Gravel and High Beams
Perched on the hood of a rusting Subaru in a Northern Ontario overlook, two young artists dissect the stagnation of their lives against the backdrop of a dying paper mill town. As winter looms, their banter about art grants and cheap beer masks a terrifying realization about their future.
EXT. BLACKWOOD OVERLOOK - NIGHT
SOUND of a sharp, cold wind whipping across a desolate landscape
A beat-up SUBARU is parked on a gravel patch overlooking a valley. Below, the town of BLACKWOOD sprawls like a dying circuit board, its sickly orange streetlights flickering. Dominating the view is a hulking PAPER MILL, spewing white plumes into the black, starless sky.
MILLER (25), wiry and anxious, leans against the rusted front bumper. JULIE (24), sharp and weary, sits on the hood, nursing a Tim Hortons coffee.
Miller kicks the bumper with his boot.
MILLER
> It’s not the cold that gets you. It’s the… beige. The spiritual beige.
Julie doesn’t look up. She meticulously peels the waxy rim of her cup. A pile of paper shreds sits on her denim-clad thigh.
JULIE
> It’s definitely the cold, Miller. My toes have been numb since October. I think I have gangrene. Is gangrene an aesthetic?
MILLER
> Depends. Are you pitching it to the Arts Council?
His parka rustles like dry leaves as he shifts. He takes a sip from his own coffee, grimaces, and sets it on the hood. A thin ribbon of steam is snatched away by the wind.
MILLER (CONT'D)
> ‘Project: Necrosis.’ A study in rural decay. They’d probably fund it. You’d get five grand and a gallery show in Thunder Bay.
JULIE
> Five grand would pay for, what, two months of rent in Toronto?
She flicks a piece of wax paper into the darkness. It vanishes.
JULIE (CONT'D)
> Maybe three if I lived in a closet. A literal closet. Like Harry Potter but with more student debt.
They fall silent. The wind cuts through their layers.
MILLER
> I saw Kyla’s Instagram today.
Julie groans, tilting her head back to the empty sky.
JULIE
> Don't.
MILLER
> She’s in Montreal. She posted a picture of a bagel. A bagel, Julie. And the caption was just ‘Manifesting.’
JULIE
>>(without heat)
> I hate her. I hate her and her bagels and her manifesting. What is she manifesting? Yeast?
MILLER
> She’s working at a gallery. An actual gallery. Not a gift shop that sells driftwood sculptures to Americans.
JULIE
> Good for her. I hope she freezes in a snowbank.
MILLER
> It’s Montreal. They have heated sidewalks or something.
JULIE
> They do not have heated sidewalks.
MILLER
> They might. It’s civilized down there. Here? We have… this.
He gestures vaguely at the town. One streetlight, near an old hockey arena, cycles ON... OFF... ON... OFF...
Julie sighs, a rattling sound in her chest. Her hands are stained with charcoal and cheap acrylic paint.
JULIE
>>(quietly)
> Did you finish the application?
Miller stiffens. He picks up a piece of gravel from the hood and tosses it over the edge of the cliff. They don't hear it land.
MILLER
> No.
JULIE
> Deadline is Friday, Miller.
MILLER
> I know when the deadline is.
JULIE
> So?
MILLER
> So, what’s the point?
He turns to her. The faint green glow from the car's dashboard clock illuminates his soul-tired face.
MILLER (CONT'D)
> I send them my portfolio. They look at it. They see ‘Address: Blackwood, Ontario.’ They throw it in the trash. They want urban stories, Julie. They want grit, but the cool kind of grit. Subway grit. Not… this. Not pick-up truck and domestic disturbance grit.
JULIE
> That’s a cop-out. You’re just scared.
MILLER
> Yeah, obviously I’m scared. I’m twenty-five years old and I live in my parents' basement. I make soundscapes using recordings of broken HVAC units. I am a walking cliché of a millennial failure, except we’re Gen Z, so I don’t even get the dignity of being a slacker. I’m just… surplus.
The word hangs in the air. Julie looks at the mill.
JULIE
> You’re not surplus. You’re just… incubating.
MILLER
>>(snorts)
> Incubating. Like a virus?
JULIE
> Like a weird, moldy cheese. You need time to develop the funk.
MILLER
> Thanks. I feel much better. I’m a funky cheese.
JULIE
> You know what I mean. We stay because it’s cheap. We stay because we have space. Where else are you going to get a garage to record in for free?
MILLER
> It’s not free, Julie. The cost is my sanity. The cost is having to listen to my dad explain to me why AI music is ‘actually pretty catchy’ for the fifth time this week.
Julie winces.
