Timeless

Original screenplay by

Nicholas Begnaud

Nicholas Begnaud
159 North Main St.
Poland, OH 44514
Copyright 2010 nick.begnaud@gmail.com
EXT. GRAVEYARD – DAY

The hands of a pocket watch reach nine o’clock on the

second while an old picture of a young woman is nestled in
the facing case interior.

An old GRAVEDIGGER opens the gated entrance to the

cemetery.

LATER

The sky is overcast with an endless palette of lifeless

arid grays reaching the horizon.

We see a small funeral gathered.

A WIDOW kneels weeping for her late husband.

The FACES surrounding their deceased friend are bowed down

and dark; all except one face isolated behind everyone
looking on without sympathy. He remains distant from
everyone.

We see the aging gravedigger in the background, leaning on

a shovel, constantly checking a gold pocket watch growing
impatient by the second. A quarter to five.

LATER

The casket is nestled in the grave now under one isolated

tree, and the first toss of dirt showers over the beautiful
mahogany finish.

More weeping commences from the widow while the gravedigger

tries desperately to tune it out. Gripping the shovel in
one hand, the other grabs at the watch.

Everyone else is gone besides the widow, not speaking a

word to the gravedigger who would fiendishly scatter dirt
between those final moments together.

The gravedigger waits until she’s finished.

-Long uncomfortable pause-

--She’s finished.
 WIDOW
Thank you.

He says nothing, dumping more dirt into the final resting

place of her husband. Holding back the sobs, she goes back
to her SON waiting by the car.

The gravedigger takes another look at his golden pocket

watch, worth more than his life, hanging on a gold chain.

Five o’clock.

It’s inserted back into the fob pocket of his waistcoat.

He continues shoveling dirt. Faster.

EXT. GRAVEYARD – EVENING

The gravedigger goes about his daily routine in a hurry:

He pushes the dirt wagon behind the broken down tool shed,
tossing his shovel against boards of lumber.

He tends to his garden.

Gathering wilting flowers off of headstones, the

gravedigger tosses them away.

There are several attempts at fixing a busted lock on the

front gate of the graveyard entrance. He gives up.

INT. GRAVEDIGGER’S HOME – NIGHT

Inside the setting is nestled and filled with odds and

ends.

There’s an old television set with an even older antenna in

the center of the room, a couch that’s seen better days and
a clock without hands.

His coat is tossed into the closet upon entrance.

LATER
The gravedigger is finally sitting to his dinner for one in
the armchair. He tunes in to watch the tail end of the news
through poor reception.

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

The gravedigger sits on the edge of his double bed

unbuttoning his waistcoat. Watching the mirror over his
dresser, he takes a good look at the old man staring back.

Opening a small box with a nestled indentation for his

watch, there’s a picture of his wife resting on his
nightstand.

He pulls on the gold chain tied through his pocket

buttonhole and removes it without weight. Here’s the end of
the chain but no watch.

A quick look to the floor and his lap: no watch.

Off comes the coat, and he pulls the pocket inside out:
nothing.

Under the bed, under the dresser: no luck.

Now he sees something with a gilded tone burrowed behind

the picture on the nightstand: just a set of keys.

-He stops-

Going back to bed, he constantly glances at that broken

chain, sneaking a few peeks to the floor.

The gravedigger tries closing his eyes to forget about the

watch for the night.

INT. BEDROOM – MORNING

A diffused sunlight tries to break through the overcast and

shed the first fragment of light through the window.

The gravedigger is missing, but the aftermath of a vigorous

inspection of his entire bedroom is obvious with covers and
clothes thrown from their proper places. No stone has been
left unturned—
INT. LIVING ROOM – CONTINUOUS

--The same hurricane has swept the rug from the floor and
the cushions from the furniture.

EXT. GRAVEYARD – CONTINUOUS

The gravedigger is tossing items out of the tool shed, with

no watch in sight, but the fresh dirt of the grave catches
his eye.

He stares for a long moment.

Taking a step right next to the grave, he looks down to it.

That loose dirt is daunting, the small cross looks

intimidating.

He looks up to see the sun, waiting for his answer to come

to him--

--and wanders off.

The grave gets a moment of peace.

--But only a moment.

The widow returns alone with more flowers, and even more
grief. Tears already in her eyes, she kneels on top of the
grave whispering to the ground softly.

The flowers find their home on top of the loose soil.

The gravedigger returns with a shovel in hand and stops

dead in his tracks when he sees her. He turns around and
leaves her alone.

She never notices him.

EXT. GRAVEYARD: GATE ENTRANCE - EVENING

Inspecting the useless gate latch, there is a feeble
attempt at allowing it to lock. He breathes deeply for
patience. The chain hangs out of his pocket.

