LOOP ONE PA (O.S.) ORSON ORSON (cont’d) PA (O.S.) ORSON Set lighting fades in: a vineyard backdrop, faintly unreal. Warm amber-gold tones simulate a commercialized “golden hour.” It looks rich, but flat: like a wine ad on a loop in an airport lounge. A table. A bottle of wine. A single glass. ORSON (cont’d) He approaches the wine glass. Doesn’t touch it yet. Just looks. ORSON (cont’d) A pause. He drinks. Small sip. Reacts like it’s blood. ORSON (cont’d) (MORE) ORSON (cont’d) ORSON (cont’d) DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON DIRECTOR (O.S.) Stage lights sharpen. He’s “on camera.” It feels performative, too bright. ORSON raises the glass. He pauses – composed. Poised. ORSON A long silence. He lowers the glass, expression unreadable. ORSON (cont’d) DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON He raises the glass again, this time with exaggerated cheer. ORSON (cont’d) DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON He glances offstage. To no one in particular. ORSON (cont’d) (MORE) ORSON (cont’d) He returns to his mark. Lifts the glass once more. Holds it. Doesn’t speak. DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON He stops. Just stops. Lowers the glass. ORSON (cont’d) DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON He sets the glass down. Carefully. ORSON (cont’d) DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON He raises the glass, hand trembling just slightly. The vineyard backdrop flattens further. Shadows pull in unnaturally around the edges of the set- as if the light can’t reach him anymore. ORSON (cont’d) DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON Lights shift. Set returns to original position. The same golden vineyard light restarts, unchanged. Eerily precise, like a film reset. A louder knock. PA (O.S.) Orson turns. Slowly. Confused. ORSON PA (O.S.) ORSON (MORE) ORSON (cont’d) PA (O.S.) ORSON He slowly approaches the table again. Doesn’t touch anything. ORSON (cont’d) DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON Lights down. LOOP TWO The vineyard backdrop has lost its warmth. There’s something bruised in the hue, like fruit just past ripeness. Identical set. Same wine. Same silence. Then- A knock. PA (O.S.) ORSON sits exactly where he began in Loop One. But this time: he hears it. ORSON (MORE) ORSON (cont’d) PA (O.S.) ORSON He looks at his hands. Then the wine. ORSON (cont’d) He gets up and takes a small step back. Testing the air. ORSON (cont’d) ORSON circles the table slowly. He speaks like he’s half in rehearsal, half in a dream. ORSON (cont’d) He stops. ORSON (cont’d) DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON The vineyard projection pulses faintly- red tones bleed at the edges. It’s no longer advertising. It’s haunting. He faces the wine. Doesn’t touch it. ORSON (cont’d) He raises his chin. Takes a breath. ORSON (cont’d) He softens. ORSON (cont’d) DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON DIRECTOR (O.S.) ORSON PA (O.S.) ORSON looks up – then at us. ORSON He finally picks up the glass. Holds it. ORSON (cont’d) Swirls it. Watches. ORSON (cont’d) He sets the glass down. ORSON (cont’d) Beat. ORSON (cont’d) A burst of red slices across the stage as he slams the table. It vanishes quickly, but the light stays wounded. ORSON (cont’d) Picks up the wine bottle. ORSON (cont’d) Breath. The rage ebbs. ORSON (cont’d) He lifts one hand. Lets it fall. ORSON (cont’d) LOUD KNOCKING. PA (O.S.) ORSON He walks back to the table. Places his hand on the glass. ORSON (cont’d) He looks at us – then past. ORSON (cont’d) Lights dim. The stage falls into near darkness. Then, for a breath, a deep wine-red glow lingers. LOOP THREE The red is steady but not violent. Ritualistic. It feels earned now. ORSON is already seated. Still. Hands resting. Calm. He lifts the bottle. Pours. Smooth. No spill. ORSON A nod. No sarcasm. Just breath. ORSON (cont’d) As he delivers the line: simply, fully – the red fades. Slowly. Gently. A natural white light returns. Not spotlight. Not golden. Just… real. He sets the glass down. No emphasis. No gesture. ORSON (cont’d) He surveys the room – really sees it. The vineyard fantasy is gone. The wine is still red, but the world around it is clear. ORSON (cont’d) Beat. ORSON (cont’d) He leans back. Honest. Calm. ORSON (cont’d) He leans forward. The performance is over. But the presence lingers. ORSON (cont’d) ORSON (cont’d) He touches the bottle. ORSON (cont’d) (MORE) ORSON (cont’d) He looks out – beyond the audience. Somewhere else entirely. ORSON (cont’d) He leans back. Hand off the bottle. Quiet. He closes his eyes. A gentle knocking. PA (O.S.) The white light holds. The one moment of clarity. A breath of grace before the cycle resumes. ORSON opens his eyes. No surprise. No fear. Just a quiet nod. ORSON He sits up straight. A pause. He opens his mouth- BLACKOUT. About the Artist J.P. Sortland most recently has been published in Poached Hare, Scribble Lit, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, and Bookends Review. He lives and writes in Brooklyn.
