FRÈRE JACKAL

I. ÂME DE PETIT ENFANT

Before the French Revolution, there lived a Parisian friar zookeeper named Frere Jean.

Frere Jean loved his animals dearly. Every day after morning prayers, he would stow away from

the convent to his personal zoo to feed them. This scant collection included some dogs, fewer

wildcats, several small monkeys, and many exotic birds that he fed like his own feverish

multitude of mouths. Though his was no extravagant royal menagerie like Louis XIV’s in

Versailles or the one at Vincennes, he adored his little zoo and all of his animals. It was in this

own Noah’s Ark that Frere Jean spent most of his time. Among all of his animals, however, he

spent the most time with his beloved black-backed jackal. Acquired long ago from his monastic

travels in Morocco, this was his most prized possession—his own silent son. (FIRST SCENE:

FRERE SITTING IN HIS CONVENT DREAMING OF CHILDHOOD, PANORAMIC

MULTI-ANGLE VIEWS OF CONVENT/MENAGERIE TO INTROUDUCE SETTING)

In short, Frere Jean was a lonely man. Never having fallen in love with a woman or

produced any offspring—be it his oath of celibacy or his lifelong will of self-imposed solitude—

Frere Jean had no other choice but to take solace in the unconditional affection of his animals.

They would never leave him, he resolved, like a woman would. He was his animals’ whole

world. But how or why he had ever become a friar in the first place was always a wonder to

those who had known him and discovered this fact later in their lives. He had never been

particularly pious, forced by his elders into the profession, or disciplined in any sort of ascetic

way. Only he knew that his falling into the monastic life was not chance, nor some divine

revelation, but his own willful reclusion from a world that simply misunderstood him. (NO

ILLUSTRATIVE ACCOMPANIMENT NEEDED)

Frere Jean also had a rather monastic childhood. When he was simply Jean Desrochers,

he spent most of his time alone, never really speaking with his parents unless he needed money

for books or was being interrogated by his father about his future. Throughout his adolescence,

little Jean was an only child and, to his father, an utter disappointment of an heir. His father,

Gilles Desrochers, was a stern, bald, hard-nosed man, and his mother, Marie Desrochers, a

postpartum housewife whose beauty never quite withered but only became older and all the more

beautiful in its maternal wisdom. Gilles, a severely devout Catholic, was a psychiatrist at a time

when mental illness was regarded not as a material ailment of the brain but a spiritual malady of

the mind. It was not until the beginning of the next century, when King George III of England

was declared mentally ill, that mental illness would come to be seen as a physical condition that

could be treated and cured. Gilles always dreamt of having a son who would someday follow in

his footsteps and make great progress in the field. But little Jean never felt any impulse to make

his father proud. Nearly every evening, his father was already asleep by 9 or well on his way to a

wine-induced stupor that, in those days, had become a self-prescribed sedative after increasingly

long days on call dealing with severe depression and suicide cases. In the rare cases that his

father was present, little Jean was usually huddled in the corner of the living room, reading

Voltaire or Marquis de Sade without the cover so that his father could not identify the work.

(LIL JEAN SITTING IN CORNER OF ROOM, PARENTS SHADOWS ON

PERPENDICULAR OPPOSED WALLS THAT MEET AT THE CORNER)

Even in school, little Jean mostly kept to himself and his books, always sitting in the

corner of the classroom, even distancing himself from similar pariahs. His grades dropped

exponentially as did his interest in school altogether as he matured. For this, he was regarded a

“hopeless case” by his parents and many of his schoolteachers, while many others, mostly peers,

wrote him off as antisocial or inept. But the reality of it all was that little Jean harbored so much

aimless compassion that it only emanated as resentment. Many days, he would skip class and

wander through the city, watching the people go about their days, all of them seemingly

preoccupied with some purpose, some calm amicability he never quite understood. (THIS

WOULD BE A GOOD SCENE TO DERIVE INSPIRATION FROM THOSE

GAINSBOURG STILLS, WHERE HE’S FLYING THROUGH THE CITY, BUT

INSTEAD LIL JEAN IS WALKING, MAYBE HE’S SUPER CLEAR AND

EVERYTHING ELSE, PEOPLE, BUILDINGS ARE KINDA BLURRY OR

SILHOUETTED). Other days, he would feign illness, stay in his room, and dream or read the

day away. On particularly morose days, he would light candles in his lavatory, hunch his head

down, pull his long, brown locks over his eyes and simply stare at himself in the mirror through

the crevices of his cascade of hair. (THIS WOULD ALSO BE A GOOD SCENE TO

PORTRAY, SORT OF LIKE THE RING OR SOMETHING THAT WOULD BE CUTE).

