ease himself back into the wall a slight. 'I do not want to repeat it' he counters quickly. We have been through this before. 'Why will you not repeat it?'. 'I do not want to offend you with it'. 'You called me your... beauty' I say as the word as if it were a slight at me, and he genuinely recoils from its utterance. He has been kneeling here wishing he could have taken it back. It is not for Phyn or any to say what is or is not acceptable within our intimacies, yet for me, that word is forbidden. I have my cause, and he is not privy nor required to know why. He was wrong. 'I did not mean to offend madame, I will not say it again'. He finally turns his eyes to meet with me and I know he is real. 'No', I say softly to him, 'No Phyn, you will not'. 

 We do not kiss. We do not ever. His mouth sits thick lipped and soft before me, yet we live within that world of anticipation and helplessness. It swims over us, numb and sounding as pounded blood in our ears and limbs. Someday I may move that slight bit forth to press and know his taste, yet certainly not today. No, there is no man as my Phyn. Perhaps he is an angel that forgot himself.

 I used to tether Phyn to lead, yet now with a slight finger under his chin I lift his large form upward to the table. Sometimes I allow him to move up behind me as now, and feel that space between our forms. He nearly stalks and hovers, he cannot help it. Its his mass, his energy, the weight of him. It feels as a mind yearning to enclose arms about me tight and pull me in, yet he moves not until I motion for him to lay back on the table. My Phyn is a good man.

 Sometimes, on some nights I will push a slight bit further. Nearer with my self possessed experiment. I reason if I create a new language between us, something that is aside and removed of... what has been known. Perhaps, we may, engage in some way more knowing. I used to tether Phyn's arms above his head yet now he gently raises them in abandon with no word, and I know they will not move. Ever. Secured here, he closes his eyes and I am able to regard him as I like.


2.

 I wish the whole school was here to see papa with me. He came back just after the break for the reveillion de noel, and I want them to see. Missy Jacobson yelled in front of everyone in the schoolyard that papa went away from my family because he hates me, and the kids laughed. I do not understand why kids are so mean. The english kids all like Missy because she is so mean to the French kids, so maybe what she said was not true. Missy always has clean clothes. I do not know how they always look so clean and new. I tried to make mine look like that but it did not work. 

 Most of the kids do not play with me, and the others do not want to because they think if they do they will be picked on. I think. But the sand area when it is warm is always a good place to play. I may build something and the other kids talk with me there. Or if I rush outside fast at the start of recess to get a swing. 

 Papa is holding my hand, and gave me a big hug when he came back. He was in the front doorway and called to me so I ran from my room when I heard him and he was there waiting with his arm’s out for me. His hug was so good, I started crying and he said he missed me so much. So I do not think he hates me, probably. How would Missy have known if papa hates me anyway?