JULIE
> My mom asked me if I could paint a portrait of the dog. I said sure. She said, ‘Oh, don't worry, I just used that app. It did it in three seconds. Look, he’s wearing an astronaut suit.’
Miller lets out a dry, barking laugh.
MILLER
> The astronaut suit. Classic.
JULIE
>>(whispering)
> It looked good. That’s the worst part. It looked… fine. The lighting was perfect.
MILLER
> It has no soul. It’s just math. It doesn't know the specific way Buster smells like corn chips when he wakes up.
JULIE
> Does it matter? If the outcome is the same?
MILLER
>>(unconvincing)
> It matters. It has to matter. Otherwise, what are we doing sitting on a cliff in the dark?
SOUND of a heavy truck RUMBLING past on the highway behind them
The Subaru shakes in its wake. Headlights sweep over them, blinding them for a second. The smell of fresh-cut pine and diesel fumes. The truck's red taillights fade around a bend. The darkness feels heavier.
JULIE
> I thought about leaving. Last week. I packed a bag.
Miller looks at her, surprised.
MILLER
> You did?
JULIE
> Yeah. Just a duffel. Clothes, my sketchbook, my good brushes. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at it. I had this sudden impulse to just drive. West. Until I hit the ocean.
MILLER
> Why didn't you?
JULIE
>>(shrugs)
> Gas is two bucks a litre. And… I got scared I’d get to the ocean and it would just look like a big version of Lake Superior. And I’d still be me. Just wet and broke.
Miller slides off the hood. His boots CRUNCH on the gravel. He walks to the edge of the precipice and hurls a rock into the abyss.
MILLER
> I think I’m going to delete my hard drive.
Julie sits up straight.
JULIE
> What?
MILLER
> Everything. The tracks, the samples, the half-finished symphonies of dryer buzz. Just wipe it. Tabula rasa.
JULIE
> Don't be dramatic, Miller. That’s years of work.
MILLER
> Is it work? Or is it just digital hoarding?
He turns to face her, silhouetted against the town's glow.
MILLER (CONT'D)
> If I wipe it, I’m free. I can stop pretending I’m building a career and just… be. I can get a job at the mill. Get a truck. Get a dog that isn't an astronaut.
JULIE
> You’d last two days at the mill. You have soft hands. Musician hands.
MILLER
> I could toughen up.
JULIE
> You’d cry if you broke a nail.
MILLER
> I would not.
>>(beat)
> Maybe a little.
Julie hops off the car and walks over to him. She stands at the edge, their shoulders almost touching.
JULIE
> You’re not deleting anything. And you’re not quitting.
MILLER
> Give me one reason why.
JULIE
> Because you’re arrogant. You think you’re too good for the mill. You think your weird, ambient noise noises are important.
MILLER
>>(stung)
> They are important! It’s a commentary on the post-industrial soundscape!
JULIE
> See? Arrogant. And that’s why you won’t quit. Because if you quit, you’re just another guy in a Carhartt jacket in Blackwood. But as long as you have that hard drive, you’re Miller the Artist. You’re the misunderstood genius.
Miller sighs, his breath fogging.
MILLER
> You’re mean. You know that?
JULIE
> I’m honest. That’s my medium. Honesty and acrylics.
MILLER
> Mostly acrylics.
JULIE
> Mostly acrylics.
SOUND of a distant, lonely TRAIN WHISTLE
They stand in silence for a long moment.
MILLER
> Do you think it gets better? Not the art stuff. Just… this. The feeling that we’re waiting for something that’s never going to arrive.
Julie thinks, watching the smoke from the mill.
JULIE
> I don't think it gets better. I think you just get better at carrying it. You build more muscle. The weight stays the same.
MILLER
> That’s depressing.
JULIE
> It’s minimalist. Efficient.
Miller offers a fragile laugh.
MILLER
> I want to go to Toronto, Julie. I want to drink overpriced latte and complain about the subway. I want to be surrounded by people who use words like ‘liminal’ unironically.
JULIE
> We can go. Eventually.
The flickering streetlight below them goes out completely. A section of the town plunges into a deeper darkness.
MILLER
> Did you see that?
JULIE
> Yeah. Bulb probably burned out.
MILLER
> Or the simulation is saving bandwidth. Rendering Blackwood is too resource-intensive. They’re deleting assets.
JULIE
> Stop it. You’re freaking me out.
Miller looks at her, his face young and terrified in the dim light.
MILLER
> If we’re still here in five years… will you shoot me?
JULIE
> Miller.
MILLER
> I’m serious. If I’m thirty and I’m still talking about the ‘post-industrial soundscape’ while living in my parents' basement, just take me out behind the shed. Mercy kill.
