[ITALY][Florence] Matchgirl Notes

Initial MatchGirl Pitch for 35mm Film

A little girl roams the streets late New Year’s night, with no shoes on her feet and tattered clothing. She clutches a handful of matches, reluctant to return home to her father without collecting any money for the day. She crouches into a small corner of a building and begins to light the matches one by one in an effort to keep warm. Each time, she is blessed with a heavenly image of warmth and cheer that lifts her spirits and bring faith that continues to shine up until the last moments of her brief life. Through the beauty her extravagant visions and pure soul, and the love she continues to hold towards her departed grandmother, there is a glimmer of hope. Based on the Hans Christian Anderson tale, the gloom and cruelty of the cold world in which she has been victim to is momentarily overshadowed by the innocence of a child. 

***

From: Professor Christopher Kelly

Sent: Monday, June 19, 2006 5:48 pm
To: Tara Rose Stromberg

Dear Tara,

Thanks for the mail. In my view, you've made tremendous strides these last weeks. Your revisions have been sharp, thoughtful, and bold. The result is a much clearer and, indeed, far more interesting, cinematic script.

With respect to the 35mm project, it's entirely possible that you're simply putting too much pressure on yourself. Try working with a journal, longhand, anything that will help to introduce obstances into your process.

It may be that one of the issues that you're facing has to do with the diff compositional methods nec for shorts against longer projects. More likely, though, it seems that there's a prevailing concern in aligning the "possibility" (the script-in-development) with the "actual" (either the reality or the source material). 

In this instance, the only thing to do is to WRITE, WRITE, WRITE.

That is the ONLY means of redress.

You're on the right track!

best

cbk 

[ITALY][Rome] Photo Album

The Colosseum

Palatine Hill

Roman Forum

Fountain de Trevi

Vatican Art

Statue in the Vatican

Halls of the Vatican

[ITALY][Rome][Pompeii] More News from Overseas

From: James Morrison
Sent: Mon 6/12/06 6:08 PM
To: Tara Rose Stromberg
Subject: where have all the vanilla shakes gone...?‏

I arrived back in Ventura last night. Slept till about noon today & just went and had lunch with Nathan. Once again in this crappy library with the slowest computers in the world!!!

I forgot how soon you are leaving Italy, hope my letter reaches you in time, but if not it will be nice to know there is a paper with my handwriting sitting somewhere in an unopened envelope in Italy.



Still have a few scenes to shoot in Ventura & should be wrapped by the end of this week. Ian is getting surgery on his arm tomorrow (he broke it about a month ago & the bone grew wrong or something) So, everyone is a bit confused as to how we are going to finish, but camera men are a dime a dozen in these parts.

I look like a Mexican. I thought I should tell you this. It's the absolute truth. Standing in the desert for days on end will do this to you. You know how much I like mexicans & how well I do the voice, so this should hopefully work out for me; my new look of Spanish heritage.

How is that ol' foot of yours?

Rome sounds amazing & I'm sure it's beautiful. Did you see Indiana Jones diggin around the ruins? If you didn't maybe you saw a lil chinese kid digging around, and he could stand in for Short Round.

Today is the first day in a week now where we are not shooting anything. I hate it. It's nice to sleep and all, but it's kind of depressing to have to slow back down to real life. Tomorrow and the next day I'll be back at it again, but with Ian's absence I'm not really sure what's gonna happen.

My phone stopped working. I can't remember if I told you that or not. I can receive calls & hear people, but they cannot hear me. Way to go phone! It actually hasn't really worked since I got here. I really don't care. I hate talking on phones anyway, but I fear that some people in NY who I would usually talk to might think that I don't want to talk to them, or something stupid like that.

Try to worry about money only to the extent that you are accomplishing something. If there's nothing you can do- just keep spending and go in dept. It'll be worth it. If you had money & were rich with it you'd probably be an asshole like most the people who are rich are. So, fuck money, it's no good unless you want to spoil yourself & have an easy less interesting life. The only downside is an unwelcomed great amount of peanut butter & jelly, but it could always be worse.

Your pictures looked beautiful. I thought you cut your hair! It does not look cut. I hope I get to see it real short, because that'd be cool.

Have you picked a story to do for your 35 yet? I really like the one about umbrellas, that sounds like a story right up your alley & i'd love to see that one.

