JAZZ AGE Doll (back)Drama 	114 p. 	(Nicholl semi-finalist script 1997)	

	A snapshot into the life of one of America’s most famous wives,
	Zelda Fitzgerald, who descended into mercurial madness with the help of husband
	F. Scott Fitzgerald.
_______________________________________________________________________________

FADE IN:                                        "JAZZ AGE DOLL"

EXT.            MALMAISON SANATORIUM, OUTSIDE PARIS    DAY

Glass breaks. A burning suitcase sails out the second floor window of the stately 
"Malmaison" mental institution.

TITLE READS:  MALMAISON, APRIL 1930

White-clad NURSE and ORDERLY rush up the stone walkway to the front entrance.

                                ORDERLY
                Mon Dieu. L’Americaine encore.
                Madame Fitzgerald.
        
                                NURSE
                La beaute sans vertu est une
                fleur sans parfum, non?

DR. OSCAR FOREL, Germanic-looking, a clinical psychiatrist in residence, joins 
the two as they make their way inside the heavy doors.

                                FOREL
                In Switzerland, the mad are far less
                maddening.

INT.            MALMAISON HALLWAY

Thick smoke wafts along the plush walls. Well-dressed array of the UNWELL claw 
at each other, disoriented.

A young MAN opens and closes an umbrella in their path as Dr. Forel and the nurses 
push past.

EXT.    ZELDA’S ROOM

A name card on the door READS: MRS. F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, which has been scratched 
over in eyeliner to READ: ZELDA!

Dr. Forel BANGS on the door.

                                DR. FOREL
                Madame Fitzgerald? Open immediately.

BAD SINGING heard in the b.g., Zelda mangles a line from a 20’s pop song 
"Powder and Paint".

TWO ORDERLIES smash in her door. Dr. Forel waves away a wall of smoke.

Hysterical LAUGHTER erupts from the bathroom. Obscene eye-pencil drawings 
on the walls point toward the lav.

INT.            ZELDA’S BATHROOM

ZELDA SAYRE FITZGERALD, 30, blonde hair wrapped in curl papers, presides 
over a serious fire in the bathtub. She’s blackened from the ordeal.

All of her clothes and many possessions have gone up in flames. She has a 
strong Southern accent, out of place here.

                                FOREL
                Madame Fitzgerald, you have defiled
                your room.

                                ZELDA
                Kick me out. All the best hotels do.

                                FOREL
                You are not yourself.

                                ZELDA
                I have nothing suitable to wear for a
                place like this. Absolutely nothing.

As Dr. Forel douses the raging fire with the shower head; Zelda SHRIEKS.

                                ZELDA
                SAVE THE LALIQUE! Idiots. It’s Lalique.

She makes a mad grab for a scorched porcelain ballerina with one leg broken 
off; it takes all in the room to restrain this superhuman urge to save the 
burned figurine.

INT.            EGLANTINE WARD

Not plush, a complete departure from the fancy main building. Sterile and 
completely secure, white tiles, minimal furniture, equipped like a 30’s hospital.

Zelda is strapped down in a straight jacket on a gurney that is tilted at a 
45-degree angle. Her blonde hair in reckless disorder, the curl papers removed. 
She is listless and lifeless. Dr. Forel snaps his fingers in front of her eyes.

                                DR. FOREL
                Do you know who you are, Madame?

He watches her for a moment. No response, then motions for a red-haired nurse 
MAGDA THIERRY, who is about to administer an injection into Zelda’s exposed neck.

Just as the needle gets close to her jugular, Zelda’s face lights up, a wide, 
weird grin. Her tone is uneven, too loud.

                                ZELDA
                Come now, let’s all sing along.
                I’ve been dry so long I forgot
                how to shimmy. How’s that for the
                record books? No wood alcohol today.

                                DR. FOREL
                Do you know why you are here?

Zelda’s constrained body convulses, fights against the restraints.

                                DR. FOREL
                Please, Madame. Do you know why
                you are here?

                                ZELDA
                Because I made the pact with a devil.
                Who happens to pay your bills.

                                DR. FOREL
                There are no devils here, only Freud.
                No evil, only science.

                                ZELDA
                Tell me that after you’ve been
                crushed under the heel of art.
                F. Scott Fitzgerald is my conjurer.
                I am vile. I am sweet. I am Daisy.
                Or Gloria. Or any glittering slut to
                appear on the page for your amusement.

                                DR. FOREL
                        (to nurse)
                Delusional.

                                ZELDA
                For days I have had buildings tremble
                and collapse around me. Have heard
                ghastly things from the curtain rod;
                and no one will tell me why I can
                no longer play tennis.

