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SHAM MAN 8 X 60’ TV SERIES PITCH 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

LOGLINE:

 

Young Latine American skeptic tears through1974 Mexico with Yaqui shaman Don Anon (ally or provocateur?) in search of his AWOL father -- a roque, former "apprentice" of the famed Nagual.  Navigating love and grief, ghosts and bandits, outlandish synchronicities (or set ups?), hallucinogenic "separate realities' (or madness?), and savage, blood-feuding Mormons, will Silvio turn out to be Ismael or Ahab? 

GENRE:

Adventure, Historical Fiction, Magic Realism, Alternative History, Homage to Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan books.

 

SETTING:

Sonoran Desert, Northern Mexico, late May, early 1970s.

 

LANGUAGE:

Predominantly English, with Spanish.

 

SHAM MAN PILOT
EPISODE 1, ACT 1, PAGES 1 - 3

 

EXT/INT. SILVIO'S MOTHER"S RUSTED TRAILER IN SKETCHY TRAILER PARK - (SAN DIEGO, CA.) - DAY

 

SILVIO:
Herself??

 

Ismael meets Oedipus Rex, tall, dark, handsome, 21-year-old Scandinavian/Latino POUNDS ON METAL DOOR, fumbles with keys, shoulders through.

 

SILVIO:

HERSELF!?

 

But before he can clamp his nose and mouth, her death smell races behind his eyes like a gun shot and he will taste it for days in his food.

 

Silvio shakily lights a cigarette, jacks it in his teeth, follows the sound of LOUD BUZZING INSECTS down a narrow hallway like a cattle chute.

 

HERSELF (38), tall, Scandinavian, once lovely Britt Ekland, is slumped against her bedroom door as if not wanting him to open it.  

 

Long, stringy blond hair covers her face, a syringe dangles from her needle-tracked arm and she is as blue as her summer dress.

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SILVIO:

Jesus, Mom.

 

 

EXT. DOWNTOWN EL CAHON, SAN DIEGO, CA - NIGHT (LATER) - TRACKING

 

Silvio walks through sketchy downtown El Cahon in a light rain, swigging brown-bagged whiskey.  An streetwalker calls to him from across the street.

 SEX WORKER

Silvio! 

 

Silvio manages a smile, raises his palm -- not tonight. Continues on.

 

Under a neon streetlight, he picks through glistening wet, reject doll parts in a toy factory's dumpster, pocketing a small, white, balled fist.

 

Continuing on into an overgrown courtyard of a rundown apartment building, he clicks on a Zippo lighter, walks down a row of electric meters to his, rigged to run slow with magnets and string.

 

After making a small adjustment, Silvio passes by an open basement window of an (illegal) Maj-Jongg parlor in full swing.

 

Sound of CLACKING bone tiles, excited MANDARIN CHINESE and cigarette smoke smelling like a funeral waft out the window. 

CHINESE PROPRIETOR calls up to his ankles.

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CHINESE PROPRIETOR:

Feel lucky tonight, Silverio?

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SILVIO

Not really.

 

 

INT. SILVIO'S APARTMENT BUILDING (EL CAHON, CA) - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)

 

Silvio unlocks heavy metal door, CLANKS IT SHUT.

 

His lone boot-falls ECHO down the long concrete corridor. Overhead light bulbs with safety cages stretch/shrink his shadow.

 

As he walks like a metronome, graffiti scrolls by on a side wall:

THE.  REAL. SECRET.  OF.   MAGIC.  IS.  THAT.  THE.  WORLD.  IS.  MADE.  OF.  WORDS. -- TERENCE MCKENNA.  

 

 

INT. SILVIO'S "ROOM" IN APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)

 

Silvio unlocks a heavy door into a windowless 10 x 8 foot janitor's closet with a center floor drain.  A deep utility sink is covered with a board, on which sits an emptied ashtray and wind-up alarm clock.

 

On a neatly-made, single cot there is a 1950's manual typewriter, a gift from Silvio's father (Himself), with a half-filled sheet of prose writing in the carriage and balled-up rejects on the concrete floor.  

 

Above the makeshift sink-table is a Mexican movie poster of John Ford's The Searchers (1956) with its Spanish title, Mas Corazon Que Odio (Heart Bigger Than Hate).
 

On crude plank shelving over the bed there are classic American and British novels, a portable record player, a few LPs, and Silvio's artfully arranged collection of doll fragments from the dumpster.