Be careful & enjoy them crazy landscapes.

james

***

From: Christine Stromberg
Sent: Thursday, June 15, 2006 3:56 pm
To: Tara Rose Stromberg
Subject: Re: where has my family gone?

Tara, I'm sorry I did not get back to you sooner. It has been CRAZY here. Dad was away with the Legion in Wildwood for four days, I was with the kids and had to do grades, make up final exams, complete the union database account, print a status for the members, prepare for Ceri's graduation and she was sick the day before. Uncle Mike has been back and helped out with the kids, dropping Lili off at school while dad was away; but the most stressful has been that grandma went back into the hospital, she had ruptured spleen(like out of nowhere??)fortunately the bleeding stopped and no surgery was necessary. Grandma is doing well but is not yet rady to go home, so I have been traveling to the hospital as often as I can and emailing was always the last on my list of things to do..

Although you certainly were not last on my list.

Grandma asks about you every time i visit.

I know you are concerned about your account. I went to the bank and got a balance as well as access to the account via the web, which will not be active for a couple of days. Currently , as of yesterday their is 311.00 dollars I will put some money in on Friday and email you with the amount.

I love you lots and we miss yo terribly, but we a re thrilled you are enjoying your time over their.

areviderci for now (Spelling??) help)

mom

[ITALY] Writing Task: Identity Monologue

From: Professor Christopher Kelly

Sent: Saturday, June 17, 2006 8:48 am

Dear Tara,

Outstanding work last night. Very theatrical, moving, honest, and funny.

Well done!!!!

Congrats!

best

cbk

***

Writing in Florence/Professor Chris Kelly

June 13, 2006

“Acting Piece: Identity” by Tara Rose Stromberg

PEACE BE WITH YOU
NOTE: This piece was preformed in front of a student audience for critique. We each picked a theme out of a hat. Mine was "Identity."

NARRATOR: Just like every God-fearing Christian in town, Mrs. Claire Newman takes great pride in attending Sunday mass.

[Outer Claire begins to stroll and greet “church-goers” in the audience. Inner Claire is hidden behind her, following suite.]

OUTER: Hello there Anne Marie!

CLAIRES: (Inner slides to the left of outer, as she simultaneously does the same, waving gesture) How lovely to see you!

[Inner, still somewhat behind of the Outer Claire, continues to imitate each gesture and facial expression as Outer.]

OUTER: Oh, Ms. Nesbit, I’d love to talk with you later about this week’s St. Peter Pot Luck...

INNER: (shakes head for a moment, embarrassed, then mumbles) St. Peter Pot Luck....?

CLAIRES: (Inner returns to cheeryness and follows Outer)...don’t forget to remind me!

OUTER: Martha you look positively darling in that dress, why you look twenty years younger-

INNER: -Older....(grimacing in disgust.)

[Outer giggles nervously and tries to compose herself.]

OUTER: How do you stay so fit? Are you on a new diet?

INNER: (sarcastically sweet) The Hostess plan; ten Twinkies per meal?

OUTER: Oh you’re too much! Heaven’s no....not me. (proudly) I’ll never diet-I don’t deny myself of any food...

INNER: (thoughtfully) ...unless it has calories...

CLAIRES: (doting) Oh, Father Pat! How good to see you again....

OUTER: Oh, I’m doing wonderful.

A beat.

CLAIRES: (changing her tone) Oh...my family...?

[They both freeze. Outer stands smiling, but stiff. Inner wears a threatened and fearful expression, standing the same way. ]

OUTER: ..yes, the rest of the family is a little busy today, I’m afraid, so they won’t be coming. Last night, Harold was simply drowning in paperwork...

INNER: (through her teeth) ...and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s...

OUTER: And the kids are at my mother-in-laws for the weekend.

INNER: I have no idea what my children are doing.

OUTER: Oh, well of course!..

CLAIRES: ....Bonnie is doing so much better now! She’s out of the hospital and back in school. She was a bit ill, and had felt a little faint-

INNER: -on account of the all the acid she took-

CLAIRES: -but she’s fine now!

[They wave goodbye to Father Pat, adjust their clothing, and breathe in deeply in preparation.]

NARRATOR: During mass, Mrs. Newman always prays with great admiration and love towards the Lord.

