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Whitechapel

FOUR SCREEN PLAYS

I wrote the screenplays between 2001 and 2008. They are presented below in the order in which they were written. Each is set against the background of armed conflict.

I was inspired to learn how to write screenplays as a result of a number of conversations in New York in August 2001 with Annabel Honor-Lissi, a fellow creative, and digital tutorials with her which followed.

 

THE MEMORIAL

The Memorial is about redemption through kindness, compassion and love.  Set in the immediate aftermath of the 1st World War, it is a love story that explores class, religion and anti-war issues through the eyes of Captain Edward Standish VC.  Much of the action takes place at Standish’s country seat, in a Midlands village dominated by a colliery, as well as in London where the Captain meets and commissions artist Clara Zeligman.  The Memorial also takes us to the battlefields on the French/Belgian border where Standish had faced the toughest moment of his military career – an event that haunts him throughout the story.

Download The Memorial by David Selzer (Copyright David Selzer)

 

 

LOYALTIES

Loyalties begins in 1936, when Kathy, sixteen, beautiful, a film fan and fascinated by Elizabeth, last Empress of Austria, about whom she secretly writes romantic fiction, leaves Llandudno to train as a nurse in London. In 1940, she goes to the Isle of Man to nurse refugees from Nazi Germany interned as enemy aliens and falls in love with Peter, an Irish barman, whom, she discovers, is an IRA Bomber whose real name is Pearse. He renounces violence, though not the cause, for her – until she is the victim of an attempted rape. Pearse murders the likely suspect (who is an undercover Special Branch officer). In despair, she rejects Pearse. She returns home pregnant – and tells her mother that she was married in the Isle of Man but that her husband has been killed in action. In 1946, Pearse – now prosperous and married but still active in the struggle – finds her (and their daughter). She rejects him again.

Download Loyalties by David Selzer (Copyright David Selzer)

 

ALTOGETHER ELSEWHERE

Altogether Elsewhere is a tragi-comedy of errors, driven by character, coincidence and circumstance. Both of the main protagonists were born on the same day in 1953 in Liverpool and Daytona respectively. One becomes an acclaimed documentary and fashion photographer, the other a Vietnam Veteran selling oranges by the roadside in Portugal. The story – set against a background of the decline and fall of empires – focuses on key episodes in their lives from 1961 to 2002.

Download Altogether Elsewhere by David Selzer (Copyright David Selzer)

 

IN THE LION’S MOUTH

In The Lion’s Mouth is set in 1865, in a Venice under Austrian occupation, and against the background of the Risorgimento, the revolutionary movement to unify Italy. The story describes a love affair which, bedevilled by jealousy, possessiveness, intrigue and racial and religious prejudice, comes to a tragic and violent end. Though set in the past, the story portrays contemporary issues – particularly those of mixed race and of terrorism. The two main protagonists are a Liverpool sugar heiress of mixed Afro-Caribbean and European origin, who is in her early thirties, and a Austrian Jewish doctor in his forties, a widower, who is attached to the Austrian occupation forces but an active though covert supporter of the Risorgimento.

Download In The Lion's Mouth by David Selzer (Copyright David Selzer)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE GUN EMPLACEMENT

For Doreen Levin

 

He was on duty the night Liverpool burned.

They watched the orange glow over in the east.

He remembered the convoy earlier that day

strung out along the horizon, waiting

for high tide. The Lance Jack, Scouser One,

told them where it was. One of the Taffies said,

‘My brother’s there too’, leaving things unspoken.

 

In the silence Saul wondered if Tilbury

was being done as well, the bombs drifting,

as usual, over Whitechapel.

He thought of his parents in the Anderson,

hoped they were there, behind the bakery –

and his little sisters somewhere in Devon.

Pops would be joking, his mother softly

humming all his sisters’ favourite song:

‘Sheyn bin ich sheyn, sheyn is mayn nomen.’

He should be at the ack-ack battery

in Vicky Park, up Hackney way, not here,

half way to Ireland, stuck safe on a Welsh hill

looking out to sea, where Jerry would never,

ever come. The moon appeared, lighting the waves

in the bay far below, and some of the crew

briefly, and the tall gun they all tended.

 

They were from all over, which, supposed Saul,

with their more or less unintelligible

accents was Churchill’s idea of a joke.

Each of them had a nickname. His was ‘Hovis’,

which The Prof had had to explain to him –

the family bakery mostly making

beigels and babkas (now without nuts).

