Episode Three: Let’s Do Lunch

In Episode Three, Beth gets the chance of a life time when Alex arranges for her to audition for an A-list power broker, and Ted, a lonely park ranger, comes to the aid of an ethereal young woman on top of the Hollywood sign.

With Justin Baker, Jessica Nicole Webb, Erik Kowalski, Allen Marsh, Marcia French, David Stanford and Kendra Munger.

Original score by Brent Heflin McHenry.

“A Story Forever” courtesy Mike Peralta.

To learn more about the legend of Peg Enstwistle, click here.

A Place Called Paradise

I spent Sunday night in Paradise.

Urban sprawl provides one with anonymity, as if the masses surrounding you form a shield of invisibility. You are indistinguishable amongst the masses. You cannot be seen for who – or what – you truly are.

It was under this protective veil that I entered the Paradise Bar.

There is no measure of time in Paradise, for there are no windows with which to gauge the hour of day. It is eternal midnight within its dark walls. A few mismatched bar stools, a couple of small seating areas – this is the sum of Paradise. It is a place where troubled souls venture, in order to numb the pain within.

Across from me were two men engaged in debate. One of them, the older, wore the clerical collar of a priest; the other was cloaked in black. Their discussion, barely audible, had the sense of a lifelong debate between the two. I wondered why the priest found such pleasure in his whiskey… what horror he was trying to forget… and yet, he seemed hopeful. Ebullient, almost, clinging to idealism the way a drowning man might clutch a water-logged seat cushion.

His companion was of a different ilk; dark, beautiful, intense. Detachment was his defense… and yet, a glimpse of something else. An offhand remark; a rare smile, a bit of self-deprecation… and pain. I watched as the mask was dropped. Anguish wrapped around him like a lover’s embrace – anguish, and hope. I thought of Janus, the two-faced god, and wondered which of the faces would become master, and which would become the slave.

A movement caught my eye – a young man stepped into the room. His clothes were rumpled, there was stubble on his cheeks. He seemed lost – and utterly alone.

He slid onto a stool, and began the age-old ritual of self-medication. On his right, a lone man. He seemed almost an anachronism in the bar – his suit was pressed, he wore a silken tie, and a fedora sat by his side. Like the rest in Paradise, he, too, seemed invisible in the world. Why was he here? Why so alone?

Paradise’s bartender was a youthful chap; I assumed that he was a writer, as he kept a journal close by his side. When he was not recording his musings or serving customers, his attentions were solely devoted to the cocktail waitress. Secret glances passed between them; every opportunity for contact was fully exploited. I thought of the head-rush of new love, of how one’s senses become amplified, of the feeling of sated pleasure. I wondered how long that this would last for them. For some people, this passion is a fleeting escape from the harsh inequities of life; for others, it is the coming together of souls. What will it be for them?

A young woman sat next to the rumpled man. She was fresh and pretty; clad in a simple pink dress, the epitome of the girl next door… and yet, within her eyes, I could sense abject loneliness – and something else. It was her eyes. Yes. They seemed older than she. Perhaps only I noticed, for the man next to her certainly did not. He zeroed in on her; to him, she seemed like oxygen to a dying astronaut. I could see her measure him; her need for love was palpable. Perhaps this time love will find her, I thought. Perhaps this time, everything will be okay.

And so, I sat in my darkened corner Sunday night in Paradise, and watched the stories that surrounded me. The two men rose, and slipped into the night. The young woman and the man left together. The young lovers whispered in the flickering lights, while the man in the suit drank alone… and I knew that their journeys were about to begin.

The Faces of They Live Among Us

You’ve been reading about the characters who live among us. Here are the wonderful actors who are giving them life (in no particular order – consider this a casting roundtable, L. to R.). Click on the pic to see them more up close and personal:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CAIM: Geoffrey M. Reeves

SERAFINA: Ivet Corvea

FATHER BUER: Rolf Saxon

LUCIAN: Allen Marsh

CRAIG: James Thomas Gilbert

ALEX: Erik Kowalski

BETH: Jessica Nicole Webb

SAM: Don Shirey

JIMMY: Justin Baker

PEG: Kendra Munger

TED: David Stanford

BELIALA: Marcia French

LILLITH: Nina Rausch

ROCCO: Terence J. Rotolo

The Man in the Bar

The Paradise Bar is like many watering holes. It’s a place to drown sorrows. A place to debate the meaning of life. A place to go to be amongst others – anonymously… and that’s where the man in the bar comes in.