Take Five
A faint knock. Soft. Distant.
Mr. Welles? We’re ready for you.
Are you? Are you really.
You know, I never remember the ride.
The car’s always moving. The windows
are fogged.
And then someone knocks. There’s
always a knock.
You’ll be on mark in thirty, sir.
Thirty seconds or thirty years.
Ah. The French.
I once staged Lear with four lights
and a bedsheet.
And here we are. Three-point vineyard
fantasy, vintage filter, fake grapes.
You’ve poured it already.
Always so efficient.
A man might like to pour his own
poison-but no, it’s always waiting,
isn’t it?
Tastes like time.
Like something that’s waited too long.
Let’s rehearse, shall we?
I lift the glass like it’s a relic
from Burgundy.
Nod. Smile. Say the line with just
enough gravity to sell it,
but not enough to make it true.
A performance, but not a conviction.
That’s the sweet spot.
That’s great, Orson. Let’s just keep
it natural this time, yeah?
Natural. Of course.
Nothing more natural than a vineyard
that smells like epoxy.
Should I button up or leave the chest
hair as-is?
There was a time the hair alone sold
the film rights.
Let’s just roll one and see where it
lands.
Very well. But for the record, the
blocking is amateur.
I should enter from the left:
wine in frame, label forward, legacy
intact.
Instead I’m hunched in from
God-knows-where with a glass poured
by ghosts.
Alright.
Cue the vineyard.
Cue the fraud.
Cue the “legend.”
I’m ready for my thirty seconds of
relevance.
And – action.
We will sell no wine before its time.
How was that?
Good. Let’s just try one more with a
little more warmth.
More warmth?
Yeah- like you actually enjoy the
wine.
Ah. I see.
So we’re doing fantasy today.
Very well.
We will sell no wine-
(pause, frown)
-before…
(pause again)
Its… damn it.
Cut.
Christ.
No worries, Orson. Let’s just reset.
No worries. Of course not. We’ve all
got time to spare.
I’ve only been selling this bottle
since Carter was in office.
Do you know what vintage this is?
Neither do I.
Because it doesn’t matter.
It’s not a wine. It’s a line.
One they’ve been pouring down my
throat for half a decade.
Let’s try again.
Rolling.
We will sell no wine-
(pause)
-before its-
Why? Why not?
Why not sell it a moment early?
A week?
A year?
You think anyone sipping this in a
Holiday Inn banquet hall is tasting
patience?
They’re tasting market share.
Shelf stability.
Focus group notes.
Not time.
Let’s go ahead and reset. We’ll grab
it clean next round.
Clean.
We’ll scrub it all:
the vineyard, the line, the man.
Bleach it until there’s no trace of
conviction.
I used to get letters.
People writing to say how Kane
changed their lives.
Now the only letters I get are from
dentists asking if I can record a
message for their waiting rooms.
