The house was serene except for the ticking of the clock affixed to the wall. Harry sat anxiously on the couch, one of his legs waving up and down as if it had a mind of its own.
Sparky had resigned to simply sleeping wrapped into a curly ball on the rug an hour ago. Maria must have sensed Harry's discontent, and had retreated to the kitchen to make something warm, probably soup, but Harry had barely finished a full meal in the 24 hours preceding this point.
The screening would not stop replaying in his head.
The framing choices that Nolan made, the razor sharp pacing of Insomnia—things that made Harry want to try to some twists on his own. But even louder than that were words spoken by Warner Bros. executives—hints of Marvel, the smirking disbelief they registered when Harry mentioned acquisitions.
Marvel would be absorbed soon, however that looked. Harry wanted, if he was going to build something new, to steal DC from its slow demise, before it slipped too far into the background. James would have to give him some answers tomorrow.
The doorbell interrupted his train of thought. Sparky's ears perked up, although the dog didn't wake. Maria moved hastily over the marble floor and opened the door. Gregory Lang entered, his coat half-buttoned, his tie tied in a way that suggested someone had dragged him out of bed.
"You really do know how to choose your hours," Gregory said as he set his briefcase on a chair. "I was almost expecting you not to make it to the Insomnia premiere. With your commitments in London, I thought—"
Harry shook his head. "No, I got everything tied up there. The Dream Theatre is tied up, for now anyway. What I wanted tonight is this." He indicated a low table with a folder and a bound script laid out neatly next to a budget.
Greg's eyebrows went up. "So this is why you got me up in the middle of the night."
"This is it," Harry said simply. He pushed the script towards him.
Greg settled down and began going through the pages displaying a tired, yet inquisitive expression. Harry leaned forward, almost bursting as he began setting up the story.
"It's about a pianist. A young man, talented, however pretends to be blind… Initially just an experiment--to heighten his other senses, to find the profundity of the music. Then, he meets a girl--Sophie.
She thinks he is blind and she helps him score a gig ... which is at her father's diner. They fall into relationship, and he maintains the pretense because ... by this time it has gotten complicated. He cannot admit he has been pretending."
Greg nodded slowly, turning the page. Harry kept on, speaking calmly, issuing it in no rush, simply establishing the beats.
"One day, he is invited to play a private party for a wealthy actor and his wife, while he is playing, he notices the actor's dead body on the floor... but because everyone thinks he is blind, he has to keep pretending not to see anything. The wife and her lover wipe up the crime scene... literally right in front of him... and he has to act like there is nothing happening. And from there, it is chaos..."
Harry took a moment to calm his breadth before continuing, "The lover is a police officer; the wife is a ruthless character; and they catch wind that he isn't blind; and he becomes their target.
His life breaks down; he loses his girlfriend, becomes a blind man, and gets down with darker people than he could have imagined: black market organ dealers and opportunists. Crime thriller, but darkly ironic."
Greg rubbed at his temple. "And what's the ending?"
Harry smiled faintly. "That depends on how you read it. He survives but at a cost; he's blind—maybe—and the last shot could be read either way."
Greg closed the script halfway and studied him. "I like the tension, the absurdity of it, and the twists work: we start out as a comedy of errors before it turns grim. But there's just one question." He leaned forward. "Was the protagonist ever blind at all?"
Harry paused for a moment before smiling. "That's for you to decide."
Greg let out a breath, pushing back into the couch. He thought about the script tapping against his knee. "This is different. Weird. Possible. But it means something. People might be willing to argue about it, which is also a good thing."
Harry nodded and, finally, his fingers stilled on the arms of the couch. "Then tomorrow, we start work. No waiting."
Just then, Maria entered and set a tray of soup down on their coffee table. Greg offered her a tired smile before turning back to Harry. "Tomorrow? You are relentless."
Harry picked up the bowl, the steam soaking his glasses. "Relentless is how we arrived at this moment."
Greg shook his head, but could not hide the smile on his face. "Fine, tomorrow. But better let me clear out and rest first. You should also get a good sleep."