Ext. Camera pans across a lush Californian coastline, hungry waves lapping at a placid shore as an undeniably upbeat but promisingly sensual tune swells. We zoom into a sprawling white mansion bordered by impeccably manicured lawns; a French window on the ground floor revealing a luminous figure staring into the distance—SASHA (Nicole Kidman).
INT. SASHA’s all-white Calacatta marble kitchen
SASHA stands bathed in morning light. A delicate furrow graces her brow; only a momentary distraction from what can decisively be crowned the WORST BLONDE WIG in cinematic history sitting loosely (at best) fastened to her head.
GREG (Paul Giamatti) walks up behind SASHA, watching her contemplatively as she stares out of the window in competitive contemplation.
GREG: Good morning, my darling.
SASHA flinches at his voice and touch, an immediate sense of CONFLICT and TENSION is established——how could someone as blindingly youthful and radiant as SASHA be married to a man with such an age-appropriately receding hairline? Injustice is afoot!
SASHA opens her mouth to speak but GREG is already gone. She traces a lone finger suggestively between the valley of her breasts, as allowed by her conveniently agape lace-trimmed Agent Provocateur robe.
SASHA (to herself): There is no amount of money, success, or square footage that can fill the virile young man-shaped void in my life. It is clear I must immediately take up with someone young enough to still be on their parents’ health insurance.
EXT. The front steps of SASHA and GREG’s palatial home
GRACIE (Millie Bobby Brown) bounds towards her parents, as her fiancé BRAD (Jacob Elordi) towers behind her, shirt fully unbuttoned so that there is no mistaking the incredulity of his physique.
GREG: Sweetheart, we’re so happy that you’re home in time for our big anniversary party.
GRACIE: I wouldn’t miss celebrating my favourite couple in the world!
SASHA stands speechless, entranced by the young man that has just walked up to her. She twirls her Harry Winston ring around her finger, suddenly wishing she wasn’t wearing it.
BRAD: You must be the famous SASHA…
SASHA thinks her name has never sounded more beautiful than it does when he says it, but finds her reply stuck stubbornly in her throat.
BRAD (reaching out to take SASHA’s hand, while maintaining red-hot eye contact): Your photographs do not do you justice.
SASHA’s knees quiver, feet suddenly unsteady in her Bottega mules as the young couple walks past her into the house.
INT. SASHA’s book-strewn study. SASHA wears GLASSES, leading to the obvious assumption that she is an AUTHOR. Her desk is piled high with loose documents kept in place by Baccarat paperweights of varying sizes.
TRUDY (Miriam Margoyles), SASHA’s literary agent, is on the phone, inquiring about the status of SASHA’s impending new manuscript. SASHA is a bestselling author, as these are the only kinds of authors legally permitted to be represented in film.
TRUDY: SASHA, honey, your creative juices cannot start flowing until ALL your juices are flowing, you know what I mean? What I’m saying is that you need a GOOD LAY.
SASHA: But Trudy, I haven’t slept with a man who wasn’t my husband in a decade. Not that I’ve slept with him either, but—
TRUDY: Haven’t you been married 40 years? Anyway, it doesn’t matter because you are too beautiful to remain untouched. Go find yourself someone whose prefrontal cortex is still undeveloped.
SASHA (with feigned hesitation): Maybe you’re right—
TRUDY: Don’t you have a twenty-five-year-old, six-foot-four dreamboat currently ensconced in your guest room? Bad life choices make great writing material, you know.
SASHA (flustered, and at once sitting upright in her Le Corbusier desk chair): TRUDY! I’m getting off the phone before you corrupt me completely.
The phone clicks shut and SASHA once again assumes her natural position: submerged in complex contemplation, Pucci kimono reliably agape, twirling a Montblanc pen between her thumb and forefinger.
EXT. SASHA and GREG’s Olympic-sized natural saltwater swimming pool
BRAD emerges Baywatch-style from the pool, flipping his head back so that water cascades from his shoulder-length hair onto his gleamingly chiselled body.
SASHA walks out of the house, carrying an ice-cold beer, and hands it smilingly to her prospective son-in-law who is also clearly her love interest.
BRAD: Thanks, Sasha.
SASHA watches as he takes a swig from the bottle, his Adam's apple bobbing seductively up and down.
SASHA (with freshly flushed cheeks): It’s terribly disappointing that we haven’t been able to spend any time alone yet.
BRAD cocks a well-groomed eyebrow and takes in SASHA’s petite frame, enrobed in a sheer, low cut, diaphanous Roberto Cavalli number that sways suggestively in the evening breeze.
BRAD (leaning to whisper in SASHA’s ear): And why would we want to do that?
SASHA shivers at his gravelly tone and giggles appraisingly, thinking that this is a man who knows about the ins-and-outs of seduction; about how to instinctively push her buttons; about PLOT.
GREG looks down at them from a first floor window, at home in the middle of the day because we have no information about his work. He scowls.
INT. SASHA’s moonlit Miele kitchen at midnight
SASHA is engaged in her daily quota of window-staring contemplation, her ivory La Perla robe skimming the white marble floor.
BRAD walks in, shirtless, as he is contractually obligated by Netflix to be.
BRAD: I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the first time I saw you.
SASHA: But Brad, you’re my daughter’s fiancé!
BRAD: How could I ever think of another woman when you are clearly the most ravishing creature to ever exist?
SASHA falls into BRAD’s embrace, and the camera cuts away to maintain the film’s PG-13 rating—but the kitchen is drowned in the sounds of lascivious moaning that no one else in the house can seem to hear.
GRACIE passes by as this is happening, but it is revealed that she has a chronic sleepwalking problem and has not seen or heard anything.
EXT. SASHA and GREG’s 40th anniversary party
A well-dressed crowd of extras in floral printed day dresses mill about a party tent loud with the sound of live music and popping champagne corks.
BRAD walks in, once again shirtless, accompanied by GRACIE, who is unruffled by his shirtlessness.
BRAD: My biceps ripped straight through my shirt so I decided not to wear one.
SASHA feels an immediate sense of kinship with this young man, as he too is fighting against the constraints that life has imposed on him.
SASHA: You should never wear a shirt. You look better without one.
GREG: What?
BRAD: That’s a high compliment coming from the most beautiful woman in the room.
GRACIE: Hello?
TRUDY gives SASHA two thumbs up from across the room.
GREG ambles over to the front of the crowd, holding a mic and poised to give a poignant speech about his long and allegedly happy marriage.
BRAD (to SASHA): I’m about to do something and it’s either the smartest or the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
SASHA bunches the sides of her vintage one-shouldered Tom Ford for Gucci dress in her hands, suddenly more nervous than she has ever been.
BRAD strides across the room and stands in front of GREG, obscuring the audience’s view of the shorter man. The crowd murmurs and then quiets down at his sight.
BRAD: Look, this isn’t the best time to say this, everyone, but there’s something I have to declare. That woman right there [points to SASHA] has made me feel more alive over the last two days than anyone else I’ve ever met—and I’m not just talking about the sex [crowd GASPS]. SASHA, I know you’ve built a life with this bald man you call your husband, but I’m asking you now to pick ME, choose ME, love ME…
SASHA runs over to BRAD and they tongue-kiss in front of a still gasping audience. GREG, distraught, impales himself on a $10,000 ice sculpture made in the likeness of his wife. GRACIE weeps openly as SASHA and BRAD break into a coordinated dance to the tune of Sophie Ellis-Bexter’s ‘Murder on the Dancefloor.’
TRUDY (raising her glass and winking at the camera): Now that’s what I call plot!
Fin.