When he was forced to go to school, little Jean wore a large jacket with a flimsy

chainmail-like hood that, with the help of his locks, covered half of his face and protected him,

like Perseus’ shield, from all eye contact. One day in the early 1770s, little Jean was sitting in the

corner of biology class, cross-armed and hood-covered, scrawling away at his writing pad. The

class was learning about the respiratory system. It was around this time that the discovery of

oxygen was just being made—a development his professor was ecstatic about and included in an

excessive amount of lectures. Upon learning that human beings inhaled oxygen, given off by

plants, and exhaled carbon dioxide, which in excess was fatal to humans, little Jean developed

his own theory. One he held dearly throughout his life: that human interaction was hopeless—

toxic even—and that the only sensible alternative was an exclusive relationship with nature.

(NOT AN IMPORTANT SCENE TO PORTRAY, BUT IF YOU WANTED TO, YOU

COULD JUST DRAW HIM IN THE CORNER OF A CLASSROOM, SCRAWLING

AWAY AT HIS NOTEPAD, AMONGST A SILHOUETTED SEA OF BRAT CHILDREN)

In fact, the only mammal little Jean was ever reported to have voluntarily interacted with

was his little white bichon, Jean-Pierre. He loved Jean-Pierre deeply and often walked him along

the banks of the Seine never without a collection of poems, a bottle of wine, or Aristotle’s The

History of Animals, a seminal work of zoology, under his arm. He fell in love with the

descriptions of all the animals and taught his petit chien Ancient Greek words from it in vain,

using his pocket translator. Soon enough, Jean-Pierre became the brother little Jean never had.

(THIS NEXT SEQUENCE OF SCENES IS VERY IMPORTANT TO PORTRAY IN A

POWERFUL SENTIMENTAL / NOSTALGIC WAY. I FEEL LIKE YOU HAVE A

GOOD IDEA AS SOMEONE EXPERIENCED WITH CHILDREN’S BOOKS. YOU’LL

NEED SOME PHOTOS OF THE SEINE. I COULD POST THEM, BUT THOSE ARE

SUPER EASY TO FIND, JUST GOOGLE EM. THE SEINE LOOKS PRETTY MUCH

THE SAME EVERYWHERE IN CENTRAL PARIS. MAKE SURE YOU INCLUDE THE

BOOK, THE WINE, WHILE HE’S WALKING, SITTING ON THE BANK WITH DOG)

But this miniature paradise was brief.

Unfortunately, Jean-Pierre was incorrigibly yappy, frequently accruing neighbor’s

complaints. One day, little Jean’s father threatened him with the ultimatum of either training the

dog or sending it back to the local pound from where it came.

“Mais papa, he can’t help it.”

“Je m’en fou. Shut it up or get rid of it.”

“Maman—”

“You heard what your father said,” said Marie.

(SILHOUETTES SPEAKING DOWN TO HIM, HIM LOOKING/SPEAKING UP)

So, little Jean took Jean-Pierre to the local veterinarian for behavior correction.

But it was no use. After weeks and weeks of arduous training, the dog yapped on.

Finally, on one particularly rainy, thunderous night, Jean-Pierre barked as loudly and

incessantly as he had ever barked before. Little Jean tried to shut him up. But after nearly half-

an-hour of yammering, nerve-wrought and drunk, little Jean’s father stood up, picked up the little

dog, opened the door, and hurled it out into the pouring rain. Little Jean screamed and ran

immediately to the entry door. But his father blocked the entrance with his enormous body and

forbade the little boy from leaving the house, locking him in his windowless room and leaving

the little dog out in the cold all night. In the morning, Jean-Pierre was nowhere to be found and

Jean sobbed until noon in his mother’s lap. Two days later, on his way to school, little Jean

found Jean-Pierre, drenched and starved to death beside a gutter.

