What follows is the result of an idea aimed at connecting the realm of philosophy and thought with the world of drama. The idea is to select sentences from the statements of the members of the philosophical group, archived in the “Chistiha Blog”, and after working on the concepts of those discourses, along with some brief practice and editing, create a dramatic idea. In its continuation, another dialogue, another concept, and another thought would take shape.
In the principles of screenwriting, “idea generation” and “plot outlining” have specific methods; however, we tried to be one step before the idea and the plot. In that very stage of the mental spark — or, as we call it, the “étude” stage — where the writer’s hand is free to put into writing any image, imagination, imagery, or witty remark. Here, we did not limit ourselves by avoiding mention of technical instructions, executive arrangements, dialogue, scene construction, and other such matters, leaving them for more detailed outlines. On the contrary, we have fully written down everything that came to mind in the moment.
Through our group sessions, we reached the conclusion that there is no need for polished and precise outlines of our conversations. It was only necessary that whatever came to mind in a single instant be immediately edited and recorded under the title “Étude.”
And now we share the same with you. May these exercises and études be the beginning of a path for stepping onto the bridge between philosophy and drama.
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Ideas on the Bridge from Philosophy to Drama: Étude One Hundred and Twenty-Seventh
Note: These études have been registered with the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance. Their intellectual property belongs to the author. These études are only permitted to be republished on the “Chistiha” website.
Idea Number One Hundred and Twenty-Seventh
Étude 127 Short Film Screenplay Initial Title: “Atiyeh 3574”
An ATM machine. The sound of the machine’s automated voice. Atiyeh’s hands, one by one, changing the password on all her cards from 3474 to 3574. It is a gloomy sunset. Behind Atiyeh, an elderly woman with a cane and leg pain comes up the bank stairs, and Atiyeh does not change the password on her last card out of respect for the old woman. In Atiyeh’s hands are lab sheets and envelopes, and her mobile phone.
Atiyeh climbs the exterior stairs of the building. The ground floor is full of people coming and going. On both sides are medical equipment stores. Near the elevator is a small desk and a fat security guard who directs everyone toward the stairs with the repetitive sentence: “The elevator is broken.” Atiyeh, like the others, goes up the stairs. In her hand are lab results, photos, and sonograms. Most others are also holding lab sheets. She reaches the third floor. She is out of breath. Opposite her is Dr. Mirzaei’s office. A sign that, when we want to see what specialty, it is, someone passes in front of it and we cannot read it. Inside the waiting hall of the clinic, the sound of rap music can be heard. It is coming from the secretary’s headphones on the desk. The patients are all seated around the room. The secretary comes out of the doctor’s office. Her youthful cheerfulness and carefree attitude clash with the atmosphere. She does not recognize Atiyeh again; Atiyeh reminds her of her name: Atiyeh Noorayi. The secretary registers her. The card reader, and everyone hears the card and the password 3574 — perhaps Atiyeh did not want everyone to know her password. Atiyeh sits on the only remaining chair. The clinic clock. Time passes. Patients come and patients go in turn. The repetition of the card reader and the repetition of passwords being revealed. Atiyeh is busy with her mobile phone, which is placed on the lab sheets and images on her lap. She is talking to her sister on WhatsApp with earphones. At one moment when the earphone shifts in her hand, her sister’s sentence is heard: “I told you I’ll kill myself tonight if…” We don’t hear the rest of the sentence.
Atiyeh involuntarily stands up abruptly. The lab sheets fall from her hand. She picks them up and goes to the hallway and, in an excited state, continues the conversation with her sister: “Do something. Get rid of him. Tell him to wait until morning; we’ll talk to Mr. Razvani ourselves. Tell him Atiyeh is coming now.”
In another scene, we are in Mona’s house — Atiyeh’s sister. Mona is speaking softly and in whispers with Atiyeh. Mona looks like Atiyeh’s mother. All three of her children are abroad. Their photos are on the tables and the buffet. She has a good financial situation. She is plump, beautiful, and kind. She has severe anxiety and worry that she is trying to control. She has become desperate. Sounds come from inside the room. Mona goes to a corner of the living room and, as quietly as possible, tells Atiyeh: “We have to hospitalize her. We have no choice. This time she’s serious about what she says. I don’t think we can keep her until morning.” The sounds from inside the room become louder, relentless screams. Mona’s phone falls behind a sofa. Mastaneh comes out of the room, screaming and shouting. She is a moving skeleton. We understand the whole story of her life. She is angry at this life that for fifteen years she has had to answer to her sisters about where she was and where she wasn’t. In short, here we become acquainted with the lives of the three sisters. This middle sister has gone off the rails. Today she is addicted to drugs and is also becoming notorious in the city for her rebellions and youthful excesses. She has a full-blown borderline personality disorder. Sometimes she laughs amidst her screams. She fills her glass under the water dispenser of the refrigerator and takes pills. She is angry about the stupidity she did fifteen years ago by forgiving her mehrieh (marriage portion), and that she had to experience a thousand things, and that she has wasted all the money and now, penniless and miserable, has come to her sister’s house. She thinks her sisters are guilty for not supporting her, and she wants to become independent but doesn’t know how, and she threatens suicide. In short, a destroyed human being in this era and time — alas!