We first see the man in the opening scene of the Paradise. There he is, in his regular seat, a bottle of Jim Beam in one hand, his fedora next to the other. He is quiet, this man in the bar; he eavesdrops on the lives of others, but offers no clue about himself. Even if he wanted to, he could not, for the man in the bar is a ghost.

His name is Sam. He never gives his last name… but I have a feeling that I know it.

Sam was a P.I. in Hollywood, in the 40s. He enjoyed the company of dames and drink. He took the usual cases – philandering spouses, runaway heiresses, the occasional murder-for-hire. Ruthless and greedy, he’d take money from anyone – and shed no tears for anyone’s pain. He cashed the checks with a smile.  He consoled lonely wives with relish. That was, until the first week of January of 1947. That was when there was a knock on his door – a knock that changed his world.

A man stood in the doorway; middle-aged, clothes threadbare, his hands trembled with palsy. He placed a picture on Sam’s desk – the picture of a young woman. A raven-haired beauty with startling blue eyes. It was his daughter – and she had disappeared. He gave Sam what little money he had, and begged him to find her. Her name was Elizabeth.

Something shifted in Sam’s universe. Perhaps it was his longing for his own daughter, estranged from him, along with her mother, by his devotion to his job – and the women that came with it.

Sam took the case, and began pounding the streets of Downtown L.A., where Elizabeth was last seen. He followed her trail to the Biltmore hotel, where she had gone to meet a man – and there, the case went cold. He found no trace of her – until the morning of January 15, when he woke to find her picture splashed across the city papers. The headlines screamed “Sex Fiend Slaying Victim Found – Detectives describe butcher scene as worst ever,” and indeed it was.

The victim’s last name was Short. Elizabeth Short, also known as the Black Dahlia.

For the next five years, Sam devoted his life to finding her killer. He took no other clients; he became obsessed with the case – wandering the crime scene over and over again, combing through cold cases and criminal records. Each night, he’d end his self-made shift at the Paradise, his ever faithful Jim Beam at his side.

His obsession took its inevitable toll, and on August 17, 1952, Sam was found dead in his office/apartment, the victim of a coronary.

Sam, ever pugnacious, refused to surrender to death. He vowed to find Elizabeth’s killer, and so, here he sits, night after night in the Paradise, going over the facts of the case, laying out rows of suspect, untangling webs of alibis, searching, sniffing for the truth.

Something in Sam’s life – and in the lives of others – is about to change. For soon, another young woman will be found dead, exactly as Elizabeth was. Same modus operandi – dismembered, mutilated, beaten. The girl could be Elizabeth’s twin sister. This discovery, this sickening crime lures Sam out of his ghostly dream-world and propels him into this life.

And so, with Sam, yet another story thread begins.

Like A Moth To The Flame

When we last saw Caim and Serafina, he had brought her to the safety of his home. Once again, the lovers have met.

I’ve been wondering a lot about this scene, as I immerse myself into these final pre-production rewrites. I know that Serafina has no memory of Caim; and yet, perhaps there is something deep within her that does. I wonder if she senses the connection between them, the eternity that they have shared together, only to be torn apart again and again. I wonder if she fears this connection, for its power is overwhelming. I fear it may drive her back to Rocco.

I crouch in the far corner of Caim’s warehouse-turned-home. My eyes are on him as he watches Serafina sleep. I wonder what he is feeling inside –  is it joy or is it anguish that washes over him as his mind turns over and over the eons of relentless punishment? Last time, losing her drove him into madness. It took years to pull him out, decades.

I believe that this reunion is bittersweet. I watch Caim as Serafina wakes. My heart breaks, for I know he yearns to touch her… and yet,  this touch has the power to undo him.