[Both Claire’s kneel, one next to the other, hands folded. Outer Claire’s eyes begin to wander along with Inner’s. Outer Claire tries to resist but is obviously distracted.]

CLAIRE’S: Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...

INNER: (annoyed) Jesus, I thought we said this one already...

CLAIRE’S: Thy kingdom come,

INNER: (rolling eyes) This is fucking dumb...

OUTER: On Earth, as it is in heaven...

INNER: (looking around uncomfortably) ...and I’m in hell...

OUTER: Give us this day our daily bread...

INNER: (looking at someone in congregation hungrily) Oooh, Ben Harper, hottie at twelve o’clock...

OUTER: ...and forgive us our trespasses....

INNER: I’d like to get my hands on those hot buns of his...

[Outer begins to say the prayer towards her inner self, trying to shut her up.]

OUTER: As we forgive those who trespass against us...

INNER: (her face becomes horrified) Is he sitting with that tramp Carrie??!!!

OUTER: And lead us not into temptation...

INNER: I could bang him better than she ever could...

OUTER: ...but deliver us from evil...

INNER: I will kill that slimy little bitch...

CLAIRES: (standing up, triumphant in those words) Amen!

[She freezes, feeling stupid.]

NARRATOR: Ms. Newman always enjoys sharing God’s blessings with others.

[Outer and Inner Claire both shake people’s hands, each next to eachother, both smiling sweetly, while Inner Claire mumbles through her teeth.]

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you...Peace be with you...

INNER: I don’t even know who the fuck this is...

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you...

INNER: This chick’s in desperate need of a manicure...

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you...

INNER: Eww, your hands are GROSS...

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you..

INNER: I hate you’re guts...

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you...

[They each sit, Inner plopping down looking annoyed and exhausted.]

NARRATOR: At once, Mrs. Newman is filled with the joy of other’s love.

OUTER: Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

INNER: (head in hands) I feel so goddamn retarded right now....

NARRATOR: Peace be with you.

OUTER: And also with you.

INNER: Oh, just shut the fuck up...

NARRATOR: And when the time comes for Confession, Mrs. Newman withholds nothing from the Lord.

[Inner Claire goes behind Outer Claire, as she sits as in a confessional, both their hands folded.]

CLAIRES: Forgive me father for I have sinned

OUTER: (hesitant)...uh...twice...

INNER: Ten times.

OUTER:....three times...

INNER: Seven.

OUTER: Six.

CLAIRES: Five, five times this week.

OUTER: I took a grape from the supermarket without paying for it.

INNER: I also pocketed a grapefruit and a box of Advil.

OUTER: I lied and said that the slice of cake I gave Anne Marie was fat free.

INNER: ...after I spit in the batter.

OUTER: I believe I was a little too harsh with my children. I told them to shut up Wednesday morning...

INNER: (trying to get closer to screen to speak) I told them to shove a goddamn sock down their throats....

OUTER: (swatting her away) I was trying to shoo my little one away from the hot stove...

INNER: (now proclaiming it into Outer Claire’s ear)...using a four inch butcher knife...

OUTER: I was on the phone with my mother, and I was very disrespectful.

INNER: I made her cry.

OUTER: She wasn’t being fair. 

INNER: She was being an insensitive whore.

OUTER: (shaking her head, getting upset, trying to cover it up) Uhh...and the other day Mr. Harper was helping me with groceries, and he kissed me...

INNER: (she clenches Outer’s shoulders, holding her back) I kissed him!

OUTER: (resisting) I...I put my arms around him-

INNER: (clenching her harder) -put my hands down his pants!

OUTER: (fighting her) I didn’t know he was married!

INNER: We hid in their bedroom closet when she came back for her keys!

OUTER: (almost breaking down) My husband means the world to me!

INNER: He’s a useless pile of shit!

OUTER: I think about him all the time...

INNER: ...only when I’m fucking someone else!

OUTER: He’s always there for me! -together- INNER: He’s never there for me!

OUTER: I love him! -together- INNER: I hate him!

OUTER: I love my life! -together- INNER: I hate my life!

CLAIRES: (They are holding on to each other in grief) I’m lonely!!!!

[ITALY] Writing Task: Character Piece 3.0 - FINAL

And finally, here's my finished character piece....this time with a little more character.