Everything’s broken.

Looking for the sun in the sky, he can’t figure out what
time it is, but uses the chain to keep the gate secure.

INT. HOME - NIGHT

The gravedigger rushes inside to flip on the television. He

checks his fob pocket with the absent watch. Bad habit --
he shrugs it off.

The signal is somewhat clear, but it’s a commercial break

and the signal is reaching static again. Tapping one rabbit
ear gently higher it proceeds to droop lower.

He pulls it back up again, but it droops once more.

Leaving it alone only does worse and he gets angry at the

television, smacking the sides and snapping the antennae.

The station is gone now -- nothing but agonizing static.

He looks up to the clock on the wall without hands.

Everything’s broken.

Scratching his pocket, he sits down to the static--

--relaxes to it--

--sleeps to it.

EXT. GRAVEYARD – MORNING

The gravedigger tosses soil into the air. Piles of dirt

develop behind him. He thrusts vigorously. He’s living a
surreal dream of holding that watch again.

Lost in the twilight of the day, sweat creeps down his

temples and drips from his chin. So close...
...Yet so far.

The weeping widow can be heard nearby and he stops his

digging, woken from the daydream.

The flower on the late husband’s fresh grave has already

withered from days and days of neglect and the widow is
mourning once more.

The gravedigger is digging a new grave not far from the

recent burial.

Peeking over, he pities her obsession with a scoff in his

breath and continues working.

The dead flower blows away in a gust of wind.

EXT. GRAVEYARD: ENTRANCE – EVENING

As the widow leaves the cemetery, the gravedigger watches

through the bars of the fence.

He violently slams the gates as hard as he can with an

aggressive thrust of something to keep it shut for the
night.

INT. GRAVEYARD: TOOLSHED - NIGHT

The final shade of daylight smothers away and a match is

struck. The gravedigger lights his lantern and searches the
arsenal of tools around him. No flimsy shovel can manage
the task at hand.

He tugs on a thick handle of a shovel that could split into

a rock like a scoop of ice cream. With a clank on the floor
it sounds like a church bell is tolling in the tiny shed.

The deep ringing puts a smile on the gravedigger’s face.

It’ll do the job.

EXT. GRAVEYARD - NIGHT

The gravedigger hangs the lantern on a low branch over the
grave to flicker a light on his work.

The first drive into the ground--

--he lifts the shovel--

--tosses the soil--

-Nothing-

He tries again.

LATER

The wind shuffles the lantern lower down the branch

watching the gravedigger below, swinging back and forth.
He’s a few feet deeper now, but still digging.

The pile of dirt beside is a mountain range now.

He stops for a moment of rest. Shovel pierces the soil and

THUNK! He was closer than he thought.

One more scrape of the dirt away--

--maybe one more--

LATER

The sky begins glowing from the East; the lantern is on its
last ember and the edge of the branch. The grave grows
dark.

There’s the casket, but no watch. The shovel is still in

hand. Eyes on that casket like a treasure chest.

Greedy hands clenching, twitching.

He can’t do it.

But his curiosity gets the better of him.

Hand reaches.

He grips the heavy top of the casket.

Lifts not even an inch before--

--SMASH!

The lantern lands in the grave throwing the gravedigger

from his feet.

He lifts himself slowly. Taking the lantern from the dirt,

the gravedigger sets the light again.

A look around and he sees just how low he’s gone--

Twinkling light gleams in the packed dirt.

A smile flashes across the gravedigger’s face. No shovel,

he viciously digs this out with his bare hands.

The watch!

Overwhelming relief comes in a long breath of laughter.

Wiping off the dirt with his shirt caked in mud, that old
watch never looked so beautiful.

Sitting down, he looks over the gilded casing.

EXT. OPEN GRAVE - MORNING

The gravedigger climbs out of the grave covered in dirt;

shovel in hand, watch in the other.

A gust of wind carries a creaking sound of metal. The

gravedigger takes a look to see the gate is wide open.

The widow stands speechless before him.

An exchange of stares seem endless. He’s unsure whether

she’s going to scream or strike him.

Instead she tears up. The gravedigger stands in a peculiar

situation.

Now she’s bawling her eyes out barely able to stand.

He leaves her to weep on her own, and soon she’s against
the tree sobbing. There’s still a deep distance between the
two.

The face of the watch pops open so he can sneak a glimpse

at the time. The second hand is still. Trying to wind it
with his free arm, he hears rattling. He shakes it back and
fourth listening to a few gears jingling around inside.

Everything’s broken.

He starts to cry.

CUT TO BLACK

THE END.