The screenplay ‘PAST DUE’ presents a compelling narrative that intertwines the lives of two flawed characters, Chas and Keith, as they navigate their respective struggles with adulthood, responsibility, and personal redemption. The character arcs are well-developed, showcasing growth and transformation, particularly in Chas’s journey from a carefree college graduate to someone who confronts his past and seeks a better future. The dialogue is sharp and humorous, effectively capturing the essence of the characters and their situations. Overall, the screenplay is engaging and offers a fresh take on the coming-of-age genre.

EXT. BACKYARD, COLONIAL HOUSE — NIGHT

Emily and her friends quaff margaritas, in high spirits. Emily’s on her laptop, searching for something…

BECKY: You have any idea how dorky we are right now? We are literally Googling the Greek alphabet.
EMILY: Ooh, I like pi.
BECKY: Pi’s good.
MIA: Eh, too many carbs.
DOTTIE: You know it’s not food, right? It stands for 3.14-
BECKY: Dude, don’t harsh the buzz.
EMILY: Um, okay, definitely not mu.
BECKY: I think we can all agree on that.
EMILY: Beta.
MIA: Eww, like Betamax? Swipe left.
DOTTIE: Kinda appropriate, though. Just saying.
EMILY: Alpha?… Alpha’s not bad.
BECKY: Too guyish. (burps loudly) Alpha male, alpha dog…
MIA: I’ll swipe right on pi, but we need something cool to balance it out.
EMILY: Delta?
MIA: Ugh, like the airline? Hell, no!
DOTTIE: Well, actually, it means… (off Becky’s glare) Screw you guys.
EMILY: Omega?
MIA: Yes! Boom!
DOTTIE: How is that a boom?
MIA: Uh, Omega-3’s. Duh.
EMILY: I don’t really know what that is.
MIA: No one does! Who cares? It’s healthy.
EMILY: Hmm, ‘Pi Omega.’
BECKY: That’s not terrible, actually.
DOTTIE: Pecan pie and fish oil.
MIA: Sort of a ying yang kinda thing.
DOTTIE: Did you say ‘ying?’
EMILY: Ooh, I gotta call Linds.
BECKY: Uh, you might wanna wait on that.

Too late. Thrilled and tipsy, Emily calls Lindsay…

EMILY: Oh- hey! You answered. Guess what? We’re starting a sorority!
LINDSAY V.O.: You’re… what?
EMILY: I texted you I was going back to school.
LINDSAY V.O.: Weird but understandable.
EMILY: Well, it’s a long story- I’ll tell you later- but… Becks and the girls, we’re gonna start a sorority. Isn’t that awesome?!
LINDSAY V.O.: Not the word that comes to mind.
EMILY: Hey, so, whaddya think would be a cool name? We’re thinking Pi Omega.
LINDSAY V.O.: Hmmm… how do you say ‘mid-life crisis’ in Greek? I’d go with that.

Just like that, Emily’s exuberance vanishes. Poof. Becky grumbles, wishing she hadn’t made the freaking call.

The screenplay TIMELY presents a compelling narrative that intertwines themes of mortality, redemption, and the complexities of human relationships. The character arcs, particularly that of Brad Eckhart, are well-developed, showcasing a journey from superficiality to a deeper understanding of life and love. The screenplay effectively balances humor and drama. Overall, it is a strong piece that resonates with audiences seeking both entertainment and emotional depth.

The writer’s voice is a blend of gritty realism, wry humor, and a keen understanding of human vulnerability. The dialogue is sharp, witty, and often laced with cynicism, reflecting the characters’ struggles with fame, mortality, and the search for connection. The narrative weaves between the mundane and the extraordinary, creating a world that feels both familiar and unsettling. The direction, while not explicitly detailed, suggests a visual style that is both stark and intimate, emphasizing the emotional and physical landscapes of the characters’ lives

INT. LOBBY, OFFICE OF VITAL RECORDS

Plain. Ordinary. Except for the passageway that leads to the back room: looks like a full body scanner, the kind you pass through at airport security. Strange.

CHICO O.S.: First rule a’ the street: get the other guy ‘fore he gets you.
ASHLEY: My gosh, you had some life.

BACK ROOM.

Cramped. Musty. Ancient computers and filing cabinets. A dusty clock on the wall reads 1:11. Tick-tick-tick.

CHICO O.S.: Made some changes.
ASHLEY O.S.: I’ll say.

Two workers slouch at their desks, scarfing down lunch boxes of fried chicken: ASHLEY (20s), a shapely Southern belle, and CHICO (50s), a wiry, reformed street hustler.

CHICO: What about you?
ASHLEY: Nothing like that, I mean… I dunno… reckon I wasn’t always the most faithful girlfriend.

On the wall, one of those glass IN CASE OF EMERGENCY boxes. Instead of an ax, though, there’s an aged, black book inside. Something’s very odd about this place.

CHICO: Ah, you’re young.
ASHLEY (softly): Was.

Instantly, a chill strangles the air.

CHICO: Should prob’ly get back to work.

Goes to wipe his hands, but there’s no napkins, so he licks his greasy fingers. Glimpses Ashley’s sexy legs- she’s wearing a flowery summer dress- as he clicks the mouse.

CHICO: Don’t wanna upset the big man.
ASHLEY: ‘Specially my first day.

The printer whirs as Ashley collects her trash. Chico grabs the document from the printer. On the way to the trash can, Ashley drops her plastic fork. Bends over to pick it up… Chico ogles her creamy thighs as he stuffs the letter into a manila envelope, smudging it with his greasy fingers. The envelope’s addressed to BRADLEY ECKHART.

Title: LOS ANGELES

EXT. AMERICAN SPORTS NETWORK (ASN), CENTURY CITY

Sunlight shimmers off the sleek building.

INT. BRAD’S OFFICE, ASN

BRAD ECKHART (33), the Marlboro man with an LA makeover, studies his handsome face in a compact mirror, checking out the cut on his lip. He’s on speakerphone with his agent, MAX.

BRAD: It was good, right?

A video on his iPhone shows him baiting a lanky NFL quarterback during an interview, leading to a fistfight.

MAX V.O.: Kidding? Fantastic.

Plaques and awards and autographed jerseys cover the walls. The centerpiece is a large, glass frame containing six crumpled cocktail napkins, words scribbled all over ‘em.

BRAD: Tell ya, man, I was pumped. I was feeling it.

Struts around the room, towel around his neck like a boxer.

MAX V.O.: Two million hits.
BRAD: Wish I woulda got a shot in.
MAX V.O.: Ah.
BRAD: Happened so fast.
MAX V.O.: Don’t want a lawsuit, believe me.
BRAD: Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.
MAX V.O.: How does Kimmel sound? Wanna do Kimmel?

Brad plunks down in his plush leather chair.

BRAD: What’s up with Paris?
MAX V.O.: That all you think about?
BRAD: Aside from firing you? Yes.
MAX V.O.: Told ya, I’m taking care of it.
BRAD: Not waiting four years.
MAX V.O.: Wheels are in motion, believe me.
BRAD: Lampley was thir-
MAX V.O.: Just take care of your passport.
BRAD: Hmph.
MAX V.O.: I’ll take care of the rest.
BRAD (grumbles): Need my birth certificate first.
MAX V.O.: Birth certificate?
BRAD: Ah, couldn’t find it. Had to send for a new one.
MAX V.O.: … Jesus…
BRAD: Like six weeks ago.
MAX V.O.: Fucking bureaucrats.
BRAD (big): Can’t miss Paris, Max.

Knock on the door. MELANIE MCFEELY (26), the show’s producer, peeks her head in. A slim brunette with Midwest morality, there’s beauty lurking behind those glasses and pantsuit.

MELANIE: Your mom’s on line two.
BRAD: Great.
MELANIE: Want me to…
BRAD:… Prob’ly gonna ream me out…
MELANIE: … Tell her you’re in a meeting?
BRAD: You’re the best.
MELANIE: That’s why I get minimum wage adjacent.
BRAD: Know whatcha need, don’tcha?
MELANIE: Um…
BRAD: Max.
MAX V.O.: That’s the nicest thing-
BRAD: Still here? Go on, get outta here. Earn your five percent.
MAX V.O.: Ten-

Brad hangs up on him. Melanie steps inside.

MELANIE: Talked to the Records Department. They mailed your birth certificate.
BRAD: Hmph. ‘Bout time. (beat) Whadda I got tonight?
MELANIE: Really need an assistant.
BRAD: You’re the only one I trust.

She scans her phone.

MELANIE: Let’s see, uh… dinner with Lori.
BRAD: Lori?
MELANIE: Podiatrist from Playa.
BRAD: Say that five times fast.
MELANIE: Podi-
BRAD: Mel?

She abruptly stops, blushing.

BRAD: I was kidding.
MELANIE: Oh.
BRAD: Sure it’s not Lisa?
MELANIE: Dentist from Redondo.
BRAD: Ah. Right.

She strides out of the office. Brad gazes at her cute ass.

OPENING THOUGHTS

This is a really fun and enjoyable read. The concept is smart and excites us right from the beginning. There’s the fact that so many of us suffer from student debt, and that makes the story highly relatable right off the bat. The story features a great cat and mouse game. Keith is actively hunting Chas, and that is exciting to watch and keeps the stakes high. Funnily enough, Keith is also running out of time to make a payment, adding another layer of stakes to the story.

The script is already in great shape, and the story works so well. There aren’t any major adjustment needed. My notes will focus on some smaller details, but all in all, the script works as it is. It’s an easy read, the pages fly by fast, and the script looks professional.

PLOT

The plot is well crafted and already works extremely well. The setup is simple but effective. Chas ha never made a payment on his student loan, and Keith is tasked with collecting the payments. Keith’s methods are unethical, and he ends up getting fired. But, he is also under money pressure and needs to make a payment, and his only option for getting money is Chas.

Chas falls in love with Christie and pretends to be a doctor. This gives Chas so many problems and issues at the same, making the stakes high and the story exciting. The constant chase keeps us on our toes, and we don’t dare to look away from the story. Chas’s con threatens to blow up at any second, and the tension that comes from this is just wonderful. There are a lot of moments where he almost gets caught but gets another chance.

As the political season swings into gear (please, no more debates), here’s a story of the 2000 convention in Los Angeles…

I was driving the rented Town Car somewhere between the Van Nuys airport and Staples Center- the venue of our destination, the Democratic Convention- bantering politics with President Clinton’s social director when the guy in the backseat leaned forward, his short, wiry frame a powder keg of displaced energy: “I think he should do a bunch of coke and give the best speech of his life.” He was referring to Al Gore and the fidgety man proffering advice was none other than Sean Penn.

It was 2000 and a friend of a friend worked as a White House page. He was in Los Angeles for the convention and one of his duties was to secure a driver for his boss, Marilyn, the well connected woman mentioned above. Being a political junkie- and having no employment to speak of- I quickly volunteered. On Wednesday morning, the third day of the convention, I left the posh Century City hotel in the rented Lincoln. Marilyn, her gaze rarely diverted from her Blackberry, rode shotgun. It was only when I turned onto Avenue of the Stars that she, fingers tapping on her phone, told me my mission.

I picked up the actor at his production company in Beverly Hills, then drove to the airport where he was to greet Al Gore on the runway. Sean wore a blue suit the color of a robin’s egg and sunglasses. He didn’t say a word the entire ride, though his leg never ceased to twitch, up and down, up and down, a coiled snake of suppressed rage that could strike at any moment. The purpose of the visit wasn’t for a media hyped photo op. Sean (yes, I call him Sean) sought an audience with Gore to discuss the Senator’s stance on the death penalty. After filming Dead Man Walking, Sean had become a fierce opponent of state mandated killings. And while he generally agreed with Gore on most issues, particularly in contrast to Bush, Sean hoped to convince the Presidential aspirant of his position.

After dropping my guests off in front of the main terminal- where they were promptly escorted inside by earnest campaign staffers- I parked the Town Car a block away. Shuffling towards the airport, a young volunteer approached me. “Are you Dave Penn?” Yes, I answered. She led me into the lobby, then barked out: “I have Sean Penn’s brother!” The sea of spectators, a few hundred or so, waiting for a glimpse of (hopefully) our next President, parted. It was impossible not to blush during those glorious few seconds as I weaved through the crowd… the admiring looks, the clicking cameras… I sat next to Sean on the makeshift veranda set up on the runway. As we waited for Gore’s plane to arrive, my attempts to converse with the actor largely failed. Only the suggestion of “wish we had some beers” elicited a grin, albeit a small one.

The next stop was Paramount Studios, where Sean was putting the final touches on his film, The Pledge. The feeling of celebrity washed over me again at the commissary. Even in a place accustomed to stars of the highest order, every eyeball shot multiples glances our way as the three of us ate lunch together. Afterwards, while Sean went off to his screening room (a movie theater, in essence, reserved for him), I sat with Marilyn and Sean’s producing partner. A distinguished, gray-haired man in his late 50’s, the producer possessed a Brahmin accent, giving away his patrician roots. They spoke intimately of the Kennedy family, waxing about the trials and tribulations of raising Ethel. Though I was clearly out of my element- to paraphrase Diane Keaton in Manhattan, “I’m from Allentown”- they never made me feel like an intruder, a gratitude that hasn’t dissipated to this day.

It was time to head to the convention. During the drive to downtown, Marilyn chatted on the phone with Tipper, occasionally breaking into fits of laughter. Upon hanging up, she described Mrs. Gore as ‘randy,’ a far cry from the stiff, Stepford wife portrayed by the media. We whittled away the time discussing politics, namely the awfulness of Republicans and (strangely) Chris Matthews, whom she thought treated Clinton unfairly. Sean sat in the back, head darting, leg twitching, on the cusp of chiming in, but remaining silent. The cobra, after all, is more intimidating coiled. We parted ways in front of the Staples Center, my duties as chauffeur over; another volunteer, supposedly, was to retrieve the car. Marilyn thanked me for my service, then handed me a ticket to the convention. Sean nodded at me- his way of saying ‘nice to meet you,’ apparently- then strode away, the gait of a man twice his size. I watched them disappear through a VIP entrance, chagrin at the thought that I’d never see them again.

That night, Bill Bradley delivered one of the most thought provoking speeches I’ve ever heard- warm, intelligent, replete with philosophical ruminations more familiar to a college dorm room than a stadium packed with 15,000 acolytes. Unfortunately for the New Jersey Senator, his oration lacked the all-important soundbite, perhaps an indication of his campaign’s failure. He was overshadowed by Ted Kennedy, who not only provided the nightly news with useful tape, but encouraged audience participation in his rah-rah speech. Conventions, I realized, were merely adult versions of frat rush parties, converting the converted.

I watched the spectacle in a private suite with a handful of congressmen and assorted politicos. Taking full- and needlessly aggressive- advantage of the open bar, I made the grave mistake of invoking Ralph Nader in my increasingly slurred tirades. Nader was bete noire to these folks, a potential spoiler in the election (Many still blame him for the loss, though I point to Gore failing to capture his home state). Yet I clamored passionately on Nader’s behalf- at least for his inclusion in the upcoming debates- much to the dismay of my fellow recipients of free booze. Finally, one of the friends of a friend warned me to cool it. I ordered another rum and Coke and listened silently to the rest of the charade.

After the convention, seemingly the entire crowd trekked over to the Paramount lot (twice in one day!) which was now decorated in a Mardi Gras motif. The bash was hosted, fittingly enough, by Louisiana Senator John Breaux and couldn’t have been more debaucherous if held in the Big Easy itself. Once again, food and drinks were gratis. Despite my relative youth, I was asked- by attractive women, no less- if I was a delegate. More offended than honored, I replied emphatically in the negative. Instantly, their interest waned. In hindsight, I should have lied. Even if I was discovered to be a fraud, the act of deceiving to gain advantage would hardly have been frowned upon at a political event.

That night, like more than a few drunken escapades over the years, ended at Denny’s. It was 4 in the morning and my friends of a friend were engaged in a heated debate. The topic was Giuliani and his controversial mayorship. More pointedly, do the means justify the ends? After repeated reprimands from the waiter, we were asked to leave. While countless patrons, surely, have been expelled from Denny’s, we may have been the first booted for political banter. The sun was rising as I slumped on a bench, waiting for the bus to take me home. Nodding off, I thought of Sean Penn in his powder blue suit and smiled. If only I had a bunch of coke right now.