Florence in the American Imagination/Professor Lisa Cesarani
June 19, 2005
“Assignment #1: Character REVISED” by Tara Rose Stromberg

At first I was startled to see a man in uniform. I suppose the war had rattled my nerves a bit, and I wasn’t too keen on having such a stark reminder of its presence so nearby. Of course, we had seen our share of soldiers in the past years; thankfully, not on unfriendly terms. However, every single one, some old, some terribly young, had all seemed so very distant, as if they were desperately trying to forget something. They were never very social-polite, of course, even unbearably so-but these passing words of acknowledgment were all I ever came to know of them. It was unsettling for me, being a very talkative and inquisitive person by nature, to live amongst these gentlemen who seemed so very dead inside.

And thus, these were my rather disappointing expectations of Mr. Douglas, or Norman as he would have it, and how thrilled I was to find that I was wrong. For not only was he conversational, but was more full of life than a child at play. Even through the many trials he must have endured amidst the long, grueling war, his spirit seemed to be desperately trying to hold on to all that he had once held sacred.

He came to Villa Varone in the month of March, after a harsh winter in Siena. He wore the weary face of a traveler, but his blue eyes were wide with wonder as he climbed our small hill. I was standing by the window, spying as it was, after hearing their low voices and the sounds of crunching gravel in the evening air. We had expected him to come much earlier, and were somewhat concerned when we hadn’t heard anything for days. But as he and his guide trudged through the weeds, their weight shoved onto their tall walking sticks, I had no need to question why. Still, Norman appeared very fresh looking in his army uniform, and slightly younger than his actual age. Though he was absolutely tired, as I could see, he also had a little spring to his step, which went perfectly with his blatant awe of the tranquil view of nightfall.

The madam and I both stepped onto the porch to greet him when they had reached the lawn. The air was crisp and damp. We both had brought our shawls with us, and now clenches them around our shoulders. But Norman approached us with a perspiring brow, his guide also dripping sweat from the end of his nose. His eyes immediately met ours with a jovial smile, and panting breathlessly, managed to greet us with a friendly hello in Italian. His wonderfully merry mood, despite his positively awful physical state, startled me so that I giggled a bit, before catching myself in embarrassment. The madam wasn’t too pleased with this outburst, but Norman didn’t seem to mind much, as he smiled even brighter and began to apologize.

“Yes, I would think my appearance is less than presentable,” he began with a laugh. “Alberto and I had to walk quite a ways uphill from Florence, since there was no one to take us from the train station at this hour.”

The madam immediately heard the faint call of her motherly instincts and fell into a state of pity. “Oh signore, mi dispiace. You must be so very tired! Come in quickly out of this cold air and Caterina will make us some hot coffee.”

At this, I took on my role as chambermaid and out of my girlish curiousity. Taking Norman’s baggage with a small curtsey to excuse myself, I reluctantly averted my eyes to the ground, away from his contemplative eyes. I heard him call “Grazie” as I hurried to the parlor, wishing I could stay to reply.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long until we had a chance to speak. It was after dinner, when I was making his bed ready in the guest room upstairs. I had been desperately trying to catch its of his conversation with the Madam about his journey the past week. It was surprisingly easy to make out the words; his voice was so excited and full of vigor. It was as if he hadn’t spoken to a soul in ages. I could almost picture how taken aback the Madam was at this sudden burst of energy in our normally quiet Pratolino inn.

When I heard him excuse himself for the night, I busied myself with the linens and quietly anticipated his footsteps up the steps. He entered looking even more tired than before, and jumped slightly when I greeted him. He hadn’t known I was there.

“Oh! Scusi signorina...I’m a bundle of nerves today it seems.” He laughed a bit and straightened himself up against the doorway, as if to keep out of my way.

“Oh no, please, no worries. Make yourself at home,” I insisted. I was hoping this didn’t exclude me in the process. So I continued to explain that I would only be there a minute more, wondering how he would react.

I was promptly reassured. “Take your time,” he answered, loosening up a bit. “It would be nice to have some company other than Alberto after so many weeks. Not that I object, but I do miss speaking my native English. And I gather that my need to recount the past few days of my journey came as somewhat of a shock to the Madam. I suppose she wasn’t expecting someone so long-winded.” He grinned sheepishly, and try as I might, I couldn’t help but laugh at his modesty.