(PRETTY INTUITIVE INTERPRETATION. JUST MAKE SURE IT’S

DRAMATIC AND RAINY AND HAS THAT DARK NIGHTMARISH SORT OF MOOD)

Though it was an accident, his father, a stubbornly prideful man, never emitted a shred of

remorse, holding his pride to the grave. That his own father caused the death of his only friend in

life, the only brother he ever had, dealt a serious blow to little Jean’s already frail heart.

A blow he never quite recovered from.

II. FRÈRE JEAN’S MENAGERIE

Now, it was 1789.

Though the country was on the precipice of revolution, Frere Jean enjoyed relative peace

and solitude in his little zoo, with limited intrusion other than from locals that mostly kept to

themselves. He was happy to feed his animals, read the works of bygone saints—from Augustine

of Hippo’s City of God, which expounded on the suffering of the righteous and free will to Saint

Francis of Assisi’s writings on his experiences with his animals, especially the Wolf of Gubbio,

who he famously tamed to protect the townspeople—or even just breathe in the warm summer

air, alone in his garden beside his docile jackal. (THIS SCENE SHOULD BE SORT OF A

REVERSION TO THE VERY BEGINNING WITH HIM LOUNGING IN HIS GARDEN.

EXCEPT THIS TIME HE’S READING SOME BOOK BY ST FRANCIS OF ASSISI).

By the time of the Revolution, however, everything changed. Many Parisians who

couldn’t afford to leave the country like the émigrés began to flee from the inner city and into the

outskirts in fear of escalating violence after the storming of the Bastille. Times were hard and the

people needed a distraction. It was by these events that Frere Jean’s lonely zoo, which lied on

these outskirts, came to be more and more well known. (NOT COMPLETELY NECESSARY

BUT MAYBE A LITTLE MONTAGE SHOWING PEOPLE FLEEING CITY INTO

SUBURBS/OUTSKIRTS. AGAIN, NOT THAT NECESSARY, UP TO YOU)

From 1790 to 1791, these inner city refugees would bring their children to the friar’s zoo

in increasing numbers to escape the daily dread of the Revolution. At first, these disturbances

were nothing but exasperating to Frere Jean. But eventually he realized the immense profit he

could extract from such daily intrusions. At the outset of the summer of ’91, he mechanized a

ticketing system in order to facilitate this profit, which he then used to hire locals as caretakers

and massively expand his forlorn microcosm into a full-fledged menagerie. The most notable

addition was a Bengal tiger, sold to him by an émigré shortly after his estate was confiscated by

the monarchy. By the end of the year, “Frere Jean’s Menagerie” had become a local sensation.

(SHOW FJ AT ENTRANCE OF ZOO HANDLING TICKETS AT BOOTH WITH HUGE

LINE OF PEOPLE WAITING TO GET IN. THEN A GLORIOUS SHOT OF THE

TIGER IN HIS OWN CAGE, UP ON A PEDESTAL, ALL THE PEOPLE LOOKING UP)

Still, Frere Jean was very reclusive and spent most of his time reading and ruminating in

his study. Above his desk, he posted a papyrus facsimile of “The Tiger, The Brahmin and the

Jackal,” an old Indian parable he had come to cherish deeply, which he had acquired during his

travels in Morocco. It was the story of a Brahmin who passes a tiger in a trap then releases him

after the tiger pleads and promises not to eat him. After his release, the tiger rescinds his promise

and announces his intention to eat the Brahmin. Then, the tiger and the Brahmin encounter a tree

and a buffalo who, both having suffered at the hands of mankind, agree that the Brahmin should

be eaten. After this, they encounter a jackal who feigns incomprehension and asks the tiger to

demonstrate the situation by getting back in the trap. The jackal then shuts him in and suggests

that they leave matters thus. Frere Jean relished the remorseless guile of the jackal in this fable.

(SO THIS WOULD BE REALLY COOL TO INTERPRET IN A MONTAGE. OR THOSE

LITTLE ILLUMINATED CIRCLES YOU SENT ME BEFORE. SO, EACH SENTENCE

IN THE PARABLE WOULD BE A LITTLE BLURB, OR YOU MIGHT HAVE TO

CHOP UP SOME OF THE SENTENCES INTO A COUPLE BLURBS. YOU GET IT).