Julie punches him hard in the arm.
MILLER (CONT'D)
> Ow!
JULIE
> Shut up. You’re not going to be here. You’re going to be in some damp basement apartment in Parkdale, complaining about the noise, and you’re going to miss this silence so much it hurts.
Miller rubs his arm, a real smile finally breaking through.
MILLER
> You think?
JULIE
> I know. Because you’re annoying. And annoying people always survive. It’s an evolutionary advantage.
MILLER
> Okay. Deal.
JULIE
> Deal. I’m cold. And I need a refill.
She turns back to the car.
INT. SUBARU - CONTINUOUS
They climb inside. The doors slam with a tinny THUD.
SOUND of the heater ROARING to life, blasting dusty, hot air.
Miller turns the key. The engine SPUTTERS, then catches.
MILLER
> One day, the transmission is going to drop out of this thing, and we’ll be stranded here forever.
JULIE
> Don't jinx it.
She buckles her seatbelt. Miller puts the car in reverse, the tires CRUNCHING on the gravel.
As he turns, the HEADLIGHTS sweep across the tree line—a dense, impenetrable wall of grey spruce and pine. Kindling waiting for a spark.
He turns on the radio.
SOUND of pure STATIC. He spins the dial. More STATIC. A garbled, robotic voice cuts through for a second, then vanishes.
MILLER
> Atmospherics are bad tonight.
He taps the dashboard. Julie looks out her window as they begin the descent into town.
ANGLE ON THE NORTHERN SKY.
It's not black. A strange, bruised, PULSATING PURPLE taints the horizon. It's not the Northern Lights. It's rhythmic. Unnatural.
JULIE
>>(tight)
> Miller.
MILLER
> Yeah?
JULIE
> Look at the sky.
MILLER
> I’m driving, Julie.
JULIE
> Just look.
Miller glances up through the windshield. He slows the car.
MILLER
> What is that? Reflection from the greenhouse?
JULIE
>>(whispering)
> The greenhouse closed three years ago.
The purple light PULSES once... twice... like a silent, cosmic heartbeat.
MILLER
>>(unconvincingly)
> It’s probably just the mill. Flaring off some new chemical.
JULIE
> Yeah. Probably just the mill.
She sinks lower in her seat.
They drive in silence, descending into the bowl of the valley. The heater rattles. The radio hisses.
And above them, the sky continues to throb with a light that feels less like a phenomenon and more like a warning.
SOUND of a sharp, cold wind whipping across a desolate landscape
A beat-up SUBARU is parked on a gravel patch overlooking a valley. Below, the town of BLACKWOOD sprawls like a dying circuit board, its sickly orange streetlights flickering. Dominating the view is a hulking PAPER MILL, spewing white plumes into the black, starless sky.
MILLER (25), wiry and anxious, leans against the rusted front bumper. JULIE (24), sharp and weary, sits on the hood, nursing a Tim Hortons coffee.
Miller kicks the bumper with his boot.
MILLER
> It’s not the cold that gets you. It’s the… beige. The spiritual beige.
Julie doesn’t look up. She meticulously peels the waxy rim of her cup. A pile of paper shreds sits on her denim-clad thigh.
JULIE
> It’s definitely the cold, Miller. My toes have been numb since October. I think I have gangrene. Is gangrene an aesthetic?
MILLER
> Depends. Are you pitching it to the Arts Council?
His parka rustles like dry leaves as he shifts. He takes a sip from his own coffee, grimaces, and sets it on the hood. A thin ribbon of steam is snatched away by the wind.
MILLER (CONT'D)
> ‘Project: Necrosis.’ A study in rural decay. They’d probably fund it. You’d get five grand and a gallery show in Thunder Bay.
JULIE
> Five grand would pay for, what, two months of rent in Toronto?
She flicks a piece of wax paper into the darkness. It vanishes.
JULIE (CONT'D)
> Maybe three if I lived in a closet. A literal closet. Like Harry Potter but with more student debt.
They fall silent. The wind cuts through their layers.
MILLER
> I saw Kyla’s Instagram today.
Julie groans, tilting her head back to the empty sky.
JULIE
> Don't.
MILLER
> She’s in Montreal. She posted a picture of a bagel. A bagel, Julie. And the caption was just ‘Manifesting.’
JULIE
>>(without heat)
> I hate her. I hate her and her bagels and her manifesting. What is she manifesting? Yeast?
MILLER
> She’s working at a gallery. An actual gallery. Not a gift shop that sells driftwood sculptures to Americans.
JULIE
> Good for her. I hope she freezes in a snowbank.
