Prelogue StudioFugue State
A musicologist is sent to conduct an unusual Turing test for a mysterious tech startup.
by alexanderdominitzWritten by Xander Dominitz Gersh / Arlook Group Over TITLES, the HUM of an electrical grid... KA-THUNK! LIGHTS FLICKER ON illuminating the pale, frozen face of a Baroque, sexagenarian ANIMATRONIC. Periwig. Ruffled shirt. Dour gaze.
Written by Xander Dominitz Gersh / Arlook Group Over TITLES, the HUM of an electrical grid... KA-THUNK! LIGHTS FLICKER ON illuminating the pale, frozen face of a Baroque, sexagenarian ANIMATRONIC. Periwig. Ruffled shirt. Dour gaze.
Whoa.
Right?
Seated opposite, studying the robot’s face from the other side of the GLASS, is Frederica “FLICKA” Kunstler (28).
It’s just like the Haussmann.
Huh?
The Haussmann painting. 1746. His only authenticated portrait.
That shit’s another team. I’m P&M.
Off to the side, an enormous table is covered in MONITORS. Cables snake from the screens to a RACK OF SERVERS. Behind the main monitor is SVEN (35)--beard, Guster tee.
Personality and Memory. Everything you’re here to fuck with.
I’m not--
Yeah you are, that’s why we’re paying you.
Sven enters the animatronic’s “CAGE,” a glass mini-room which dominates the lab. Green LED lights line the windowpane. Inside, the robot is being charged via a CABLE plugged into its back. Also in the room: a small Ikea desk with a FEATHER QUILL, an 88-key YAMAHA, and a Lutheran Bible in German. Sven unplugs the cable and coils it around his forearm.
Never enter the cage unless the light’s green.
Flicka looks at the cage floor. Splotches of INK SPATTER from some prior incident stain the vinyl. As Flicka reacts...
Dr. Sachs never said anything?
Detective Cybil MONCRIEF (50s) stares at Flicka from across the stainless steel table of a police precinct.
No.
Hard to believe he wouldn’t discuss work with you.
This wasn’t--he was teaching two * grad courses. Advising three Ph.D’s besides me. The School of Music was his life. This? This was a side gig. *
You know he suggested you as a * replacement? Said you were just as * qualified. *
I had no idea. *
He was kind like that.
Moncrief reacts.
“Was.”
I’m not stupid, detective. The sign on the door says “Homicide.” If Dr. Sachs is dead, tell me now.
As Moncrief eyes her...
Flicka looks down at the CLIPBOARD in her hands. There’s a form with questions, each with a 1-to-5 rating system. Sven checks the system status on the monitors.
Should be a pen there.
There isn’t. Flicka takes a FOUNTAIN PEN from her purse.
So it can actually--?
Mm-hmm.
And you want me to--?
Yeah. No. Fuck the form. Just tell me if it’s him. *
Sven finalizes some code. * FLICKA * You know I’ve never met him, right? * I mean, obviously, but-- * SVEN * (not looking up) * You’ve studied him your whole life. * FLICKA * Not as long as Dr. Sachs. His * expertise dwarfs mine. * Flicka watches Sven for a reaction. Nothing. * FLICKA *(CONT'D) (pressing) * I’d be curious to know where you * left things with him. * SVEN * (stopping) * Did he talk to you about this? * FLICKA * What? No. Whatever confidentiality * agreement he had, he honored it. * Flicka withers as she feels Sven’s unwavering stare. * SVEN * Forget Dr. Sachs. He isn’t a part * of this anymore. * As Flicka’s blood runs cold... *
I need you to understand.
I know the answer to 95% of the questions I ask you. So do us both a favor and stop lying.
Why are you treating me like a * suspect? *
Dr. Sachs goes missing, Nemogen hires you. That’s a nice payday.
You think I’d get rid of my mentor just to steal his consulting gig? *
Moncrief opens a manila folder. Lays out DOCUMENTS:
We subpoenaed your financials. Credit cards maxed out, you’re three months behind on rent--
I need you to understand: I’m a pariah in the field. My work. My theories. I’m a joke. Dr. Sachs was the only one who believed in me. Without him, no Ph.D. program would * touch me.
Moncrief takes one more thing from the file: a grainy CCTV STILL of Flicka and an older man kissing in a parking lot.
That’s you and your “advisor” the night before he went missing.
I guess he touched you.
Flicka’s cheeks burn.
FLICKA * I’m just asking because maybe I can * help? If I understand the nature of * the problem... * Sven rubs his eyes. He doesn’t want to get into this. * SVEN * Look. We had a viable product. Then * shit got fucked up, and now it’s un- * releasable. So I gotta fix it. And * all I need from YOU is the rubber * stamp of approval so I can tell my * bosses we got him right. * (finalizing some code) * We understand each other? * A beat. Flicka nods. *
Flicka gazes at the picture. Remembering.
