THE White Boar is a feature film currently in post-production, that centers on an Italian con man of fallen nobility , The Duke, who, haunted by visons, begins to lose his sense of time- the one thing ultimately important to his well- planned cons. Waking in strange places, parks and cities, we see him become The White Boar ( Symbolized by his ever present white trench coat, change in his personality, and named for his noble family’s crest ) wandering alone, searching his reflection for clues to his quickly fading persona. The script contemplates the duality of this character while exploring his ultimate isolation within the often-frenetic urban landscape.





We first see THE DUKE on the streets of Rome as a ruggedly handsome man in his late 50’s, sharply dressed in an Armani suit and sunglasses. The following is a voiceover which at first follows THE DUKE throughout his day, explaining the rules of “The Con”, as he walks Rome’s winding, graffitied streets, then into a looming cathedral visits cafes and the like- always on the lookout for the next mark. As the VO continues, we see flashes of visions- a beautiful woman seen on a bed in flickering light, a forest path, a canopy of leaves, and THE DUKE begins to lose himself, and question where he is, and who is his. This change is marked by his donning a white trench coat, and the compulsion to look for his reflections in city windows, which he does as Rome and NYC replace one another in his relentless wanderings.




I’m a systems man.  

I need precision and timing in my line of work. 

9:00, Wake up, push-ups, shower, dress.  Nice watch, sunglasses. Suit.  Bar Calisto for a cafe and cornetto.

9:45. Chiesa Santa Maria for a hail Mary, Son and Holy Ghost in the doorway... I’m a busy man… no time to stay, but I will soak in that divine light for a moment. 

10:00 and I’m back to Calisto to begin my day.  More cafe, cigarettes, talk.

By 11:00 I always have one con going. 

Mostly credit card numbers, so easy to get, especially if I’m introduced as a movie producer. I clock the numbers as they open their purses and flash their plastic, falsely protesting as I quickly pay for a cafe with a practiced wink. 

1:00 back to the apartment to lock up what I got.  Siesta, costume change to Armani or Varvetos and… white trench. 

3:30 lunch, upscale at the modern museum or near parliament. Working the con takes money. Parliament people all think I’m an important art dealer. It’s half -a- lie. I’ve sold some family heirlooms, but mostly passed off stolen or forged bronzes. nothing too big, mind you... what they don’t know won’t hurt them… and they rarely know. 

5:00, and I’ll have two cons going- the one from the morning, and one from the day before. 

By 6:30 I’m back home, siesta, lock up anything I’ve got. Costume change. Black jeans, nice shoes, black shirt and… white trench.

8:00- Bar Calisto. Peroni ... so many marks it’s hard to decide.  Now I’m a music producer or high-end antique dealer from Florence. More Peroni, cigarettes... and by 11:00, I’ve dined and often bedded at least one of them.  Lock up the numbers, Jewelry, sleep, and begin again. I like short cons…no complications, but these take dedication and organization if you want to do it right.


But recently, I’ve been missing a beat, and cons are slipping through my fingers, like something’s caught in the cog’s of my well-oiled machine. 

I’ve been thinking more about time lately. Time and R.  R-Painted my portrait, then went back to NYC where she came from. Thought she’d be a perfect American mark, but she marked me. 


Now …I’m losing time. 


Waking up in places I shouldn’t, with the smell of dirt on my skin and memories of how R’s hair feels in my hands.  I clutch my phone like it’s a lifeline, but I can’t seem to focus.  I think R took something from me, and I need to get it back.  


Cities flicker by like old films. My memory glitches, and I’m not sure If I saw these cities in the movies or If I was there. I start to wake in places that sound different. Not the urban song of my Roma, with its motorinos, sirens, and yelling. But who the fuck cares? Really, when it’s all the same city in the end…shit happening and shit not happening ....and its lights and cars and drink and cement, and me… 

somewhere in the middle of it all, feeling like someone else somewhere else.  

I catch myself in reflections. I look for my lost face as much as I can… but the glass tricks me into thinking I’m not me, and I’m left with an image composed of neon and dirt.  