MILLER
> It’s Montreal. They have heated sidewalks or something.
JULIE
> They do not have heated sidewalks.
MILLER
> They might. It’s civilized down there. Here? We have… this.
He gestures vaguely at the town. One streetlight, near an old hockey arena, cycles ON... OFF... ON... OFF...
Julie sighs, a rattling sound in her chest. Her hands are stained with charcoal and cheap acrylic paint.
JULIE
>>(quietly)
> Did you finish the application?
Miller stiffens. He picks up a piece of gravel from the hood and tosses it over the edge of the cliff. They don't hear it land.
MILLER
> No.
JULIE
> Deadline is Friday, Miller.
MILLER
> I know when the deadline is.
JULIE
> So?
MILLER
> So, what’s the point?
He turns to her. The faint green glow from the car's dashboard clock illuminates his soul-tired face.
MILLER (CONT'D)
> I send them my portfolio. They look at it. They see ‘Address: Blackwood, Ontario.’ They throw it in the trash. They want urban stories, Julie. They want grit, but the cool kind of grit. Subway grit. Not… this. Not pick-up truck and domestic disturbance grit.
JULIE
> That’s a cop-out. You’re just scared.
MILLER
> Yeah, obviously I’m scared. I’m twenty-five years old and I live in my parents' basement. I make soundscapes using recordings of broken HVAC units. I am a walking cliché of a millennial failure, except we’re Gen Z, so I don’t even get the dignity of being a slacker. I’m just… surplus.
The word hangs in the air. Julie looks at the mill.
JULIE
> You’re not surplus. You’re just… incubating.
MILLER
>>(snorts)
> Incubating. Like a virus?
JULIE
> Like a weird, moldy cheese. You need time to develop the funk.
MILLER
> Thanks. I feel much better. I’m a funky cheese.
JULIE
> You know what I mean. We stay because it’s cheap. We stay because we have space. Where else are you going to get a garage to record in for free?
MILLER
> It’s not free, Julie. The cost is my sanity. The cost is having to listen to my dad explain to me why AI music is ‘actually pretty catchy’ for the fifth time this week.
Julie winces.
JULIE
> My mom asked me if I could paint a portrait of the dog. I said sure. She said, ‘Oh, don't worry, I just used that app. It did it in three seconds. Look, he’s wearing an astronaut suit.’
Miller lets out a dry, barking laugh.
MILLER
> The astronaut suit. Classic.
JULIE
>>(whispering)
> It looked good. That’s the worst part. It looked… fine. The lighting was perfect.
MILLER
> It has no soul. It’s just math. It doesn't know the specific way Buster smells like corn chips when he wakes up.
JULIE
> Does it matter? If the outcome is the same?
MILLER
>>(unconvincing)
> It matters. It has to matter. Otherwise, what are we doing sitting on a cliff in the dark?
SOUND of a heavy truck RUMBLING past on the highway behind them
The Subaru shakes in its wake. Headlights sweep over them, blinding them for a second. The smell of fresh-cut pine and diesel fumes. The truck's red taillights fade around a bend. The darkness feels heavier.
JULIE
> I thought about leaving. Last week. I packed a bag.
Miller looks at her, surprised.
MILLER
> You did?
JULIE
> Yeah. Just a duffel. Clothes, my sketchbook, my good brushes. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at it. I had this sudden impulse to just drive. West. Until I hit the ocean.
MILLER
> Why didn't you?
JULIE
>>(shrugs)
> Gas is two bucks a litre. And… I got scared I’d get to the ocean and it would just look like a big version of Lake Superior. And I’d still be me. Just wet and broke.
Miller slides off the hood. His boots CRUNCH on the gravel. He walks to the edge of the precipice and hurls a rock into the abyss.
MILLER
> I think I’m going to delete my hard drive.
Julie sits up straight.
JULIE
> What?
MILLER
> Everything. The tracks, the samples, the half-finished symphonies of dryer buzz. Just wipe it. Tabula rasa.
JULIE
> Don't be dramatic, Miller. That’s years of work.
MILLER
> Is it work? Or is it just digital hoarding?
He turns to face her, silhouetted against the town's glow.
MILLER (CONT'D)
> If I wipe it, I’m free. I can stop pretending I’m building a career and just… be. I can get a job at the mill. Get a truck. Get a dog that isn't an astronaut.
JULIE
> You’d last two days at the mill. You have soft hands. Musician hands.
MILLER
> I could toughen up.
JULIE
> You’d cry if you broke a nail.
MILLER
> I would not.
>>(beat)
> Maybe a little.