That night, something was off. He barely touched his dinner. Just stared off into space. When he kissed me, it felt like goodbye.
I didn’t go to Nemogen for the money. I went to get answers.
About Sachs? From who?
Flicka gives Moncrief a wary look.
This is the part where you decide if I’m crazy or not.
Sven presses a key. A chime sounds as the cage light switches from green to red. The robot blinks, then looks at Flicka. BACH * Hallo. *
Uh, hi. Herr Bach? Is that what I call you?
Kapellmeister is most correct.
Right. Kapellmeister Bach. My name is Frederica Kunstler. “Flicka.” I’m here to get to know you.
Bach studies her.
But you know me already, don’t you? *
What do you mean? *
You sit there, your pen hovering over the clipboard, smug in your illusions.
Oh.
I--
You come not to discover but to audit, to see how well the world conforms to the truth that’s already in your head.
Chime! The light turns green. Sven has frozen Bach.
Fuck. *
See what I mean? *
Sven scans code on the monitor, oblivious to the fact that Flicka has just been rocked by this encounter. * FLICKA * It’s really him. * SVEN * Huh? * FLICKA * It’s not just a talking wax figure. * It’s not some walking AI chatbot. * It’s him. * SVEN * Whoop-de-fuckin’-doo. * (off Flicka’s look) * He’s a prick! We can’t subject * paying customers to abuse! * (final keystrokes) * All right, let’s go again. * Flicka hides the clipboard under her chair. * Chime! The light turns red. Bach looks at Flicka. * BACH * Hallo. *
Moncrief looks at Flicka. *
You expect me to believe you went looking for answers from a robot that thinks it’s Johann Sebastian Bach?
FLICKA * Dr. Sachs spent months on this * project, right? They must have had * conversations. Shared things. Maybe * he knew something! * MONCRIEF * You mean “it.” * Flicka did not mean “it.” *
BACH * Aren’t you going to ask me to play * for you? That’s why I’m here, isn’t * it? To be a performing monkey. * FLICKA * Maybe you could compose something * instead. A three-part invention. * BACH * Make it five parts if you wish. Or * nine. Or fifteen. * FLICKA * That would sound-- * BACH * Terrible. But what does that * matter? Why stop ourselves from * creating any monstrosity we wish? * Just look what they’ve done to me. * Chime! The light turns green. Sven has frozen Bach. * SVEN * Goddamnit. * He stands, hands on his hips. Out of ideas. * FLICKA * What if you just let him talk to me * without cutting him off? * Uncensored. No filters. * (off Sven’s silence) * And it would help to know what * caused this...change in him. * A beat. Sven seems to be taking measure of Flicka. * SVEN * It was a bad memory packet. * FLICKA * A what? * SVEN * A memory packet, it’s...you upload * a bundle of data. Facts from the * person’s life. Letters they wrote. *
Pictures of their spouse. And the * algorithm generates artificial * memories. *
FLICKA * Okay... * SVEN * So coupla weeks ago, I uploaded a * new memory packet. * Personality hasn’t been the same * since. I wipe his memory, restore * old builds... doesn’t matter. He * won’t stop with this melancholy * shit. * FLICKA * What was in the memory packet? * SVEN * That’s the thing. It was just * music. Fugues he wrote at the end * of his life. * (beat) * All right. You get one shot. * Chime! The light turns red. Bach looks at Flicka. *
FLICKA * Have you ever loved someone so much * that losing them feels like you’re * suffocating? The truth is, I * started losing Dr. Sachs before he * went missing. Whatever he saw in * that lab changed him. * (beat) * I had to see for myself. *
Bach stares at Flicka. *
Go on, then. Make your request. You * must have studied music. *
Your music. I’ve studied you all my life. I was six when I heard your St. Matthew Passion.
Erbarme dich, mein Gott...
Bach perks up. *
You have perfect pitch.
May I see your pen?
Sorry?
The pen on the clipboard you’ve tried to hide under your chair. Show it to me.
Flicka picks up the pen. Raises it for Bach to see.
It was a gift.
Someone close to you?
My mentor. He had one just like it.
Did you know him?
The question draws Sven’s attention. He squints at Flicka.
The only people I know are in this room. When you go, they will erase my memory, and I will forget you.
Sensing Sven watching, Flicka buries her disappointment. *
What about composing? Is that real?
Real?
Do you feel a creative spark?
I feel...processors spinning up. A dull heat, like a fever, something beyond me.