It’s a particular kind of torment, to be drawn to another, almost against one’s will, like a moth to the flame. I close my eyes and hope that this time, Caim can save her. Last time, he lost his sanity. This time, he could lose his soul.

The Sins of the Father

As I prep the script for its final pass – and begin work on Episodes 4 – 6, the character of Rocco emerges.

I’ve described Rocco as brutal and ruthless, for he is… and yet he is much more than a one-dimensional stereotype.

Rocco’s mother immigrated to the States, in search of a better life. She landed in the Bronx, and it was there that Rocco’s path was formed. She met a man – Denny was his name, and, in a matter of weeks, found herself married and pregnant. Her life was far from idyllic, for Denny had a dark and terrible secret. Ruthless fathers beget ruthless sons, and Denny was a vicious man, hell-bent on pounding out his transgressions upon his wife and child.

Like so many victims of abuse, Rocco left home at an early age. He boarded a bus and rode it straight to the West Coast. Like his father, Rocco was a dreamer. Like so many dreamers, Rocco found that his dreams were, in themselves, a trap.

He was ill-prepared for the reality of life on his own. His inner demons haunted him. He turned to drugs  for solace.

One night he met a girl. Her name was Serafina. She moved him in ways that he could not define. Perhaps she touched his soul. Their relationship was not always one of abuser and victim; but Rocco’s patterns were too deeply imprinted. The black void inside him could only filled by rage. He believed, as his father did, that love was a weakness, a disease to be cured. And so, he began to strip Serafina of what he himself did not have. He tried to rob her of her soul. He abused her. He pimped her on the streets.

And yet, there once was a very different Rocco in a very different time. A time when he knew love instead of fists. A time of hope and of promise.

We first see him, as Caim first sees him, beating Serafina into unconsciousness in a darkened alley. His rage is untethered; he is like a wild animal.

For Rocco, the sins of the father have now become the sins of the son.

Night Shifts

The story of Peg Entwistle is a Tinseltown tragedy.

Peg was born in the U.K.; her mother died when she was young, and at the age of eight she found herself accompanying her father to America.

Through family connections, Peg found herself thrust into the life of theatre at an early age. By the time she had grown into adulthood, she was earning critical praise for her work on the boards. Some biographies have her traveling back to England to work; others keep her here. Whatever the facts are, what I do know is this – that by May of 1932, at the age of 24, Peg was living in Los Angeles, and, while she was still receiving acclaim for her work on the stage, she could not get a job in film to save her life.

Literally.

For on the night of September 16, 1932, Peg left her friends, walked to the Hollywoodland sign, climbed the workmen’s ladder to the top of the letter “H,” and deliberately plummeted off the sign into the canyon below. Her body was found two days later. Nearby was a carefully folded coat and purse.

It’s sad to me that so few people today know of Peg’s tragic cautionary tale. She began a precedent for young, failed actresses seeking a way out of their degradation and pain.

I knew that she had to be part of my story.

In the world of “They Live Among Us,” Peg, as a suicide, is forced to live the final moments of her life over and over again, each night since her death. I imagine her up there, in the dark, in the cold, so alone. Perhaps people are hiking Mulholland, as they often do. Perhaps she calls to them; perhaps she reaches out for help – only to be passed by again and again, for they do not see her.

Enter Ted, a Griffith Park ranger, who patrols the night. Ted, like so many who work night shifts, spends his life in solitude. I’ve described him as “terminally shy” – and, I believe that he is. I think that the world for Ted, like Peg, has been a somewhat cruel place. I imagine Ted in his truck, night after night, reading the works of Shakespeare, great poets and other food for the soul – for Ted is, at heart, a romantic.

And so we have a shift in Peg’s torment, and Ted’s isolation on one particular night. Ted, on patrol, hears the sound of a someone crying. He looks up – and sees a beautiful woman, atop the Hollywood sign. He goes to her; he soothes her. He talks her down – and he falls in love. Only to discover that she is a ghost.

Thus, another story thread begins.