Julie hops off the car and walks over to him. She stands at the edge, their shoulders almost touching.
JULIE
> You’re not deleting anything. And you’re not quitting.
MILLER
> Give me one reason why.
JULIE
> Because you’re arrogant. You think you’re too good for the mill. You think your weird, ambient noise noises are important.
MILLER
>>(stung)
> They are important! It’s a commentary on the post-industrial soundscape!
JULIE
> See? Arrogant. And that’s why you won’t quit. Because if you quit, you’re just another guy in a Carhartt jacket in Blackwood. But as long as you have that hard drive, you’re Miller the Artist. You’re the misunderstood genius.
Miller sighs, his breath fogging.
MILLER
> You’re mean. You know that?
JULIE
> I’m honest. That’s my medium. Honesty and acrylics.
MILLER
> Mostly acrylics.
JULIE
> Mostly acrylics.
SOUND of a distant, lonely TRAIN WHISTLE
They stand in silence for a long moment.
MILLER
> Do you think it gets better? Not the art stuff. Just… this. The feeling that we’re waiting for something that’s never going to arrive.
Julie thinks, watching the smoke from the mill.
JULIE
> I don't think it gets better. I think you just get better at carrying it. You build more muscle. The weight stays the same.
MILLER
> That’s depressing.
JULIE
> It’s minimalist. Efficient.
Miller offers a fragile laugh.
MILLER
> I want to go to Toronto, Julie. I want to drink overpriced latte and complain about the subway. I want to be surrounded by people who use words like ‘liminal’ unironically.
JULIE
> We can go. Eventually.
The flickering streetlight below them goes out completely. A section of the town plunges into a deeper darkness.
MILLER
> Did you see that?
JULIE
> Yeah. Bulb probably burned out.
MILLER
> Or the simulation is saving bandwidth. Rendering Blackwood is too resource-intensive. They’re deleting assets.
JULIE
> Stop it. You’re freaking me out.
Miller looks at her, his face young and terrified in the dim light.
MILLER
> If we’re still here in five years… will you shoot me?
JULIE
> Miller.
MILLER
> I’m serious. If I’m thirty and I’m still talking about the ‘post-industrial soundscape’ while living in my parents' basement, just take me out behind the shed. Mercy kill.
Julie punches him hard in the arm.
MILLER (CONT'D)
> Ow!
JULIE
> Shut up. You’re not going to be here. You’re going to be in some damp basement apartment in Parkdale, complaining about the noise, and you’re going to miss this silence so much it hurts.
Miller rubs his arm, a real smile finally breaking through.
MILLER
> You think?
JULIE
> I know. Because you’re annoying. And annoying people always survive. It’s an evolutionary advantage.
MILLER
> Okay. Deal.
JULIE
> Deal. I’m cold. And I need a refill.
She turns back to the car.
INT. SUBARU - CONTINUOUS
They climb inside. The doors slam with a tinny THUD.
SOUND of the heater ROARING to life, blasting dusty, hot air.
Miller turns the key. The engine SPUTTERS, then catches.
MILLER
> One day, the transmission is going to drop out of this thing, and we’ll be stranded here forever.
JULIE
> Don't jinx it.
She buckles her seatbelt. Miller puts the car in reverse, the tires CRUNCHING on the gravel.
As he turns, the HEADLIGHTS sweep across the tree line—a dense, impenetrable wall of grey spruce and pine. Kindling waiting for a spark.
He turns on the radio.
SOUND of pure STATIC. He spins the dial. More STATIC. A garbled, robotic voice cuts through for a second, then vanishes.
MILLER
> Atmospherics are bad tonight.
He taps the dashboard. Julie looks out her window as they begin the descent into town.
ANGLE ON THE NORTHERN SKY.
It's not black. A strange, bruised, PULSATING PURPLE taints the horizon. It's not the Northern Lights. It's rhythmic. Unnatural.
JULIE
>>(tight)
> Miller.
MILLER
> Yeah?
JULIE
> Look at the sky.
MILLER
> I’m driving, Julie.
JULIE
> Just look.
Miller glances up through the windshield. He slows the car.
MILLER
> What is that? Reflection from the greenhouse?
JULIE
>>(whispering)
> The greenhouse closed three years ago.
The purple light PULSES once... twice... like a silent, cosmic heartbeat.
MILLER
>>(unconvincingly)
> It’s probably just the mill. Flaring off some new chemical.
JULIE
> Yeah. Probably just the mill.
She sinks lower in her seat.
They drive in silence, descending into the bowl of the valley. The heater rattles. The radio hisses.
And above them, the sky continues to throb with a light that feels less like a phenomenon and more like a warning.