And then an answer--lumpy, stale, insipid--plops into my consciousness. It always comes, even if I try to stop it.
FLICKA * What if I asked you to compose something of real beauty?
Music ought to glorify one’s creator, to exalt God’s majesty. My god is a rack of servers, my creator a small, flatulent man with crumbs on his shirt. How does one glorify that?
Sven’s nostrils flare.
You have destroyed God and replaced him with idols and agendas. Even you, Fräulein Flicka. Your desperation is obvious, though you try so dearly to hide it. What is the idol you can’t let go? What is your secret agenda?
Flicka, feeling Sven eyeing her, stammers out a cover story--
I have a controversial theory about your work.
She takes a POCKETBOOK from her purse. It’s filled with printed staff lines and handwritten musical motifs.
I believe there are hidden meanings in your music, secret messages spelled out by the notes and the letters they correspond to.
The Germans use a different notation system. A, C, D, E, F, and G are the same as in English, but B stands for B-flat, and H stands for B-natural. The letter ‘s’ denotes a flat, so the note E-flat is written as “E-s,” which spells “S.”
Flicka finds the page she was looking for. Her genuine enthusiasm starts to bubble forth--
In The Art of the Fugue, you spell ‘B-A-C-H’ in the treble notes of the fourteenth Contrapunctus. If you assign numbers to the letters B, A, C, and H, you get two, one, three, and eight. Add those together, you get fourteen, the same number as the composition.
Flicka looks for a reaction. Bach says nothing.
Fourteen was a sacred number to you! You were born on March 21, 1685. The 21st day of the third month of the eighties: two-one- three-eight. And in Contrapunctus Eight, B-A-C-H occurs again, but this time with a motif of E-flat, D, G -- S.D.G. Soli Deo Gloria, “Glory to God alone.” And the intervals between those notes? E- flat to D, one half step. D to G, four half steps. One, four! Fourteen.
Long pause.
Utter rot.
A body blow. Flicka withers. She’s not pretending this time.
You’ve spent your life chasing the mice in your skull. I pity you.
Chime! The light turns green. Sven has frozen Bach.
Fuck him. You all right?
I’m fine.
Flicka, not fine--
I’ve given you a lot, Detective. Now tell me if you’ve found Dr. * Sachs. Tell me if the man I love is alive or not.
Moncrief gives Flicka a hard, challenging stare. Searching her suspect’s face. Flicka meets her, unwavering.
I can’t. Because that’s not why you’re here.
She hands Flicka a TABLET with a video cued up. Hits PLAY: Grainy CCTV footage of Sven entering the CAGE to plug Bach in. Through the hissing speakers, we hear Sven whistling, oblivious to the coming danger... Suddenly, BACH attacks...grabbing a CHAIR and striking Sven’s head...Sven crumples...BLOOD seeps from his skull...Bach pounces on his coder’s body, landing blow after blow... As Flicka reacts in shock--
Our tech says the robot somehow reversed the connection, infiltrated the system, studied his own programming.
Poor guy. He’d lost control weeks ago and didn’t even know it.
Flicka tries to form words. But her eyes stay glued to the crimson stain spreading across the floor.
I’ll need you to take me through it again. But first, coffee. Want one?
Flicka says nothing. Moncrief leaves without getting a reply. Onscreen, Bach stands. Wipes his bloody hand on his coat. Removes the coat. Then the wig. Then the shirt.
Bach’s wireframe exoskeleton is now exposed. He pads to the Yamaha. Turns it on. Sits at the keys. Closes his eyes. Then, seemingly transported, his right hand plays a motif on a diminished A chord, strange and chromatic and haunting. After the first bar, the left hand joins in, repeating the motif in the bass before improvising in perfect counterpoint.
Flicka watches, transfixed. Even through the tinny speakers, she knows this isn’t music from the algorithm. This is from the soul. This is music for God. Onscreen, the motif repeats. Flicka’s expression changes. She digs her pocketbook and pen out of her purse. Listens again.
The Germans use a different notation system. A, C, D, E, F, and G are the same as in English...
Flicka transcribes the motif, her pen drawing a dotted quarter note on E-flat, then an eighth note on A...
...but B stands for B-flat, and H stands for B-natural.
...an eighth note on C, and another on B-natural...
The letter ‘s’ denotes a flat, so the note E-flat is written as “Es,” which is pronounced “S.”
...and finally, a quarter note back on E-flat. Flicka writes underneath each note:
Flicka’s pen slips out as her hand goes limp. * Onscreen, Bach finishes playing. He stands and looks right at the camera -- AT US.
Bach, now wearing Sven’s Guster tee, walks past the lot’s guard tower...the lab behind him, the world before him.
That’s a table read. Now hear yours.
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