TITLE: RÉVÉRENCE
SUMMARY
Révérence is an experimental short script about a young magician who discovers his master’s greatest secret: a diamond timepiece that allows them to step into each other’s memories.
At first, it feels like a gift — a chance to see through another’s eyes. But the young magician’s curiosity turns into a dark obsession, and his desire to learn drives him deeper, until the master is forced to reveal the true cost of his trick.
CONTEXT
The script draws heavily on my fascination with Baroque art; where beauty and horror are often inseparable, and the line between reality and fantasy dissolves.
I’ve always loved arthouse cinema; films where the answers aren’t always given, where ambiguity becomes part of the experience. This piece is hopefully built in that spirit: where magic, memory, and fantasy blend together, and where the audience is invited to question what is real and what is illusion.
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CHAPTER I – RÊVERIE
EXT. CHÂTEAU GARDENS – DAY
A lone ray of sun cuts through. The orange tree shivers, its trembling leaves scattering gold.
The YOUNG MAN kneels in the grass, brushing soil from a leather-bound book. He opens it. Its brittle pages crackle in the silence.
YOUNG MAN (reading)
“Memory is a circuit. A trick of light and nerve.”
The pages are cramped with sketches, strange glyphs threaded between diagrams of the human brain.
He runs a hand over the ink, whispering as he reads aloud:
YOUNG MAN (reading)
“Harness the current, and you may walk where another has walked.”
The YOUNG MAN looks at the POCKETWATCH in his palm. Its fractured diamond face glitters in the sun, throwing shards of rainbow across the soil.
The book’s diagrams show the watch’s inner workings — copper coils wrapped like nerves, a diamond prism at the center.
YOUNG MAN (reading)
“This is no watch. It is a vault.
An engine that runs not on gears or springs…
The faint HUM grows louder in the YOUNG MAN’S hand. Sparks dance along the seams of the brass case, stinging his skin. He grips it tighter, breath shallow.
CLOSE ON – THE POCKETWATCH.
Its hands begin to spin wildly, faster and faster.
The buzz deepens into a low roar.
YOUNG MAN (reading)
…but on the same current as the human mind.”
The YOUNG MAN’s reflection splits across the diamond face, each blinking out of sync, each caught in different moments of his own past.
The CAMERA PUSHES THROUGH the watch face, pulled into a vortex of fractured time.
MATCH CUT TO:
CHAPTER II – RAPTURE
INT. THEATRE OF WONDER – NIGHT
Velvet curtains. Flickering gaslight. Shadows coil along gilded walls.
The CAMERA TRACKS through the audience; gentlemen in coats, ladies in silks, until it settles on a YOUNG MAN in the front row, eyes wide, lips parted.
ON STAGE – Beside the potted tree sits a TABLE draped in deep velvet.
THE MASTER, regal and razor sharp, steps forward, positioning himself at the very front of the stage. The air seems to bend around him, his posture commanding, his elegance worn smooth by decades of performance.
One hand slips into his pocket, the other gestures toward the withered orange tree.
THE MASTER
Mesdames et Messieurs…
Allow me to show you the alchemy of perception.
He gestures. The crowd leans forward.
The oranges SHIFT, their skin glowing, rippling, until they shine with a golden sheen.
Not fruit. Not illusion. GOLD.
Gasps ripple through the salon.
A LADY in the front row clutches one. It CLINKS in her hand — cold, heavy, solid. She passes it to the YOUNG MAN, who stares in disbelief.
YOUNG MAN (V.O.)
Gold born from roots.
Sunlight trapped in metal.
The GOLDEN ORANGES tremble… and SHIFT again. Diamonds bloom from every branch, chandeliers igniting them into stars.
Butterflies drift out, crystalline wings refracting light, alighting on jeweled fruit.
THE MASTER lifts his hands high, basking in victory.
The crowd sits frozen — stunned.
Not a cheer. Not a breath.
Complete silence.
YOUNG MAN (V.O.)