And I’m re -fucking- born into this thing that doesn’t care about time. 


R got the me I didn’t want to give. The me I hid so long in the con.  

I practiced in front of the mirror like an actor -new mark, new story.  But R made me feel split apart, and now and I’m fucking wake-dreaming through days and nights.


And time is a concern, cause’ time is lost.




THE APARTMENT centers around ANTON, who's whole existence centers around lotto scratch off's and OTB betting. After spilling water by his front door while trying to dodge his angry rent-hungry landlord, ARMAN finds the area blooming with mushrooms, and soon the whole apartment slowly turns into a forest. The film is to be shot in one Brooklyn neighborhood: Arman's apartment, an Ocean Parkway bench , his local bodega, and an underground betting social club.  As the verdant landscape takes over more of his apartment, Arman decides to retreat to his kitchen with his pet fish, the reality of danger and starvation setting in. We never know if the forest is real or in Arman's head.

The follwing scene is a dream Arman has just before mushrooms sprout in front of his door ( these eventually turn into a circle of trees.) Arman is the victim here,helpless in his situation- which drastically changes in a later dream sequence where he becomes the agressor, embracing his more violent, animal nature.


ANTON is in bed, twisted in the sheets, sweating, tossing about.

Jump Cut to ANTON, standing alone in the blazing summer sun in the same abandoned airfield as the previous dream. A sickly yellow overlay of color pervades the scene. ANTON is dressed in the same white dress shirt and tie, hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he looks about him with confidence, the airfield familiar to him. He is comfortable, his gestures sure, as if he is right to be in this desolate place.

The camera is focused on ANTON, and stays on him, capturing the change of his expression and he sees someone in front of him, then follows the gesture of his outstretched hand cautioning the intruder not to advance. We hear ANTON’S first words of warning before the camera continues a semi-circle to reveal THE SUIT, stumbling into frame. THE SUIT, wearing the identical outfit as ANTON, is disheveled, his tie flung back over his shoulder, hair out of place, body tilting with labored breathing. THE SUIT lurches forward desperately.

Hey, hey, Stop there, Don’t get too

fucking close.

I just want, I want... something.I

just want to breathe man.

The THE SUIT continues to stumble forward, despite ANTON’s aggressive stance.

I can’t do anything for you. No one

can breathe here. It’s all about the oxygen levels, 

you know. they say in like 40 years...


Who says?

(His voice gets more

aggressive as he speaks)

They. They Say. In 40 years, maybe 50, the oxygen’s gonna run out. Cause we didn’t follows rules. We’re not following fucking the rules! How hard can that be?

I don’t care about that.

(He hesitates, faltering as if drunk, but then begins gasping, loosening his already loosened tie, flailing towards ANTON.)

ANTON (Voice rises in

aggression, now coming close to the THE SUIT, grabbing violently onto The THE SUIT’S arms, steadying him while talking forcefully.)

The camera continues in a full circle around the two in one continuous shot, light flaring in the lens, in and out of soft to hard focus.

Listen, just listen, cause’ it’s
not just about you or me. It’s this place, man. This fucking city. You just can’t bet on it anymore. It’s not a winner, not a winner at all. It sucks and takes, takes and sucks- and it can’t fucking heal anymore. You understand? Are you listening now? You are not a winner!

We see ANTON’s Arm move to his own back pocket, and see his shoulder move into a thrust as he violently stabs The THE SUIT in the stomach. He holds onto him for a terrible moment, more like a lover than a murderer, before retracting his knife as the camera pans out to reveal the blood, slowly seeping over the THE SUIT’s white shirt, and his shocked expression as he gasps for breath, suspended in slow motion for a moment before falling to the ground. (Reference: Robert Longo drawing)

ANTON stands over him, bloodied knife in hand; his posture upright and strong: depicting ANTON on the right path now. Be aggressive or be beaten. Survival of the fittest. This is ANTON’S animal nature having risen to the surface, and we see it in his stance. He is the winner here, the only one left standing amidst the yellow tinted wasteland of his dream.


ANTON wakes. The camera is in CU of his face, then slides down to the floor as he sits up and swings his feet to the ground.