The secretary calls Atiyeh’s name. She has to go. Inside the doctor’s office, the physician — who seems to only recognize money — as soon as he sees the logo on the sonogram envelope from Dr. Shad, throws it aside disrespectfully: “I don’t accept this. He has made mistakes twenty times so far…” and quickly gives Atiyeh a piece of paper with an address, telling her to go to another nearby sonography clinic and bring back the result.
At the end of the alleys behind the same medical building, there is a sonography clinic: Dr. Nowbakht’s Sonography. The alleys are full of various patients. All desperate. Here too, Atiyeh swipes her card. This time from a card whose password is 3474. But Atiyeh first says 3574, then remembers. She sits in the waiting line. Many patients have appointments before her. The large wall clock and passing times. Atiyeh is in conversation with her sister: “He sent me to another sonography. He didn’t even let me speak… I had a little money in Bank Melli. I gave it. Actually, I still haven’t changed its password. I wasn’t paying attention and said it wrong. If I said it wrong one more time, that would be it. I should have waited until Saturday…”
Mona in her house, sitting alone on the same sofa. Her gaze is fixed on the half-open door of Mastaneh’s room. Mastaneh has fallen on the bed under the night lamp light without a blanket. She seems to have passed out. Mona to Atiyeh: “By the way, I completely forgot. It’s your birthday tomorrow. You’ve entered thirty-five now. Luckily, she’s asleep. She’s completely unconscious.”
The secretary calls Mrs. Noorayi’s name twice. Atiyeh, just realizing, ends the call and enters the sonography room with her papers. A doctor in a white coat is sitting next to the bed. Mona enters and closes the door. The sound of the sonography machine beeping. The sound of card readers. And the image of the clinic wall clock. The blending of Mastaneh’s screams and words and the continuation of the outburst of her complexes and angers over these images: images of patients in this hall. The two secretaries of this sonography busy with files. Card readers. Mona’s hand taking the sonography result from the secretary. She has also placed Dr. Nowbakht’s sonogram envelope on top of all the lab sheets and Dr. Shad’s sonograms. The same alley with other patients. Again, the same guard preventing everyone from using the elevator and pointing toward the stairs. Three floors of stairs. Mona’s hands and the lab sheets and sonograms. And the carefree, fake-happy secretary with her headphones. And again, other patients in this clinic. And Mona entering Dr. Mirzaei’s office.
And now the sound of a river over the image of an ATM. Atiyeh’s hand changing the passwords on all her bank cards — from 3574 back to 3474 — as if intending to turn back time. It is midnight. The frame opens. Here, instead of a midnight street, it is an abstract space. And this ATM, although functioning, is not connected to anywhere. Mona is sitting beside a river, in the darkness of the river, and the sorrow of the world within her turns into a state of illumination. She closes her eyes. A small teardrop flows from the corner of her eye. Mona’s hand scatters all the lab sheets, photos, and sonograms into the river. She also throws her bank cards one by one right at the water’s edge. Only her mobile phone remains, which is ringing beside her. The image and number of her sister, Mona. It rings for a long time. No answer. At the last moment, Mona picks up the phone and answers: “Yes.” And that’s all. End credits music plays over all those lab sheets, photos, and sonograms that are floating forward on this river.
In Mastaneh’s screams, we have more or less realized that we are dealing with a middle-class family that neither had traditional and prejudiced solutions to restrict and imprison her for all of Mastaneh’s wrongdoings, nor did they pass by her with complete indifference. A family that, with a limited amount from the inheritance of Mona’s (their older sister’s) husband, has made it through all these years, along with a little of their own inheritance that has now run out. And Atiyeh, the youngest sister, who is also emotional and has been into meditation and contemporary mysticism, has now been ill for some time and no doctor can diagnose her. All of Mastaneh’s unsuccessful suicide attempts are the bitterest memory of Atiyeh’s life. These three sisters, despite their love for each other, cannot help one another because their problems are not only internal to this family but are mostly social. The entire society has the same kinds of problems. The whole society. Like a dark, flowing river.
Writer: B. Khosravani
It is reminded that any copying or adaptation of these ideas, from an ethical and legal standpoint, is only possible with mention of the source, and using them for production is only possible upon obtaining the written consent of the author.
Contact with the author: via Instagram (@pol.educational.group)