Behind his back, to Taffy Three and Four,

he knew he was ‘Jew Boy’. None of them were really

all that long out of school – except The Prof,

who had been training to be a surveyor.

He and The Prof shared Woodbines, and some things

about home. They were friends he supposed.

 

They were stood down at dawn, and had some hours kip.

Later, he and The Prof walked down the hill

through the woods. Prof named the flowers they passed:

cowslip, celandine, wood anemone,

and a bank of wild strawberries in bloom –

and told him the gun emplacement was built

on the ruins of a Welsh prince’s palace,

and beneath that was a fort from before

the Romans came, or the Viking long boats

sailed along the coast. ‘My grandfather,’ said Saul,

‘and his brothers were horse thieves in Latvia.’

The Prof looked startled. Saul paused, then continued.

‘They’d steal the horses from the plains, and hide them

in the forests, sell them at far away markets.’

‘Well…right,’ said The Prof. ‘I don’t know what to say,’

and, after a beat, ‘Were you born there?’

‘I’m a Cockney!’ laughed Saul, and The Prof nodded.

 

At the foot of the hill was a lane, a track,

grassy and overhung with trees in full leaf.

As they walked they noticed at the edges

dead birds, and counted them – forty in all.

Even in the shade of the canopy

and in death Saul saw that their feathers shimmered.

‘Starlings,’ said The Prof. ‘Poisoned perhaps’.

As they made their way back up the hillside

to the camouflaged emplacement at its top

Saul knew that, when he next wrote to his sisters,

he would only mention the strawberries

and their pretty white flowers.

 

 

 

ASYLUM SEEKER

i.m. Samuel Selzer

 

He was never sure if it had been a joke

when the police arrested him for being,

he learned later, Jack the Ripper,

even though the last murder had been

a dozen years before, and he himself

had been eight and far away – or just

a lesson for yet another alien

wandering Whitechapel as if he had

a right to be lost in a pea souper.

 

Fresh from the Hamburg boat docked at Tilbury,

with no understanding of English

or the Roman alphabet, astray

from his equally ignorant, naive

travelling companions – oldest sons

escaping the twenty year conscription

into the Tzar’s army, all believing

they had arrived at last in Manhattan –

he was ‘sprung’ from his cell in the early hours

by the Jewish Board of Guardians.

 

A wry, resilient man, weathering

bankruptcy, his son’s death, his wife’s,

he always told the tale with humour –

another greener mislaid in the fog.

‘In Kiev if a policeman walks towards you,’

he told me, ‘you step in the gutter!

Better a night in the Leman Street lock-up

at eighteen than a lifetime of fear!’

 

 

 

 

 

THE VICISSITUDES OF HISTORY

i.m. Clara Eisenberg

Her maiden surname was Eisenberg, ‘iron

mountain’, one that had been chosen for them

from the Imperial list. I was often

uneasy, unsure in her presence.

She hardly ever smiled. I realise now

because I looked so like her son, my father.

She died, from kidney failure, when I was nine.

 

On the mantelpiece in our dining room

is a pair of figurines – faux Meissen –

brought in her parents’ wooden suitcase, wrapped

in linen, journeying from Leopoldstat,

Vienna, to Whitechapel, London.

 

She had a hat shop in Hendon. Sometimes,

when my mother helped out, I was allowed

to look into the deep drawers where the hats,

like exotic plants, lay on tissue paper –

but when the shop was full of customers

I stayed in the workroom. There were lengths of felt,

rolls of ribbon, a barred sash window

and a double burner that smelled of gas.

The two shop girls would make a fuss of me.

 

Each figurine has a young man and woman

dressed and posed as if just emerging

from Marie Antoinette’s rustic retreat

at Versailles, and mirrored in the matching

figurine. Before my time the head

of one of the swains has been glued back on

and the maids have lost a hand apiece

but their expressions of bucolic delight

have remain undiminished whatever

the vicissitudes of history.

 

While Grandpa did his ARP duty

back east at the Fire Station in Cable Street,

Nanny went to the spiritualist church

in Hendon. The Medium passed messages:

her soldier son was in pain no more;

she would see and hold him once again

forever in the light beyond. The matter

was off limits in the one bedroom flat.

 

She made cream cheese in a muslin bag

she hung from the cold tap in the kitchen

to make it set. The whey would drip through the night,

minute by minute, hour after hour.

When she made apple strudel the flat

was aromatic with cinnamon.