The worn green oriental carpet beneath his feet is moist and dark with dirt and moss. Holes in the intricate weaving allow large roots covered in a green growth to poke through. Roots and tangles of moss grows from under the bed, and the once white bedsheet is brown with forest decay, twisting to the floor and becoming one large root that connects to a continuing, expansive system of roots. These rise and fall in arching forms all throughout the room- both hiding and revealing the forest floor of carpet, moss and dirt. They coil about three large trees whose lichen and moss-covered trunks reach skyward, where roots and hanging moss cover the treetops to complete a reversed, reflecting pattern along the ceiling.

Vines and lichen cover the futon and bed post. We hear the sound of the needle being placed on the record player, and Miles Davis “Easy Living” begins to play, with skips in the music. The camera pans the room, ANTON’S POV: a pile of books are half covered in dirt. Plants on the window sill have grown, exploding their pots. Heavy twisting vines block some of the windows like metal gates would, breaking apart slats in the wooden shades. ANTON gets up slowly. The digital clock blinking on 11:11, it too is covered in mud and moss, with small mushrooms dotting it’s plastic top. He reaches for his cell phone, but it is covered in swampy sludge, snails sliding along its glass surface. Gently nudging them aside, he taps the ‘on’ button, but it is dead.

ANTON turns, and brushes off some wet mud and moss that lay on top of the television, then releases a stubborn vine that covers the screen. He turns and trips on a large cluster of twisted roots running through the center of the apartment. He crouches to run his hands along the large roots that lay heavy and immoveable atop his floor, then follows them on hands and knees. At the front door, he rises to meet a large petrified tree that has emerged from within a circle floor roots that have replaced the circle of mushrooms. Bent and twisted, more like a skeletal creature than a tree, the prehistoric wood looms before the door like a monolith.

ANTON is not as shocked as one might expect. He is intensely interested in the nature that has overtaken his apartment. It is still an apartment- recognizable architecture and objects encroached upon by the vines, roots, moss, lichen and mushrooms. He peers into the fish pitcher and removes vines and algae that are beginning to overwhelm the glass, dipping in and out of the water. Snails are in there as well now, crawling in the water and on the outside of the glass, over a layer of dirt-sludge-algae.

ANTON returns to his futon, and releasing some winding vines, lifts it into a couch, so as to give nature more room.


He goes to the bathroom to take a shower, but it is fully packed with flora: the tiled floor is littered with mud and moss, vines and roots tangle in the dirt-filled tub, and vines and leaves trellis about the shower head in small tendrils. ANTON turns on the water, letting it trickle on the mini rain forest, being sure to clear the drain, and leaves it like this. This sound is now added to the Jazz we hear, along with a soft insect hum and sounds of the city outside the window.

He goes to the sink. This too, is beginning to be overtaken, but after unravelling some leaves and brushing away a few snails, he is able to brush his teeth and wash up a bit, pee in the toilet that has some moss starting to grow in its bowl. Back in the main room, ANTON searches for his clothes. He finds T shirt wet and covered in streaks of dirt and green rot, and tosses it to the ground. Looking around again, he saves an old sweater from the clutches of a thorny vine, ripping, and slightly unravelling it in the process. He shrugs this on, grabs his coat- as of yet untouched by the growing forest, and careful not to disturb the petrified tree, he slinks around it, and out his apartment door.


ARMAN wakes, doesn’t look at his clock this time. He reaches for the record player, and Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue” fills the air. ARMAN stumbles out of bed, does a few cursory push ups’, gives up after two, puts on his pants, grabs an shirt off the couch, brushes teeth etc. He stops and peers in the fish pitcher and frowns, noticing an inordinate amount of algae. He feeds it some flakes, makes his way to the front door, and stops short.

A wide, low circle of white mushrooms has sprouted in front of the door.

Muttering to himself, he crouches on hands and knees to inspect the mushrooms more closely. Camera shoots from above so as to see him within the mushroom ring. He leans his head close, touches one with his hand, then licks another before standing and gingerly walking over the ring, opens his door and goes out to the hallway.