The Long Thaw

A century of harvesting ice from Lac Brumeux is a heavy legacy, and this warm winter threatens to sink it all.

Introduction

This screenplay adaptation of 'The Long Thaw' serves as a practical exercise in transmuting internal literary themes into external cinematic action, specifically designed for students of digital storytelling and narrative structure. By converting a prose narrative deeply rooted in internal monologue and environmental description into a script format, we explore how screenwriters must replace exposition with visual evidence and subtext. This document demonstrates the rigorous application of industry-standard formatting to control pacing and focus, illustrating how the specific placement of text on a page directs the reader's eye just as a camera lens directs the viewer's gaze.

The Script

INT. RYAN'S BEDROOM - DAY

A heavy DSLR camera rests in the hands of RYAN LECLERC (17, lanky, with eyes that seem tired of what they see). He stands at a frost-rimed window.

Through the glass, Lac Brumeux is a sheet of bruised pewter. Dark, weeping patches of waterlogged ice mar the surface.

Ryan adjusts the lens. The shutter CLICKS.

He turns to the room. It is a war zone of eras. A poster of a Montreal indie band hangs next to a severe black-and-white portrait of an ancestor standing on a mountain of ice.

Ryan steps to his desk. Piles of college pamphlets—Toronto, Vancouver—sit beneath a tangle of charging cables.

He picks up a vintage film rangefinder.

In the corner, a collection of rusted tools leans against the wall. An iron grapple hook. A massive, toothy pit saw.

Ryan kneels. He frames the handle of the grapple hook. The wood is worn smooth, dark with century-old pine tar.

CLICK. The film advances with a WHIR.

He moves to the saw. He focuses on the junction of steel and wood. Carved initials: P.L.

CLICK.

<center>ÉLISE (O.S.)</center>

Ryan! The tourtière isn’t getting any younger.

Ryan lowers the camera. He stares at the initials.

Coming.

INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT

A cast-iron stove radiates heat. The air smells of birch smoke and spiced meat.

ÉLISE LECLERC (40s, hands red from work, perpetually in motion) slices a deep-dish pie. She places a heavy slice on a plate.

BASTIEN LECLERC (72, a block of granite in a flannel shirt) sits at the head of the oak table. His knuckles are swollen maps of scars.

Ryan slides into his seat. The chair SCRAPES loudly against the floor.

Élise sits between them. A buffer zone.

Looks good.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

It’s tourtière. The question is if the appetite is worthy.

Bastien stares at the wall. He hasn't looked at Ryan yet.

My appetite spent the afternoon cataloging the antique tools. I'd say it's earned its keep.

Bastien’s eyes snap to Ryan. Pale blue. Cold.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

Not antiques. Tools. They work. Unlike that gas-powered toy in the shed.

It's a precision machine. You have to mix the oil right.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

A machine that sensitive has no place on the ice. You do it right, or the lake takes you.

<center>ÉLISE</center>

Please. Can we eat one meal without discussing two-stroke engine theology?

Ryan stabs a piece of crust.

How’s the ice?

Bastien chews. Slowly. He swallows.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

It’s holding. Seven inches at the pressure ridge. We start tomorrow.

Ryan’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth.

<center>ÉLISE</center>

Bastien. The co-op guidelines say ten.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

The co-op is a knitting circle. I know this water. Seven inches of black ice is stronger than a foot of slush.

(Muttering)

The lodges have freezers.

Bastien SLAMS his hand on the table. The plates jump.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

Do not speak of things you do not understand! This is about the name. We do not run away when it gets hard.

I’m not running away. I’m looking forward. You’d rather sink than admit it's over.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

Character is knowing how to stand your ground.

Ryan stands up. He leaves his plate full.

Character is knowing when to build a boat.

He walks out. The warmth of the kitchen vanishes behind him.

EXT. LAC BRUMEUX - DAY

Thick, wet fog. The world is grey.

Ryan stands on the ice. He twists a hand-auger into the surface. Shavings of wet, grey slush curl up.

He pulls the auger out. A plug of clear black ice follows.

Ryan measures it against his finger. Seven inches.

He looks out. The house is a ghost in the mist.

Nearby, Bastien yanks the cord of a bright orange motorized saw. The engine ROARS. A mechanical scream.