And I believed in that moment,
Not in God. Not in man.
But in something else entirely.
CLOSE-UP – THE POCKETWATCH
THE MASTER
Ladies and gentlemen…
A magician is not a deceiver of the eye,
but a student of nature’s secrets.
A nervous laugh cuts the silence, sharp and lonely.
It dies instantly.
Scattered applause begins — hesitant, uncertain. Hands clap, then falter, falling into silence again.
YOUNG MAN (V.O.)
He told us the truth.
And not a single soul heard it.
CUT TO: A COPPER WIRE snakes through the soil of the pot, sparking faintly. The vibration grows louder.
YOUNG MAN (V.O.)
I left that night a changed man.
For I had seen the power of the future.
The ticking swells, brighter, harsher.
CHAPTER III – RUIN
INT. THEATRE OF WONDER – NIGHT
The gears of the POCKETWATCH grind softly as the YOUNG MAN steps into a half-formed memory.
The stage is dim, unreal. Curtains ripple like water. Props dissolve into shadows.
At the center, the MASTER rehearses. His hands blur with precision.
YOUNG MAN
(whispering)
So simple… so perfect.
The YOUNG MAN circles, studying angles, trying to catch the sleight of hand. He reaches out, the memory ripples.
The MASTER freezes mid-gesture. Slowly, he turns. Eyes aflame.
THE MASTER
You trespass in shadows that are not yours.
The YOUNG MAN stumbles back.
YOUNG MAN
I only wanted to learn. To see how you—
THE MASTER
To see? You think brilliance can be stolen with a glance?
The stage convulses. Chairs SPLINTER. Curtains BURN.
YOUNG MAN
(pleading)
I never sought to steal, only to understand.
The MASTER steps forward, seizing the YOUNG MAN’s wrist with iron force. The POCKETWATCH flares between them. Sparks crawl across the YOUNG MAN’s skin.
THE MASTER
Every illusion I bought with blood, soul, and time.
If you want my secret…
you will bear its weight.
He forces the YOUNG MAN’s palm closed around the watch. The diamond face splinters, shards searing red-hot into his palms.
THE MASTER
Blood. Soul. Time. That is the price of every illusion.
The YOUNG MAN screams. Sparks erupt from the POCKETWATCH.
The CAMERA PUSHES THROUGH THE LIGHT — into darkness, into countryside.
EXT. ORANGE TREE – NIGHT
Branches tremble. Oranges quiver in the glow.
CLOSE ON – an orange splits, skin peeling back to reveal brass beneath, gears twitching, a diamond face spinning wildly.
The CAMERA TRACKS upward. Fruit after fruit mutates: orange into metal, pulp into cogs, until the whole tree hangs heavy with POCKETWATCHES, hundreds ticking in merciless unison.
THE MASTER (V.O.)
To see is to suffer.
The tree convulses. The stage SHATTERS.
The YOUNG MAN is dragged screaming into the darkness.
CHAPTER – IV REVELATION
EXT. CHÂTEAU GARDENS – DAWN
The POCKETWATCH rests in the YOUNG MAN’s palm.
A fine CRACK spreads across the diamond face.
The ticking slows.
Blood drips through his fingers.
He grips tighter, refusing to let go.
INT. THEATRE OF WONDER – NIGHT (PRESENT)
The YOUNG MAN gestures to the withered tree, his voice steady, ceremonial.
YOUNG MAN
Memory is a circuit.
A trick of light and nerve.
The crowd shifts, uneasy.
EXT. CHÂTEAU GARDENS – DAWN
The watch hums, its fractured face pulsing.
The heat scorches his palm — he grimaces, but refuses to drop it.
INT. THEATRE OF WONDER – NIGHT (PRESENT)
The YOUNG MAN circles the potted tree, blood dripping onto the boards.
YOUNG MAN
Harness the current…
and you may walk where another has walked.
The fruit trembles. A shimmer runs across the skin.
Oranges turn metallic, rippling until they shine as GOLD.