From 1791 to 1792, the amount of visitors at Frere Jean’s Menagerie increased

exponentially. Yet, somehow, with so many people at his doorstep, Frere Jean never felt more

alone. To make matters worse, his fame and fortune were regrettably short-lived.

(NO ILLUSTRATIVE ACCOMPANIMENT NEEDED)

Naturally, his rapid acquisition of wealth attracted the attention of revolutionary

authorities in Paris. As soon as the First Republic was proclaimed in September of 1792,

suspicions of tax evasion and embezzlement within Frere Jean’s Menagerie arose like wildfire.

Though these allegations turned out to be false, the government disregarded this and issued a

warrant out for his arrest, forcing him to close his zoo and appear in a revolutionary tribunal. It

certainly didn’t help that Catholics were losing popular favor at a dramatic rate with widespread

condemnation of the Church’s wealth and its lack of redistribution to poor and peasant classes.

(NO ILLUSTRATIVE ACCOMPANIMENT NEEDED)

After further investigation, Frere Jean was acquitted from the charges and allowed to

reopen his zoo. Paranoid by these legal proceedings, he kept a low profile, and hired even more

employees to feed and take care of the animals, barely ever leaving his convent or his study.

(NO ILLUSTRATIVE ACCOMPANIMENT NEEDED)

“I should have never started this whole mess,” he often sighed to himself in the darkness

of his office, peering out at the visitors through the window curtains. Despite this relapse into

reclusion, things remained relatively tranquil at Frere Jean’s Menagerie for quite a while.

(IMAGE OF FJ LOOKING OUT WINDOW AT ALL HAPPY PEOPLE IN HIS ZOO)

Much to his dismay, however, yet another catastrophe was waiting at France’s doorstep.

With the arrival of the Reign of Terror in September of 1793, starvation became rampant in the

city of Paris. The basic staples of bread and meat were so scarce and overpriced that Frere Jean

could barely feed himself, let alone his poor jackal. Peasants with a vendetta against the Church

began to steal his animals for food until Frere Jean was once again forced to close down his zoo.

(NOCTURNAL SCENE OF PEASANT BREAKING INTO ZOO, STEALING ANIMALS)

Enraged by this senseless burglary—even if it was for pure survival—Frere Jean was at

his wit’s end. Taking no chances, he moved his beloved jackal from its shoddy outdoor cage into

a larger, specialized pen within his study, never to be seen or heard by any of the visitors.

Additionally, he fired all of his employees and bolted down every entrance into the zoo with iron

locks. Locked inside of his zoo, alone with his animals, he began to rely solely on short naps

during the day so he could night watch. He even snatched a wooden pole from the tiger’s cage

and sharpened the tip, so he could jab at any thief who so much as tried to hop over the fence.

(THIS PARAGRAPH COULD TAKE A COUPLE DRAWINGS. I’M THINKING A

LITTLE “MONTAGE” OF HIM TAKING ALL THESE STEPS TO PROTECT HIS

ZOO: MOVING JACKAL INTO SPECIAL CAGE, BOLTING DOWN ENTRANCE

WITH IRON LOCKS, SHARPENING WOODEN SPEAR, AND NIGHTWATCHING)

But one night, after a long day of fending off thieves, Frere Jean fell asleep. BANG! In

the middle of the night, he was awoken by a loud gunshot and a succession of barks and howls

from his jackal. He bolted to the tiger’s cage, nearly tripping over his tunic, only to find a trail of

blood. He followed the trail to a stout, hooded shadow in the distance, grunting and dragging the

tiger’s slain body across the floor. Though not the least inconspicuous—or challenging—creature

to slaughter and subsequently snatch, it could feed an entire family for at least a week. After

stalking his prey for nearly half a minute, his heart pounding, Frere Jean stepped on a branch.

The trespasser turned around and the friar lunged at him, piercing him in the chest with his

wooden spear. Surges of hot blood coursed through his veins. He had never killed a man before.