“We will sell no wine-
before its time.”
With a smile.
Rolling again in ten.
Of course we are.
Ten seconds.
Ten years.
Same difference.
This was supposed to be the last one.
That’s what they said.
We will sell no wine-
(long pause)
-before its time.
There. That one felt honest.
Or at least… resigned.
Well?
Someone say something. Anyone.
Applaud. Vomit. Breathe.
Resetting. From the top.
No. Not- No. I just did it.
Mr. Welles? We’re ready for you.
No. That’s…
That’s what you said before. That’s
exactly what you said.
You’ll be on mark in thirty, sir.
And they thought it necessary to
knock again?
I said the line already. I know I did.
I wrote that line. That was me. My
words.
Don’t- don’t treat me like I’m some
tragic goddamn parrot.
Rolling in thirty.
No. No. Stop. You said that already.
This isn’t a reset.
This is a rerun.
What is this?
Is this the take?
Did I black out?
Did you re-cue the line?
Or have we been here before?
From the top, Mr. Welles.
Alright. Let’s just get through it.
Lights rise again- but now they’ve curdled. The yellow is fading into a rusted amber.
Mr. Welles? We’re ready for you.
You said that.
That exact line. Same timing. Same pitch.
Not “almost the same.”
Not “close enough.”
The same.
You’ll be on mark in thirty, sir.
I didn’t move. I was sitting. I-
Did I pick this up?
I’m on my mark.
The glass is full. The table’s straight.
And I never heard the footsteps.
I never felt the cue.
This is the part where I say the line.
And the part where you nod.
And the part where the light shifts
just enough to mean nothing.
We will sell no wine-
Before its time.
Yes. That’s the line. That’s the
whole thing.
Nothing before. Nothing after.
That’s great, Orson. Let’s just keep
it natural this time, yeah?
You said that.
This isn’t a commercial.
It’s a séance.
You ever rehearse something so many
times you forgot what it’s for?
I did that with grief once.
This time, I say it my way.
We will sell no wine-
Then you’ll never sell single drop.
Let’s go again. A little less
aggression, Orson.
Did you hear me?
We’re selling charm, not bitterness.
Can we try that again with a smile?
I’m not smiling. I’m telling the truth.
Smile’s in the tone, not the face.
They think I’m difficult. I’m not.
I’m precise.
You give a man a script and a bottle
and a goddamn tagline and then call
him difficult when he chokes on it.
You don’t become the ad overnight.
First you cash the check.
Then you justify it.
Then you start rewriting your own
obituary.
I thought I was selling wine.
But the wine is selling me.
They cut forty minutes out of
Ambersons and burned it.
Not shelved. Not trimmed.
*Burned.*
Now they want thirty seconds of
perfect cheer.
Thirty seconds of the ghost, grinning
through the bottle.
Of course they do.
Tell me: who did the greater damage?
The drunk who left…
(beat)
Or the ghost who stayed and smiled?
But I think I’ve expired.
Do you know how many things I almost made?
How many times I was almost forgiven?
Mr. Welles? We’re ready for you.
Of course you are.
We will sell no wine before its time.
But I think I have expired.
Lights rise in a deep, soft red. The vineyard is gone. No backdrop. Just Orson and shadow. A room of old blood and old theater.
Ah, the French.
Paul Masson said it nearly a century ago:
We will sell no wine before its time.
There. You got it. The take. The
line. The man.
I used to think performance was
pretending.
Now I know it’s remembering.
You remember how the voice used to
feel in your chest.
How the silence landed when you let
it.
I could’ve done that on the first
take.
But then…
you wouldn’t have seen me.
People say the camera doesn’t lie.
It does.
It edits.
But the loop… The loop remembers.
You were never the enemy, were you?
You were the mirror.
Beat.
The rehearsal.
The punishment, maybe-
but not without purpose.
You let me try again.
You made me say it-
until I knew what it meant.
Not the wine.
Not the line.
The man.
Thank you.
(softly)
Are you ready to go again?
Of course.