Gasps ripple through the audience.
One LADY clutches a golden fruit — too hot, almost unbearable in her hand.
EXT. CHÂTEAU GARDENS – DAWN
The YOUNG MAN gasps as the pocketwatch burns hotter.
Blood seeps between his fingers, the pain intensifies.
INT. THEATRE OF WONDER – NIGHT (PRESENT)
The glow spreads across the branches.
The gold hardens, fractures. Beneath the cracks, light refracts.
The audience rises to its feet, torn between awe and terror.
YOUNG MAN
Ladies and gentlemen…
this is not mere fruit.
It is a vault.
A hush clings to the hall — breathless, expectant.
EXT. CHÂTEAU GARDENS – DAWN
The YOUNG MAN screams as the fractured diamond carves deeper into his flesh.
INT. THEATRE OF WONDER – NIGHT (PRESENT)
His hand burns, blood dripping to the floor.
The MASTER, in the shadows, grips his own fist, beginning to wince.
The YOUNG MAN forces a smile, raising the blazing pocketwatch.
YOUNG MAN
An engine that runs not on gears or springs…
The silence thickens. The audience strains for the final words.
YOUNG MAN
…but on the current of the human mind.
For a heartbeat, absolute stillness.
A murmur stirs, someone claps, thin and desperate.
Another joins. Applause builds, frantic, almost hysterical.
EXT. CHÂTEAU GARDENS – DAWN
A BOLT OF LIGHTNING STRIKES the tree.
Fruit drop one after another, SPLITTING on the ground into a golden yellow SLUDGE that oozes across the soil.
The sludge pools at the roots, glowing brighter with every fallen orb.
Beneath the branches, the YOUNG MAN writhes in agony, the pocketwatch searing into his palm, sparks racing up his arm as thunder swallows his screams.
INT. THEATRE OF WONDER – NIGHT (PRESENT)
The fruit CLANGS against the boards and SHATTERS.
From the shards, DIAMONDS ERUPT in a spray of white light.
At that same instant, a COLLECTIVE ZAP tears through the hall, searing the air with unbearable heat. The audience JOLTS in unison.
THEN, the LADY in the front row faints, crashing to the floor. Row by row, bodies fold like dominoes.
Gasps break into cries. Hands clutch temples.
EXT. CHÂTEAU GARDENS – DAWN
The YOUNG MAN collapses beneath the orange tree.
In his bloodied palm, the watch still ticks.
Its shattered dial mixes with the golden yellow sludge, now sparkling white under the sunlight.
Butterflies scatter, dissolving into void.
Silence. Only the ticking remains.
INT. THEATRE OF WONDER – NIGHT (PRESENT)
The audience stampedes for the exits, screams fading into echoes.
The hall is left in ruin, chandeliers blazing above rows of overturned chairs, the air thick with smoke and dust.
Only the MASTER remains in the galleries, motionless, his gaze locked on the stage.
Below, the YOUNG MAN staggers forward through the wreckage.
Blood streaks his arms, his chest rising with shallow, broken breaths.
He stops at center stage.
The silence presses in.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself into a MAJESTIC BOW.
CLOSE ON — THE YOUNG MAN
As he ascends, he slowly lifts his arms above his head.
YOUNG MAN
Ladies and gentlemen…
His sleeves fall back to reveal arms branded with burns and bruises, branching across his skin like the roots of a tree.
YOUNG MAN
Magic is the art of turning pain into gold,
and suffering into diamonds.
From the pocketwatch in his palm, the glow surges upward, racing along every wound. His scars burn brightly, the burns hardening into veins of gold. Where the cuts run deepest, shards of diamond push through, catching the fractured light cascading from the chandeliers.
He tilts his head back, eyes blazing.
For an instant, his silhouette stretches across the wall behind him: first the MASTER’s form, then branching wider, until it resembles the TREE itself, shimmering in the glow.
Slowly, he rises.
CUT TO BLACK.
