Blackthorne Episode 114

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 114

Simmer

“I like playing a “pressure cooker” kind of

character, where the lid’s on, and it’s left

to simmer for a long while.--Stellan Skarsgard.

1(two-shot) Wallace raced around the counter and

intercepted Buck before he reached the door.

Wallace: Wait, wait, wait, Hoss--his hands up in

Buck’s face. Are you going to do this legal. or are

you going to raise hellfire and maybe hurt some

innocent people?

Buck lowered his chin and glowered at Henry.

2(sound cue) a pistol cylinder spinning over harmonica.

3(close-up) Buck: No, Johnny and Mateo were right.

I’m just too damned naive to see it. I’m headed across

the street. When the sheriff gets back, you can tell

him where I am. I was standing here a moment ago

and I realized that I’ve been hiding behind aprons

and skirts, and that’s not for me. You go back

upstairs and watch over things. I have a man’s

work to do.

4(two-shot) Wallace: Use your head, son. You’ve

got friends here--and that should mean something.

Come on, you can’t take on Bronson alone. Christ,

you’ve got the law on your side.

Buck: Fuck it. He pushed past the storekeeper, and

stepped through the half doors.

5(cut to exterior, crane shot) Buck joined the throng

of Mateo’s friends at the base of the doctor’s steps.

The big Indian stood at his side.

Buck: Time for the nut-cutting.

He turned and started down the street toward the

CHINA DOLL. The Indian walked alongside. 

6(sound cue) snare drum and coronet.

7(medium close-up) Buck unsnapped the stud over

his sawed off shotgun and jerked it from its holster.

He checked the load and holstered it. He did the

same with the Thunderer, the self-cocking Colt that

hung on his right hip. As tall men, they took big

steps, raising flour-like dust, even in the dark.

8(sound cue) drumbeat speeding up, joined by guitar.

9(overhead drone shot) As Buck and the Indian 

passed the BRONSON HOUSE, a small group of

porch riders came to their feet and crossed the

dark street, falling in behind them. As they

approached the saloon, its front steps and

benches were barren. 

10(cut to street level wide shot) Inside, the bright

lights, laughter, and out-of-tune bar piano blared.

Buck headed straight for it, stopping in front. The

red false front looked scarlet in the dim light. The

six foot high letters spelling CHINA DOLL were

rippled from being painted over thick uneven siding.

11(wide two-shot) Buck paused, addressing the

tall Indian: What’s your name?

Indian: I am a friend. I will cover your back. I have

no name until we both walk out of this place.

Buck tramped through the fancy swinging doors.

The Indian followed him in. No one else in the

crowd moved .

12(sound cue) snare drum bap, guitar strum.

13(cut to interior, POV from above, top of the

stairs) Buck and his companion stepped inside,

and the door shivered shut behind them.

14(cut to main floor wide shot--behind Buck and

the Indian) The din in the room went to all-stop.

Smoke hung in a blue haze over green felt tables,

masking some of the faces. 

Hey, Indian! came a voice out of the smoke.

Get your red butt out of here! You fucking know

dirty Indians ain’t allowed in here. Go back to

the Cantina.

Buck turned to his left. A short saloon guard stood

up in his cubicle, a pump shotgun in his arms. Buck

waited. No one else spoke up.

Guard: Did you hear me, redskin?

Buck: He’s with me. We didn’t come here to drink.

The guard flicked his eyes toward the bar. Thor

Bronson stood alone at the middle. He slowly

shook his head no.

Guard: Then see that he don’t.--sitting down.

What the hell do you want here? 

another voice boomed across the room.

15(sound cue) base drum and clarinet.

Glenn Buttkus

Open Link Night

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub OLN

Mesa Verde

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Mesa Verde

“Amid these centuries-old dwellings, we are 

reminded that this was the first National Park

that was established in America.”--Barbara Bush.

As a kid, I was always fascinated by the

colorful paintings of pueblos, the stone

villages of the Navaho, Hopi and Ute. No skin

tepees for these folks, nope. Each house had

apartments, and could be inhabited by dozens

to hundreds.

In Montezuma County, Colorado, just kitty-

corner from Four Corners in the American

Southwest, there is a grand plateau where a

native population thrived for centuries. Teddy

Roosevelt made it a National Park in 1906. It

has 52,485 acres, over 5,000 extant sites, with

over 600 cliff dwellings. It is the largest

archaeological site in the United States. Taking

the family up there, it was a long steep drive, and

our old minivan overheated.

From 7500 B.C. to 1285 A.D., the Paleo-Indians of

the Stone Mountain complex farmed and hunted on

the vast mesa (green plateau in Spanish). They

designed and built their pueblos out in the open.