(THIS IS A VERY INTEGRAL SCENE TO THE STORY: HIS FIRST MURDER. HAS

TO BE VERY DRAMATIC. I’M GOING TO LEAVE INTERPRETATION UP TO YOU,

BUT I WAS THINKING THIS SCENE/MONTAGE COULD BE THE MOST “COMIC

BOOK” OF THE STORY, PULPY, ZOOM-INS, JACKAL BARKING/HOWLING, ONE

OF THE SHOTS A CLOSE UP ON HIS STARTLED FACE, THE STABBING, ETC)

He ran back to his office and suffered a brief panic attack.

My God. What have I done? No, no. I’m not a murderer.

He paced around his study for a few minutes, panicking, thinking of what he could do

with the corpse before daylight revealed his horrid crime. He perused the room, until his eyes

finally arrived at his gaunt, sad-eyed jackal, sitting calmly in the corner.

“Lex talionis,” he murmured to himself.

He ran back outside, grabbed his prey by its hind legs, and lugged it back to his study.

After a brief exhale, he threw the body into the jackal’s cage and watched his jackal first

examine the unusual meal, then tear it to shreds. He regarded this with a strange, stoic pleasure.

(THESE LAST FEW PASSAGES ARE PRETTY INTUITIVE / SELF-

EXPLANATORY IN TERMS OF INTERPRETATION, DO WHAT THOU WILT!)

III. THE GLINT IN THE JACKAL’S EYE

By the winter of 1793, things were worse than ever before. The food shortage was

accompanied by crop failure due to severe weather conditions and the Republic was doing

naught. One day, Frere Jean was roaming the city, searching for food and barbed wire for his

fences. He watched the sorry peasant and sans-culotte crowds, scavenging for so much as a

breadcrumb to stay alive. He felt pity for them. But still no more pity than he felt for his animals.

Around sunset, a boy in long, dirty trousers and woodblock shoes approached him.

“Frere Jean!”

“Hello child.”

“I know you closed your zoo, but can I see the tiger just one more time?”

“I’m sorry, my sweet. The tiger is dead.”

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“He—he starved.”

“How horrid! When?”

“Months ago, my boy.”

“What about the jackal?”

“No one is allowed to see the jackal.”

“But Frere Jean! It would make me so happy.”

Frere Jean gazed at the child’s guileless blue eyes. He saw himself. And Jean-Pierre.

“Alright, I suppose for a moment.” So, taking him by the hand, Frere Jean led the child to

his zoo and finally the jackal’s cage. Huddled in the corner, the jackal was in the worst condition

the friar had ever seen it in. It was trembling in its sleep, almost convulsing from hunger. (ALSO

PRETTY SELF-EXPLANATORY SCENE W/ DIALOGUE B/W FJ AND CHILD.

JACKAL SHOULD LOOK EMACIATED HERE, VERY THIN, IN ITS WORST SHAPE)

“Oh, Frere Jean! He looks so sad! Can I pet him?”

Frere Jean shrugged at first, but then realized that his jackal might like some company.

He let the boy inside the cage. For a minute, the boy stroked the sleeping jackal, until it finally

woke up and, at the instant sight of meat, pounced on the boy. The boy ran to the front of the

cage, shrieking and trying to escape. But it was to no avail. Immobilized by shock, Frere Jean did

not intervene and within seconds, the jackal began tearing the boy apart. Frere Jean lunged

toward the cage to save the boy, but the jackal snarled at him and he retracted. (ZOOM-IN ON

THE SNARL, JACKAL SHOULD LOOK MENACING AS FUCK HERE) The jackal was

now eating the boy, limb by limb. Instantly, the friar was overcome with guilt. He had killed a

man before. But this was different. Now, he was responsible for the death of an innocent child.

The friar panicked.

What is wrong with me?

How could I let this happen?

Why didn’t I help the boy earlier?

(SITTING AS HIS DESK WHILE THINKING THESE THOUGHTS, HANDS

AROUND HIS HEAD SIFTING THROUGH HIS HAIR, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?)

But Frere Jean did not raise a hand against his beloved jackal, realizing that, for the last

few years of his life, his jackal had been the only thing that made his life even bearable.

With no recourse, Frere Jean began to sob hysterically, “God. God, please forgive me.”

(LOOKING UP, HANDS RAISED, BESEECHING LORD IN DESPERATE PRAYER)

Then, he looked at the jackal again, as it inhaled its meal, and studied its mercilessness.