                                DR. FOREL
                We are going to induce an insulin coma.
                We hope it will bring you out of
                this psychosis. You will wake up in
                Switzerland. Be yourself again.

                                ZELDA
                Myself? I am the muse who struck back.

Tip of syringe looms large.

                                ZELDA
                        (nods toward needle)
                Mesdames and Messieurs,
                she is fresh out of mythology.

Nurse Thierry plunges the needle into Zelda’s thin neck.

Wild convulsions; froth spews from her mouth. The body shudders violently.

She hangs by a thread to lucidity.

                                ZELDA
                ‘Plus petite et moins entendue...’

FADE TO BLACK

EXT.            PRANGINS CLINIC, NYON, SWITZERLAND      DAY

Swiss Alps can be seen in the distance. This clinic is far less imposing, 
gorgeous grounds and view.

An American late model 1920’s Ford, pulls up to the grand entrance. A nervous 
woman, ROSALIND SAYRE SMITH, 40s, struggles out of the car in her heavy black 
mourning dress.

The driver, her husband, NEWMAN SMITH, late 40s, stays at the wheel.

                                NEWMAN
                Sure you want to go it alone?

                                ROSALIND
                Southern women do everything alone,
                dear. You showed me that.

                                NEWMAN
                Don’t take it out on me.

                                ROSALIND
                                (smiling)
                You go find that drunken bastard
                and bring him back here. That’s
                your assignment for the day, peach.

                                NEWMAN
                What will you do in there?

                                ROSALIND
                I’ll answer their questions. Flutter
                my eyelashes. Get her on the first boat out.            
                Go. Now. Bring me the head of Fitzgerald.
                With the hot spit that’s left in it.

INT.            RECEIVING AREA, PRANGINS CLINIC

Rosalind is besieged by grasping hands. Nurse Magda Thierry greets her; does 
nothing to stop the curious PATIENTS who touch Rosalind’s dress and hair.

                                MAGDA
                The Visitors are all insane, Madame.
                That’s why they are here.

                                ROSALIND
                That’s not why I’m here.
                        (loud to Patients)
                Enough. Hands off.

They continue to paw at her undeterred.

                                ROSALIND
                        (slaps at hands on her)
                I can do without a welcome wagon.

                                MAGDA
                Most of them do not speak English.

                                ROSALIND
                Why my sister is locked up with a
                bunch of real lunatics is beyond my
                limited capacity to understand.

                                MAGDA
                You must prepare yourself. She is
                one of our most challenging cases.
                One day she is perhaps close to
                normal; next day, she is chewing
                the velvet flowers off her dress --

                                ROSALIND
                I’ll speak to the doctor myself.
                Zelda is quite theatrical when
                she wants to be. Full of pranks.
                                
A YOUNG GIRL in the hallway collapses in front of them, chokes on her 
balled up tongue which cuts off her oxygen.

Magda whisks Rosalind by her. Orderlies descend on the girl.

INT.            DOCTOR’S QUARTERS, PRANGINS CLINIC              

A sumptuous buffet has been prepared, complete with silverware. No expense 
is spared in the number and variety of dishes.

Dr. Forel stares at Rosalind, who is clearly too uncomfortable to eat.

He is flanked by his aging father, gifted science professor AUGUSTE FOREL, 
80s, and the red-haired nurse Magda Thierry.

                                FOREL
                Madame, the veal is getting cold.

                                ROSALIND
                At one thousand American dollars a
                month per "Guest", I imagine you
                have the resources to reheat it.

                                AUGUSTE
                Won’t you enjoy my son’s hospitality?

                                ROSALIND
                I was asked to come here for Zelda.
                It’s a little galling to wait until
                dessert is served.

                                FOREL
                Pray begin, then. You said there
                is no history of mental illness in
                your family. Perhaps some event
                in Zelda’s youth holds the key --

                                ROSALIND
                        (indicates old man)
                We’re in mixed company. My sister
                was a free spirit, doctor.

                                AUGUSTE
                She was a vixen? Tramp? A whore?

                                ROSALIND
                A libertine. The new American woman.

EXT.            SAYRE TOWNHOUSE, MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA    NIGHT

A fine Southern brick house with potted plants on the stairs. Zelda, 
radiant at 18, is swamped by young SOLDIERS in uniform. Some grab at her 
legs and skirt; war’s over and the boys are home.

Victory drum BOOMS in the distance.

                                ROSALIND (V.O.)
                She wasn’t born until she was 18.
                Thrown into the post-Great War chaos.
                With no training. No manners. Mother
                said she was ‘knitting a god, fashioning
                a moral universe’ as she went along.