A severe drought in the 1100’s forced them to band

together pro-actively, and they began to build their 

homes into the alcoves and rock overhangs in the

face of the canyon walls. The structures were made

of huge sandstone blocks, held together and 

plastered with adobe mortar. They became very

clever at water conservation, aqueducts and food

storage. They all had guard towers, kivas and pit

rooms. They were built with windows facing south

in U,E, and L-shapes, with T-shaped doors. in 1285

another very severe drought overtook them and all

of the cliff dwellings were abandoned.

Eagles on tethers,

on Navaho arms, were both

pets and sentinels.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets P

Bard on Avon

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Bard on Avon

“There is an upstart crow, beautified with our 

feathers, that with his tiger’s heart wrapped in a

player’s hide, supposes he is as well able to

bombast out a blank verse as the best of you.”

--Robert Greene.

In 1582, with my hormones all aglow, I married

the 26 year old attractive Miss Anne Hathaway.

In three years we had three children, Susanna,

and the twins Hamnet and Judith. She knew I

had artistic dreams of writing plays, but as long

as I worked as a teacher, and stayed home, we
had a reasonably happy marriage.

But dreams are laced with fairy dust, unbridled

lust and love, and carnival landscapes. Theater

beckoned to me like a siren, and I was seduced

by her attractiveness. Soon I was off to London

to pursue this sultry harlot, this comely maiden.

Anne stayed home with the children. Several

years of long absences took a toll on the thin

fabric of my marriage. By 1592 I was enjoying 

modest success as an actor-playwright. Marlowe, 

Nash, and Greene, as university-educated writers 

became my critics. Theater was a wild turbulent 

world for me, rife with romance and adulation. 

I made less and less trips home. My son, Hamnet,

became melancholy and disturbed. I considered 

taking him with me to London, but he was only 10.

in 1596, at 11, he drown himself in our pond. Anne

blamed me, and I blamed her. It was the end of any

civility between us. Liaisons with married women

and handsome young men salved my libido.Then

the black Death raged between 1603-1610, and

this emptied the theaters

In 1613, at 49, I retired and went home, leaving a

legacy of 39 plays. My Annie had become a 58 year

old shrew, with the complexion of a dried prune, and

the waistline of a baker’s wife. I lasted until 1616,

when I succumbed to a drunkard’s liver and a 

broken heart.

The white drake on my

coat-of-arms was perched above

an English broad sword.

Glenn Buttkus 

Haibun

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Being Ernest

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Being Ernest

“The world breaks everyone; afterward, some are

stronger at the broken places.” --Ernest Hemingway.

During the torrents of spring,

across the river and into the trees,

always to have and have not

in our time.

Yes, there is a farewell to arms,

for whom the bell tolls,

for the old man and the sea,

and for the faithful bull;

thank God the sun also rises

on a moveable feast,

on those hills like white elephants,

on the snows of Kilimanjaro,

on the green hills of Africa,

and the garden of eden

on the islands in the stream.

On Paris,

the only thing that counts

are his 88 poems.

During the dangerous summer,

men without women,

experience death in the afternoon;

it’s winner take nothing,

always at first light.

The Ambassador,

sophisticated,

like the leeches of Minnesota.

Nick Adams can tell you

that for men at war,

there is no camping out,

not even an Indian camp.

Glenn Buttkus

spine poetics

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Pets--Schmets

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Pets-Schmets

“No matter how much cats fight, there always seem

to be plenty of kittens.”--Abraham Lincoln .

A plethora of pets

loom large in literature,

films and television.

Arnold, the pig, on GREEN ACRES.

Potter had his owl,

Big Lennie had his pocket mouse,

after hugging a pup to death.

We all loved Lassie, who always

fetched help when Timmy fell in a well,

who was always called a good girl,

even though he was a collie in drag,

making me wonder why females

were not trainable.

Mister Ed was the TV version

of Francis the Talking Mule,

and Chill Wills did the voice work

for both of them. Nothing ever

comes out perfect. The Francis 

series had six movies, the first five

co-starred Donald O’Conner, who

refused to return for the last one,

and so they used Mickey Rooney.

The Lone Ranger had Silver,

Roy Rogers had Trigger,

Gene Autry had Champion,

and all three horses starred

in their own comic books.

Rin Tin Tin went from being

a big movie star in the 30’s,

to being a TV star in the 50’s,

a pet to a precocious runt

growing up in Fort Apache.

There’s sled dog Buck

from THE CALL OF THE WILD,

and he’s had Clark Gable, Charlton Heston

and Harrison Ford as Masters, and I

understand that in the latest version, 

Buck is completely CGI.

As a kid, I remember living in the projects

in the Renton Highlands, and the guy up

the street owned a fifty pound cat that was

the bane of all the dogs in the neighborhood.

And yeah, we loved our spaniel Taffy,

even though she became quite daffy

in her old age, going outside to pee,

forgetting why she went out, only to

come back inside and pee on the carpet.

Anyone who actually thinks they have control

over their mutt, has to face poop patrol.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub