TITLE: STRIP, IF YOU MEET THE BUDDHA ON THE ROAD GENRE: DRAMA, inspired by a true story CIRCA: 1984 to the PRESENT LOGLINE: Finding herself first in India as a devotee, then stripping on stage, a young woman transforms into a therapist and finds love. SYNOPSIS: Daughter of Holocaust survivors, naïve Sylvie becomes the centerfold for Mayfair Magazine, strips and dances on the Mitchell Brother’s stage in San Francisco, all in the name of her guru Bhagwan Ragnesh. After leaving the ashram life and that of a stripper, she transforms into a therapist who takes people, including children with Cerebral Palsy and Downs Syndrome, to swim in the dolphins healing energy. Concurrently, the story of Marcus, a film student who becomes an executive producer, unfolds. SCREEN BLACK
SYLVIE (O.S.) The soul of a place calls out to reclaim us sometimes. . . Perhaps to offer refuge, or for us to confront our deepest fears, our longings for love and beauty. Or, perhaps to take us beyond the darkest night of our very own soul. . . FADE IN: EXT. SECOND STORY BALCONY - EARLY EVENING SUPER: SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO: THE PRESENT Colorful prayer flags twirl and dance with the wind cutting across the horizon of Sun Mountain. The light settles on the yellows, oranges, pinks and reds of the cotton squares strung across the wooden ceiling beams. Wind chimes JINGLE in the background.
Sunset in the desert. Hues of pink and orange paint the vast sky, as SYLVIE, beautiful Brit, leans into the balcony’s wooden banister that separates her from the drop to the earth. EXT. PUNE, INDIA - PRE-DAWN
A sea of orange and red cottons fills the streets of India, as thousands of Sannyasins chant, enroute to Buddha Hall. EXT. BALCONY - MOMENTS LATER
Sylvie surveys her surroundings, looks down at the rocky surface below her. The wind picks up bits of dust, blowing it near. The prayer flags whip wildly. SYLVIE (V.O.) The spirit of India. . . really beckoned to me then. . . and from my own confused wanderings. She gazes off in the vague distance. SYLVIE (CONT'D) India cried out to me to explore her beauty and to experience death out in the open, not hidden in the depths of lies, deceit, denial. . . EXT. BOMBAY AIRPORT, CURBSIDE - DAY SUPER: 1984 Bleary-eyed Sylvie, innocent young beauty, weighted with luggage, takes in her first breath on Indian soil.
She inhales the stench of air thick with carbon monoxide, the congestion of too many tired vehicles not up to Western standards, and of human sweat, of stale incense, of cow dung carelessly dropped on the streets. A woman draped in her sari, busy at her roadside kitchen stirs the pot, flips chapati’s over the open flame. Scents of curry weave their way into Sylvie’s senses, a welcomed change from her first inhale.
SYLVIE Hmm. . . the flavors of India. EXT./INT. TAXI - MOMENTS LATER
Sylvie hales a taxi. The TAXI DRIVER leans out his window as he pulls in next to Sylvie. He reaches around to the back door through his rolled down window and opens the door. She collapses inside, forgetting her luggage.
The Taxi driver shakes his head, gets out and collects her things, loads them inside.
INT. TAXI Inside the taxi, decorated in typical Indian style, colorfulfabric hides the tears in the upholstery.
TAXI DRIVER (accent thick) And where might I be takin you, M’mme Sahib? Dressed in traditional Indian Kurta, chiriadas and turban, though none too clean, he fiddles with the dial on his radio, blaring the latest Indian music.
SYLVIE What luv? Oh, right. . . I’m going to Pune. . . to be with this most divine Holy Man. Have you seen him? The Bhagwan Shri Rajneesh? He squeals wildly from the curb-side, dodging the plethora of pedestrians.
Sylvie grips her seat, now wide awake and more than a bit seduced by the thrill of this exotic place. INT./EXT. TAXI - STREETS OF INDIA Sylvie stares through the open window at streets littered with cows, people compressed so close together, and excrement - human and animal alike.
A child squats by the side of the road, wide-eyed, half-starved, hand extended in begging. She points to Sylvie who continues to drive by. A man, covered with open rotting sores, lies in the road. The buzzing flies compete among themselves for the nutrients in the ooze.
SYLVIE OH MY GOD! Did you see that? There’s a dead man in the road?
Oblivious to conversation, the taxi driver seems lost in the music, bopping his head in a zigzag motion to its beat. TAXI DRIVER (sings) With RADIO EXT. INNER CITY STREETS, LOS ANGELES - EARLY EVENING The street is littered with vagrants, drunks, a few prostitutes, bits of old, torn newspapers, and empty bottles, as MARCUS, young and lean, wearing well-worn jeans and an open shirt with sleeves rolled up, follows the street activities with his camera. His lens finds a MAN crumpled up against a dirty brick wall. Gripping his precious camera protectively, Marcus runs to the man. The man is covered with newspapers that look like they’ve been collecting there for a few days.
MARCUS Mister? Can you hear me? Mister?
As he removes some of the newspapers, a trail of blood streams out from a gapping wound. The blood clot gets ripped off with the paper. Blood flows. . . A breeze picks up a piece of blood-stained newspaper, street-lights flickering through the red hues of the stain, and blows it down the street to the feet of a lady of the night. The Lady works her side of the street. Blood stains go unnoticed. MARCUS (CONT’D) Oh sweet Jeezis! Is he breathing? Timidly, Marcus touches his finger-tips to the man’s throat. His fingers jerk at the hint of a pulse. Marcus looks around him for help with a wild desperation that he has never known before. He tears off his flannel shirt, and using it as a pressure dressing on the wound, he bears into it with his weight. MARCUS (CONT’D) (yells) Somebody call an ambulance. HELP! THIS MAN’S STILL ALIVE. Another PROSTITUTE saunters over. PROSTITUTE Want a date? Got any money, honey?
MARCUS For God’s sake. GET HELP! DO IT! DO IT FUCK’N NOW! A police car cruises up to the scene. The officer, who is looking for trouble, quickly assesses the scene and makes the call.
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