“If anything, one should consider themselves lucky to be so conversational,” I assured him.

He looked at me, puzzled. “Well, sometimes I think I’d be better off keeping quiet. It’s harder for people to judge.” He sat down on the bed and looked down at his shoes.

I put down the extra coverlet I was folding and stared at him in amazement. I hadn’t expected such a comment from someone that seemed so very sure of himself. I tried to maintain my politeness, but a little of my surprise still showed through my attempts to ask why.

“Oh, well that’s not true for everyone,” he explained. “I’m not of the ordinary sort of people, however. I guess the best way to explain it is ‘I’m a writer.’” He took out a cigarette and nestled it into the crook of his mouth, giving me an awkward grin.

“And that makes you unordinary?” I laughed. “Why you should have more to say than any other ordinary person normally would.”

“Writers aren’t supposed to talk. They’re supposed to write.” He produced a small matchbook from his coat pocket and lit one quietly. I had the slightest feeling that he was becoming uncomfortable, which was odd since he had seemed so very sociable at first. I guessed that perhaps I was prying a little too much, so I decided to change the subject. At least for the moment. I was much to interested in him to give up, and I knew that he probably didn’t want me to either.

“So is that why you came to Pratolino? To write?” I had finished folding and had taken a seat on the opposite side of the room in the vanity chair. He looked up at me with a much brighter face this time.

“If by writing you mean ‘an escape’ of sorts, then yes, I suppose that’s true.” He smiled slyly. I returned the gesture.

We continued to speak for a long while afterwards, and I came to learn that he had been placed on leave after serving for two years in the army. He joked that this was due to his lack of skills in anything else but the written word, which had little to do with such an advanced age of warfare. So he had planned to put together a series of journals on his travel experiences in hopes of securing a publisher, and eventually, employment.

He was from England, and had attended college until his financial situation forced him to leave. He seemed rather forlorn about his lack of education, which he suspected was the reasoning for his inability to maintain a steady job. He considered himself lucky to be drafted, since he was hardly doing much of anything at the time.

Of course, I didn’t see it this way, since his life seemed so very carefree. He had no familial ties to burden him, no career to busy himself - his lack of direction in life was simply captivating, for it opened so many opportunities for discovery and travel and self-examination. I tried to convince Norman of this fortunate quality, but he would not have it. I was beginning to notice the degree to which he belittled himself, even while he was so highly regarded in other’s eyes.

“Trust me, it isn’t enough to have time,” he explained. “One has to know what to do with it. And I haven’t seemed to figure that out for myself quite yet. Which makes for a lot more wasted time.” At this point, he had propped his feet up on the ottoman, and was in the middle of smoking his fifth cigarette. Most of the time, he stared at it’s burning tip, as if lost in thought.

I was watching him intently. He seemed to have slipped into his own mind for a moment, because it was very quiet. I was trying to think of something comforting to say, but somehow I didn’t think anything would help. He reminded me of a sulking child, stuck indoors on a rainy afternoon; had all the time in the world ahead of him, but he had no way of knowing what to do with it. And it seems that perhaps when he was that age, he did know...that at one time in his life, he had wanted to do so many things. It was so easy to imagine things then. But as you age, thought slowly turns to action, and Norman was still only imagining what could happen, instead of living it.

I decided that perhaps it was best for me to leave then, so I bid him goodnight, at which point he thanked me again for my company.

“If I may be so bold to say, you are quite the fervent talker,” he commended. I knew he meant this as a compliment. “I believe I’ve met my match.”

We often talked during the nights thereafter, mostly about his travels through Italy, as well as some of the places he visited during his service time. He always had such vivid stories to tell, and I encouraged him to write them down in his journals. Yet, as the weeks went on and the inn acquired more guests for the spring season, he spent less and less time speaking to others. After meals, and even when the gentlemen would gather to smoke and drink, I would find Norman by himself, usually outdoors. Perhaps it was just that I was unaccustomed to being near a writer (since that is what he spent most of his time doing), but I felt so very solemn for his alienation. I knew that he would have had so much to say, so much to teach to everyone, and so much admire, but that ultimately, he could not stop himself from disappearing into the conversations within his own mind.