Zelda stands on the top of the stairs, whips her skirt up at the crowd of 
WWI SOLDIERS. Garters bared, braless.
Doughboys ARCHIE and TED glom all over each other to get a glimpse of Zelda.

                                ZELDA
                        (shouts to cheering crowd)
                Good riddance Kaiser Wilhelm!

Zelda does a mock striptease dance on the long flight of stone stairs to 
her front door; each step a little racier.

                                TED
                I heard she spreads; I don’t mean rumors.

                                ARCHIE
                You should see how much she can put
                away.

                                TED
                I’d like to die between her legs.

                                ARCHIE
                Whither and shrivel?

                                TED
                Watch it, Arch, I still got my
                bayonet.

                                ARCHIE
                Even the century turned when
                she was born. Her father’s a judge,
                I hear. A hanging judge.

                                TED
                This one’s tailor-made for jail.

Another soldier, PRIVATE F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, creeps out of the shadows, 
joins them but does not laugh.

                                FITZGERALD
                You have to be under sixteen to
                be illegal. This girl is definitely
                over the limit.

CLOSE ON: ZELDA

She has made it to the end of the stairs, stops her trance dance right beside 
Archie and Ted, ignores Fitzgerald.

The crowd HOOTS; expects a speech. She simply smiles.

                                ZELDA
                        (mutters under her breath)
                May you all die in a marble ring...

With that, she reaches under her skirt, wiggles out of her panties and throws 
them into the crowd.

Fitzgerald, shocked and motionless, is completely smitten.

EXT.            ROSALIND’S WINDOW

She stares down at Zelda, who is pawed from all directions but seems to have 
control of the situation.

                                ROSALIND
                March the troops on the move, Zelda.
                We’re trying to enjoy the Peace.

EXT.            MONTGOMERY MAIN DRAG    NIGHT

Zelda has been hoisted up on to a half dozen men’s shoulders. Who each strain 
for a glimpse under her skirt.
                
It’s a street adorned for another grueling victory party. World War I is over, 
the aristocracy is dead in Europe and America has lost its compass in these heady days.

Fitzgerald follows the boisterous crowd, an outsider though dressed like all 
of them. Transfixed with the girl on high.

CUT TO:         DINING HALL PRANGINS CLINIC

Dr. Forel taps his fork on his glass.

                                FOREL
                Dessert. We are ready for dessert?

                                ROSALIND
                        (taken aback)
                You interrupted me, sir.

                                FOREL
                Surely you don’t think the details
                of a healthy young girl in bloom
                constitute a psychological event.
                I hope you are able to comprehend
                the gravity of her condition. This
                is not a place for "rest cures". We’ve
                had to shock her body out of catatonia
                three times. She has choked on her
                own vomit; hears voices in the walls;
                and swallowed a foot of rubber tubing.
                Pumped her stomach to prevent a suicide.
                This is a very ill woman, Madame.

                                ROSALIND
                She just wants attention.

                                FOREL
                Perhaps we can replace a version of
                herself. Give back the ‘true’ Zelda.

                                ROSALIND
                My sister disobeyed every rule known
                to man and god. She was a cock tease.
                A loose woman. Which still means
                something in America, doctor...

EXT.            SAYRE ORCHARD           NIGHT

Peach grove behind the townhouse. Zelda shines in the moonlight, picks fruit 
in the dark; Fitzgerald lays on the ground.

                                ROSALIND (V.O.)
                It was on that Victory night she met
                him, the gasoline to her flame...

                                FITZGERALD
                "Dear Lady, had we but world enough
                and time."... Blah, blah... your virtue
                would undoubtedly be mine. Blah, blah.

                                ZELDA
                F. Scott? What’s the "F." stand for?
                
                                FITZGERALD
                I was reciting a poem, my dear trollop.
                It’s good that you have no shame. Shame
                is a crippling disease. Bad for fiction.
                         (beat)
                That was Andrew Marvell, poet. Seducer.
                He has done well for me. I get to the
                last line: ‘and roll each other up into
                a ball, push our way through the gates
                of life’... and then I strike.

                                ZELDA
                Why don’t you just take out your claws
                and scratch two red vines down my back?

                                FITZGERALD
                Beg pardon?

                                ZELDA
                You haven’t any claws? What a shame.
                Six inches of sensitivity, such is man.

                                FITZGERALD
                I refuse to be judged like a show pony.

                                ZELDA
                Modesty doesn’t shine quite as
                well in my moonlight, lover. Queen
                Victoria has been dust for almost
                twenty years. Didn’t you know?

                                FITZGERALD
                You’re no wall flower.

                                ZELDA
                For a man of words, you certainly
                do a great impression of an armadillo.

                                FITZGERALD
                You’d let me? Anything? Everything?
                Right in back of your own house?