Its snout was covered in crimson and there was a glint in its eye. Suddenly, like all the apostles

in all the books he ever read, the friar underwent a revelation. He began to hear his jackal speak.

This wasn’t your fault, father.

You had to feed me. Or else I would die.

We must all make sacrifices in this difficult time.

Don’t you remember Jean-Pierre? How he starved in the rain?

(THIS SHOULD BE THE MOST “PSYCHEDELIC” PART OF THE STORY. I

WANT TO MAKE IT SUPER SURREAL / UNIQUE FROM ANY OTHER SCENE.

MAYBE CRAZY SWIRLY TRIPPY BACKGROUND, COVERED IN BLOOD. THEY

DO IT SO WELL IN (WAIT FOR IT…) THE GAINSBOURG BIOPIC. I’LL POST

SOME PHOTOS IN THE BLOG. I WANT IT TO BE FREAKIN CRAAAAAAAAAAZY)

His eyes then shifted to the papyrus above his desk and he recalled the suddenly more

relevant motif of “The Tiger, the Brahmin, and the Jackal.” It was by these events that, in spite of

his immense guilt, the friar reached the conclusion that he must weather these dark days. That in

order for him and his animals to survive, he had to make moral—and mortal—sacrifices.

(ZOOM-IN AGAIN ON WORN OUT PAPYRUS W/ PARABLE SCRAWLED ON IT)

So, in order to feed his animals, which were disappearing in greater numbers every day,

Frere Jean began to lure in homeless children for "free tours" of his closed zoo. As more and

more children began to disappear over the next few months, the friar remained a free man with

well-fed animals. It was an intricate system that demanded immense caution. But this enjoyment,

as all enjoyments, was short-lived. One night, as Frere Jean was guiding a small child by the

hand to the inside of the zoo, a peasant observed from the distance and put two and two together.

(HERE, IT’D BE COOL, IF WE DIDN’T DIRECTLY SHOW THE SPYING PEASANT’S

FACE, MOSTLY THE BACK AND JUST A BIT OF THE PROFILE, VERY DARK,

HIDDEN BEHIND A WALL, WATCHING FJ IN THE DISTANCE IN THE DARK) This

tip-off proved mutually advantageous for the peasant, who received a large sum of money, and

the Committee of Public Safety, which now had a brilliant opportunity to make a national

example of the depravity of the Church. (COPS VISIT ZOO, FIND LIMB, NEED TO

FINISH WRITING THIS PART) Frere Jean was arrested again and brought before

Robespierre himself. After being mocked by a peasant mob, he was sentenced to death and

thrown into a prison alongside Parisians from all walks of life—all of whom awaited the same

razor-bladed fate. To Frere Jean, it was a sentence that hearkened back to Christ’s crucifixion,

except that neither Robespierre nor the peasants washed their hands. (FOR FJ’S ARREST, I

THINK IT’D BE FUNNY TO MAKE A SUBTLE REFERENCE TO CHRIST’S

CONDEMNATION AT THE HANDS OF PONTIUS PILATE & PEOPLE. THAT’S THE

JOKE WITH THE WASHING OF THE HANDS. I’LL POST SOME PICS OF THAT)

IV. MANGEZ-VOUS?

On the day of his execution in the summer of ‘94, a light drizzle showered Paris, the

pitter-patter sounding like a drumroll of death. Gazing out the ironclad window of his jail cell,

Frere Jean thought of his jackal, wondering if he was alive and well, and contemplated his life,

wondering if it was one well lived. He thought about St. Francis and how he had failed him. How

he had tamed his jackal, not to protect his fellow man, like the Wolf of Gubbio, but to devour

him. He thought about his parents. How he missed them, how he would give anything to be with

them again, despite his grudges, despite their grave mistakes. He somehow in this moment found

a way to forgive them.

Suddenly, the royal executioner Charles Henri-Sanson, a thin, bloodless-faced man,

entered the prison. Holding fast to the frigid bars, the friar pleaded, "Sir. I beseech you to rescind

this sentence. I am an innocent man. Please! You can't kill a man of God!"

But, coldly, opening the cell door, the executioner replied, "It’s not my decision to make.

Besides, I've killed a king and a queen. I'm sorry, but you don't amount to much."