 

Silvio front-and-centers his new balled fist.

 

Fingering Herself's worn black men's leather wallet with a Hells Angels' death head insignia that he remembers was RICHARD'S, Silvio closes his eyes at the SOUND OF A PHANTOM MOTORCYCLE CRASH.  

 

Lighting a cigarette with Himself's chrome Zippo lighter with a naked blond embossed on the cover, Silvio pulls out Herself's CA drivers license and uncashed welfare check (name obscured on both), running his fingers over her photo like it was fragile glass.

 

From his front jeans pocket, he unfurls her signature, pastel pink head-scarf with colorful swirls, remembering her wearing it in her long, white-blond hair as translucent as fishing line in the blinding Mexican desert sun, and young Silvio burying face in its silky chevron as if he were invisible and only he could see through its camouflage. 

 

Hesitant, Silvio deeply SNIFFS it, still smelling traces of the orange oil perfume that Don Anon made especially for her, or maybe it was just seared into his unconscious, remembering young Silvio and young Pablo espying their tryst through the knothole, and Himself, oblivious (apparently), wandering around in the mountains, tripping his brains out, hunting "personal power" (Don Anon's wild goose chase or stratagem?), as if it could be tracked down like an animal. 

 

INT. SILVIO'S ROOM, 3 AM - NIGHT (LATER)

 

Metal door is double-locked from the inside, heavy cigarette smoke striates stiflingly still, hot air, ashtray overflows with butts, whiskey bottle is 2/3rds drunk.  

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​

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​RECORD PLAYER PLAYS Porter Wagoner's "The Rubber Room" with close-up of album cover and title plainly visible on bed: What Ain’t Supposed to Be, Just Might Happen (1972):

 

Sweating profusely, Silvio sits naked, cross-legged on the cot, Herself's pink scarf tied Apache-style around his head, black spool ink and cigarette ash smeared on his face and chest, especially around his nipples, just meticulously cleaning Himself's typewriter with a paint brush and gun-cleaning solvent. 

 

And alternately catching his cigarette in his teeth to kill her stench clinging to his nostrils, sipping whiskey until it burned like paint thinner, and/or swallowing repeatedly (young Silvio's trick), Silvio manages to keep from weeping out loud, something he hadn't done since he and Herself fled Mexico when he was five years old, his only memento -- Himself's raunchy Zippo, which young Silvio filched, figuring he'd miss it more than him.

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INT. CORRIDOR OF SILVIO'S APT BUILDING - DAY

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Silvio heads for the outer door, a heavy, desert camouflage, army surplus backpack slung over his shoulder, and a torn cardboard box sign under his arm like a 

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WALLY, serious fellow student and friend, opens his apartment door as Silvio is passing it.

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WALLY

(concerned)

Looks like you're going somewhere, Silvio.

 

Silvio holds up the hastily scrawled sign: MEXICO OR DIE, but keeps walking.

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WALLY

What? Finals are next week.

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SILVIO

I'll send you a postcard.

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Wally steps in front of Silvio.

​WALLY

(gravely)

What are you gonna do in Mexico, Silvio?

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SILVIO

Find my father and kill him.

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WALLY

(not entirely surprised)

OK, let's go get a cup of coffee. You've been drinking. Wash that smuge off your face.

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SILVIO

War paint.

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WALLY

I see that.​

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SILVIO

Just tell everyone I'll be back in the Fall.

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WALLY

Not if you're in a Mexican prison.

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SILVIO

(hitching his cheek)

Be a good ending to my novel.​​​

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WALLY

Ok, you're gonna fall over now. Your backpack's too heavy! What's is that in there?? Your typewriter!​?

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SILVIO

Look. Wally. You've been a good friend. Now get the fuck out of my way.  ​

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WALLY

Does Brigid know you're leaving??

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SILVIO 

 Have to find herself a new pool guy. 

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Silvio slaloms past the Terence McKenna graffiti, side-eying it, step by step, word by word, like a bad omen:

 

THE.   REAL.  SECRET.   OF.    MAGIC.   IS.   THAT.   THE.   WORLD.   IS.   MADE.  OF.   WORDS. 

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Silvio

(under breath)

Amen, Brother.

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​​END OF SHAM MAN PREVIEW

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DISCLAIMER:

 

Sham Man is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 

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The author or author's representative do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident or other cause.

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All Rights Reserved

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