The Nordic Concept

**THE NORDIC CONCEPT** **SCENE 1** [SCENE START] **INT. MINIMALIST LIVING ROOM - DAY** A vast, silent space. Polished concrete walls. A poured resin floor the color of an overcast sky. The furniture is low, angular, upholstered in a fabric like recycled oat sacks. In the center of the room stands a NOBLE FIR. Eleven feet tall. Perfect, dense, and utterly devoid of spirit. It looks less like a Christmas tree and more like evidence. JULIANNE (40s, sharp, severe, draped in an oyster-colored cashmere loungewear set) stands before it, arms crossed. She is perfectly camouflaged against the room. Her voice is flat, swallowed by the room's acoustics. JULIANNE > It’s aggressive. DAVID (40s, a warmth suppressed by weariness) sits on the edge of a sectional sofa, swirling a glass of GIN and ice. It’s 2 PM. DAVID > It’s a tree, Jules. It’s nature. Nature is aggressive. That’s why we live indoors. Julianne steps closer, her socked feet making no sound on the resin floor. She squints, evaluating. JULIANNE > The symmetry is off. The negative space on the lower quadrant is… cluttered. We need to prune. DAVID > (Tiredly) > Please don't prune the sixty-dollar-a-foot tree. He takes a sip of gin. Julianne ignores him, her mind elsewhere, calculating lumens and Kelvin scales. She reaches out and flicks a single, imperfect needle from a branch. JULIANNE > Where are the children? DAVID > Ethan is charging. Or buffering. One of the two. Sophie is in the basement getting the box. Julianne freezes. Her hand hovers mid-air. JULIANNE > Which box? David allows himself a small, malicious smile before it vanishes. DAVID > The box. The Legacy Box. Julianne turns slowly. Her expression is one of pained tolerance, of finding a hair in her macrobiotic salad. JULIANNE > David. We discussed this. The theme is ‘Texture and Void.’ We agreed on the matte ceramic spheres and the driftwood geometric shapes. We did not agree on… plastic. DAVID > It’s Christmas. The kid wants to hang the things she made. You know, the memories? JULIANNE > Memories can be digitized. We don't need to physically display them. It disrupts the visual flow. I’m trying to create a sanctuary, David. A space of visual silence. She gestures to the room around them. JULIANNE > (CONT'D) > How can we have silence when there is a glitter-encrusted reindeer screaming at us from the spruce? Before David can argue, a sound VIOLATES the silence. SCRAPE. DRAG. SCRAPE. SOPHIE (8), a vibrant splash of life in a BRIGHT PURPLE hoodie, drags a battered cardboard box into the room. The box is held together with duct tape. Scrawled on the side in David’s handwriting: ‘XMAS JUNK.’ The scraping is a beautiful, jagged noise. SOPHIE > (Breathless) > I found it! I found the baby Jesus with the missing head! Julianne closes her eyes. Inhales the faint, HVAC-pumped scent of eucalyptus. Centers herself. Exhales. JULIANNE > That’s lovely, Sophie. Put the box over there. In the corner. Behind the ficus. SOPHIE > No, we have to put them on the tree! She rips the duct tape off. The sound is a GUNSHOT in the quiet room. ETHAN (15), lanky and disconnected, shuffles in. Noise-cancelling headphones hang around his neck like a yoke. He glances at the tree, his mother, the box. ETHAN > Are we doing this? I have a raid in twenty minutes. JULIANNE > (Voice tight) > We are creating a memory. Put your phone away. ETHAN > It’s in my pocket. JULIANNE > Participate. She moves to a side table and retrieves three flat, white boxes embossed with a Danish design logo. She opens one. Inside, nestled in black foam, are six GREY SPHERES. They look like fossilized planets. JULIANNE > (CONT'D) > Okay. Here is the plan. We start with the anchor pieces. These are hand-turned concrete, so they need to go on the sturdy branches near the trunk. David, you handle the elevation. Ethan, you hand them to him. Sophie… you can supervise. Sophie ignores her, digging into the cardboard box with glee. SOPHIE > I want to hang the pickle. JULIANNE > (Quickly) > There is no pickle. The pickle is lost. Sophie holds up a glass ornament shaped like a diseased cucumber. It is shiny, green, and hideous. It is the most beautiful thing David has seen all day. SOPHIE > I'm holding the pickle. JULIANNE > (Voice rising) > That is not consistent with the palette. Green is not a neutral, Sophie. The tree is green. We do not put green on green. It lacks contrast. It lacks intentionality. David stands, setting his gin down. DAVID > It’s a pickle. Give it to me, Soph. He takes the ornament. It feels cool and smooth in his hand. He remembers buying it at a petrol station in 2012. JULIANNE > (Warningly) > David. Don't. David slips the pickle into his pocket. DAVID > I’m just holding it. **INT. MINIMALIST LIVING ROOM - LATER** The decorating is a surgical