Hopeless, Frere Jean begged, "Then, please. At least release my poor animals into the

Ardennes Forest.” But Sanson, unswayed, proceeded to escort the friar out to the guillotine.

Once Frere Jean was outside, he peered at the crowd eagerly awaiting his lonely

martyrdom. The lot of them consisted of grisly-faced peasants with yellow teeth, jaundiced eyes,

and bloodstained garb, holding pikes, shovels, muskets, and tricolor flags. Others were more

docile and lurked in the crevices, watching the spectacle not out of ill will but pure curiosity. (I

THINK WATCHING THE END OF PERFUME AGAIN WOULD REALLY HELP

HERE. I’LL TRY TO LOOK INTO OTHER GOOD FRENCH REV SCENES FOR YOU)

Once he was in sight, the crowd began to scream a range of obscenities at him:

“Pervers! Zoophilie! Pédophile! Diable!”

In the midst of these obscenities, one peasant with a blood-smeared jester smile painted

on his face, ascended to teach the mob a bastardization of a popular French nursery rhyme. Soon

enough, as Frere Jean was raised to the scaffold, the obscenities became an orchestrated chant:

(POSTED WHAT FRENCH JESTER COSTUME SHOULD LOOK LIKE IN BLOG)

"Frère Jackal! Frère Jackal!

Mangez-vous? Mangez-vous?

Âmes des petits enfants! Âmes des petits enfants!

NOM NOM NOM! NOM NOM NOM!"

They continued to sing this, as one peasant brought forward an emaciated jackal from the

friar's zoo.

Frere Jean’s eyes watered up, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest.

“Please! No! Not my poor jackal! He’s done nothing! Kill me, but not him!”

But his words merely drowned in the sea of their merciless song.

Laughing, they held up the jackal by its ears, as the friar wept. The jackal made a squeal

that was like a dagger in the friar’s heart. Then, one of them shouted, “Un dernier mot?”

But the friar was speechless, frozen in shock.

Finally, the peasant cut off the jackal’s head. (GRUESOME CLOSE-UP HERE)

Frere Jean released a staggered gasp, his head by this point situated beneath the blade.

After a moment of utter silence, the executioner echoed, “Bien? Un dernier mot?”

The friar remained silent, only whispering to himself, “Dieu. Dieu leur pardonne.”

The executioner made a signal to the man at the guillotine and within seconds the friar’s

head, forever cast with a mien of remorse, rolled down to the feet of the peasant mob and now

kissed the bloodstained dust. After cheering boisterously for a moment, they collected the bodies,

placed the severed heads on separate pikes, and marched to a nearby yard, singing the dreadful

nursery rhyme again. Then, after digging a hole, they threw the heads and bodies into the same

grave and made an inscription with a wooden stick in the dirt below: “Frere Jackal, 1794.”

(MAKE SURE THEY’RE SINGING THE CHANT AGAIN AS THEY WALK AWAY

INTO THE DISTANCE, THEN LAST SHOT OF THIS SCENE SHOULD BE CLOSE-UP

OF “FRERE JACKAL, 1794” WRITTEN IN THE DUST. BAM. THEN EPILOGUE…)

. . .

As chaos reigns across Paris, children continue to disappear with sensational rumors of a

'dog-headed friar' roaming the town but no documented proof of its existence. Fearing the worst,

the peasants call a priest to perform an exorcism. But on the 14 th of July—before the priest ever

arrives to the gravesite—hundreds of baskets with baby corpses, chests branded with ankhs,

flood nearly the entire expanse of the Seine situated next to the Place de la Révolution, where

Frere Jean and many others were guillotined. Aghast at this sight, the peasants rush to Frere

Jackal’s grave. After digging with their hands, they only find a jackal’s body and a man's head…

Fin

(I THINK THE MOST IMPORTANT IMAGE IN THIS FINAL EPILOGUE SCENE ARE THE BABY CORPSES SEARED WITH ANKHS IN THE BASKETS ROLLING ALONG THE RIVER, THAN ONE LAST SERIES OF IMAGES OF PEASANTS FRANTICALLY DIGGING UP THE GRAVE, FINDING ONLY JACKAL’S BODY AND JEAN’S HEAD)