Bastien lowers the blade. Ice chips spray.

Ryan watches. He tries to lift his camera, but the vibration travels through the ice, shaking his boots. He lowers the lens.

Suddenly, the saw SPUTTERS. A high whine drops to a cough.

Silence rushes back in.

Bastien yanks the cord. Nothing. He yanks again. Veins bulge in his neck.

It's flooded.

Bastien ignores him. He rips at the cord.

You're drowning the spark plug.

Bastien kicks the plastic casing. A sharp THUD.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

Junk. City junk.

Bastien turns and marches toward the shore, disappearing into the fog.

Ryan stands alone with the silence.

MOMENTS LATER

Bastien returns. He drags the seven-foot pit saw. The steel RINGS against the ice.

He throws it down.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

Now. We work.

LATER

The fog has thinned. A watery sun bleeds through.

Ryan and Bastien stand on opposite ends of the saw.

Pull.

Push.

Pull.

Push.

The blade RASPS through the ice. A rhythmic, hypnotic sound.

Ryan’s breath comes in ragged clouds. His shoulders burn.

He looks at Bastien. The old man moves with terrifying efficiency. No wasted motion. The saw is part of his arm.

The blade breaks through the bottom of the cut with a deep GROAN.

Bastien straightens. He isn't even winded. A thin smile touches his lips.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

See? No gasoline. Just a Leclerc on each end.

Ryan flexes his numb fingers.

This Leclerc’s arms are about to fall off.

<center>BASTIEN</center>

You’ll get used to it. It’s in the blood.

Ryan looks down at the cut. The black water churns inches below his boots.

INT. RYAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Ryan sleeps, fully clothed, on top of his duvet.

SCRAPE.

A metallic sound from outside.

Ryan’s eyes snap open. He sits up.

Silence.

He goes to the window. The fog is gone. The moon is brilliant and cold.

On the lake, a lone silhouette moves across the silver expanse.

It is Bastien. He drags the great saw.

EXT. LAC BRUMEUX - CONTINUOUS

The cold is razor-sharp. The air bites.

Ryan bursts from the house. He skids down the frosted path.

Pépère!

The figure on the ice does not stop. Bastien positions the saw at the edge of the grid.

Ryan hits the ice. He slips, rights himself, and runs. His boots hammer against the thin sheet.

STOP! IT’S NOT SAFE!

Bastien freezes. He turns slowly.

A shadow in the moonlight.

Ryan stops. He is fifty yards away. Breath heaving.

Silence stretches between them. Heavy. Fragile.

CRACK.

A sound like a gunshot tears through the night. The vibration hits Ryan’s feet before the sound hits his ears.

What We Can Learn

This adaptation highlights the challenge of translating internal character motivation into external, observable behavior. In the source text, Ryan's desire to leave is described through introspection and backstory about university applications. In the screenplay, this must be externalized: the juxtaposition of the Montreal band poster against the ancestor's portrait, the physical act of photographing the 'antique' tools as if they are already dead relics, and the specific dialogue choice to call the tools 'antiques' to provoke his grandfather. The script replaces the narrator's explanation of the 'house breathing' with the specific sound cue of the floorboards groaning, forcing the audience to experience the decay rather than be told about it.

Technically, this conversion demonstrates the power of 'white space' and formatting in controlling narrative time. The '4-Line Rule' for action paragraphs breaks the continuous flow of prose into distinct visual beats, mimicking the editing cuts of a film. For example, the sequence with the manual saw is broken into single words—'Pull. Push. Pull. Push.'—which forces the reader to slow down and feel the rhythm of the labor. This shows how a screenwriter uses vertical space on the page to dictate the pacing of the scene, transforming a description of work into a visceral experience of time and effort.

Ultimately, this exercise reveals that screenwriting is an art of omission and compression. The rich, sensory descriptions of the prose—the 'bruised pewter' lake and 'weeping patches'—are distilled into concise visual directions that a production team can execute. The dialogue is stripped of expository baggage, leaving only the conflict; characters do not say exactly what they mean, but rather use their words as weapons to achieve their goals. This shift from 'literary truth' (what is felt) to 'cinematic truth' (what is seen and heard) is the core competency of the adaptation process.