procedure. Julianne directs from a few feet away, squinting, using hand gestures like an air traffic controller. JULIANNE > The visual weight is leaning too far right. Ethan, move the sphere. No, not that one. The felted wool teardrop. Yes. Up. No, down. There. Ethan, holding a fuzzy grey teardrop, lets out a loud SIGH. ETHAN > It’s a ball, Mum. It’s just a ball of fuzz. JULIANNE > It is sustainable alpaca wool. And it provides textural warmth without chromatic distraction. David watches from the sofa. Observer status. Sophie sits on the floor, surrounded by the rejects from the ‘XMAS JUNK’ box. A plastic Santa. A red wooden soldier. She arranges them in a circle. A pagan ritual of kitsch. SOPHIE > Can I put the star on? Julianne freezes. She retrieves a separate, sleeker box. From it, she pulls a geometric structure of welded brass rods. It looks like a model of a virus. A caltrop. SOPHIE > (Wrinkling her nose) > What is it? JULIANNE > It’s a spire. It represents aspiration. Ascension. ETHAN > It looks like a cage. JULIANNE > (Snapping) > It’s sculptural. David, the ladder. David retrieves a sleek, aluminum stepladder. He climbs. His knees CRACK audibly. He takes the brass virus from Julianne. JULIANNE > (Whispering) > Be careful. It’s heavy. He reaches up and places the spire on the leader branch. The branch SAGS immediately under the weight. DAVID > It’s drooping. JULIANNE > Adjust it. Bend the branch back. Use a cable tie. A clear one. David fumbles, securing the brass spire. It looks like it’s crushing the tree’s spirit. He climbs down. Julianne steps back, hands on hips. The tree is a masterpiece of restraint. Elegant. Tasteful. Utterly, profoundly depressing. DAVID > It needs… something. JULIANNE > It needs nothing. It is complete. It breathes. ETHAN > (Muttering) > It looks like it's holding its breath. Julianne claps her hands once. A sharp, dry sound. JULIANNE > Photo. Everyone, linen shirts. Now. **INT. MINIMALIST LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER** The family, now in matching oatmeal-colored linen shirts, stands before the tree. A perfect tableau. Julianne adjusts a tripod, a ring light. JULIANNE > Ethan, headphones off. Sophie, stop fidgeting. David, suck in. DAVID > I am sucking in. JULIANNE > Smile. But not… toothy. Just a relaxed, Sunday-kind-of-contentment. Think ‘hygge.’ ETHAN > I'm thinking about roast beef. The phone's camera CLICKS. JULIANNE > Got it. Perfect. She checks the screen, satisfied. She begins dismantling the tripod. JULIANNE > (CONT'D) > Okay, clean up the boxes. Sophie, put the junk back in the basement. We have guests coming tomorrow and I don't want them tripping over a headless Jesus. Sophie looks at her circle of treasures on the floor. Her lower lip trembles. A quiet, crushing defeat. David sees it. He looks from his daughter to the cold, perfect tree. DAVID > Jules. Let her put one on. Julianne looks up from her phone. JULIANNE > What? DAVID > One ornament. From the box. Just one. The back. Facing the wall. Nobody will see it. Just… for us. Julianne looks at the tree. At Sophie. She lets out a long, suffering SIGH that seems to deflate her perfect posture. JULIANNE > Fine. The back. Low down. Hidden. Sophie doesn't wait. She grabs a MACARONI STAR—a monstrosity of pasta glued to cardboard, painted a violent, acrylic yellow, shedding glitter. She runs to the tree. Not to the back. She hangs it on a low branch on the side, visible from the hallway. The branch dips. The yellow clashes horribly with the grey. Glitter falls onto the resin floor like dandruff. SOPHIE > There. She smiles. A real smile. The first one in this room all day. Julianne watches, her face a mask. JULIANNE > (Whispering) > Hideous. But she doesn’t move to take it down. **INT. MINIMALIST LIVING ROOM - NIGHT** The house is silent, save for the low, expensive hum of the HVAC system. Moonlight filters through sheer blinds. David comes downstairs for a glass of water. He pauses in the doorway of the living room. The tree is a shadow. The brass spire catches a glint of light, sharp and cold. He walks over to it. Reaches into the pocket of his pajama bottoms. He pulls out the green glass PICKLE. He looks around. The aesthetic police are off duty. He finds a spot, right in the center, nestled deep near the trunk. He hangs the pickle. It’s invisible from the outside, buried in the dark heart of the tree. A secret. He steps back. He can’t see it, but he knows it’s there. He takes a sip of water. DAVID > (Whispering to the empty room) > Merry Christmas. He turns to leave. Stops. A faint reflection in the window catches his eye. A passing car’s headlights sweep across the house. For a microsecond, the light hits the macaroni star. The violent yellow paint glows like real gold. Warm. Messy. Alive. [SCENE END]