László Krasznahorkai’s Satantango Reimagined in America

Introduction by László Krasznahorkai 

There are places where the rain never ceases, where silence is louder than words, where human beings walk through the endless gray without knowing if they are alive or already ghosts of themselves. I have written of such villages in Hungary, but now, in another land, the same despair finds its mirror: houses sagging under the burden of water, a people drifting into memory before they can even name it.

And into this landscape comes the whale, pale and unyielding, and with it the Word, smeared across damp pages, a sentence that does not end. What you will witness is not a story, but the echo of a story — fragments of endurance in the flood, and the faintest, most fragile glimmer of hope that refuses to drown.

(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)

Scene 1 — The Village That Waits

FADE IN:

EXT. MIDWESTERN TOWN — DAY

Rain falls steady, gray and endless. Storefronts rot, water pours into potholes, a bus stop leans, unused.

INT. EVELYN’S HOUSE — KITCHEN — DAY

EVELYN (50s) sets down a bag of groceries. A lemon rolls across the counter — its brightness absurd in the gloom.

She listens. A COUGH rattles from the next room.
She moves to check but pauses, staring at the drip of water from a leaky ceiling.

EXT. MARK’S PORCH — SAME TIME

MARK (30s) sits with a cold mug, watching rain pour off the roof. Across the street, a child kicks a soggy ball that won’t bounce.

Mark raises his mug in a mock toast, then lowers it again.

INT. DINER — LATER

The door bell TINKS.
A handful of damp TOWNSPEOPLE linger, coffees cooling. EVELYN slips in, takes a stool.

Two MEN in a booth whisper.

MAN #1
They’re coming.

MAN #2
Who?

MAN #1
A show. With a whale.

The word drops into silence. Even the waitress freezes mid-pour.

The PREACHER (40s), soaked, enters. He doesn’t shake off the rain.

PREACHER
There’s a light beyond the rain.

EVELYN (flat)
You preaching inside now?

PREACHER
I preach where the ground’s soft.

The radio crackles faintly: a weather warning, swallowed by static.

Evelyn stirs her coffee, eyes drifting to the window. Outside, through the blur of rain, TRUCK HEADLIGHTS move slowly into town.

FADE OUT.

Scene 2 — Rumors in the Rain

FADE IN:

INT. DINER — MORNING

Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead. Rain streaks the windows, turning the outside world into a blur.
Only a handful of TOWNSPEOPLE sit inside, coats dripping, steaming faintly.

The WAITRESS moves from table to table with the same weary rhythm — coffee pot in hand, no words.

ANGLE ON: EVELYN
She sits at the counter, rolling the lemon in her palm like a worry stone.

Behind her, two MEN lean close in a booth. Their voices are hushed, conspiratorial.

MAN #1
They’re coming.

MAN #2
Who’s coming?

MAN #1
(beat)
A show.

MAN #2
(skeptical laugh)
Nobody comes here.

MAN #1
(leans closer)
With a whale.

Silence falls. The waitress freezes mid-pour. Someone stirs their spoon slower. The word whale fills the room like an echo.

The door creaks. THE PREACHER enters, soaked, his beard dripping. He doesn’t shake off the rain. He looks around like he’s already speaking to a congregation.

PREACHER
There’s a light beyond the rain.

The WAITRESS sets a mug in front of him without asking. He cradles it, doesn’t drink.

PREACHER (CONT’D)
You don’t see it yet. But it’s here.

MARK enters quietly, rain plastering his hoodie. He doesn’t sit, just stands in the corner, watching. His eyes move from Evelyn, to the Preacher, back to the window.

ANGLE ON: EVELYN
She finally looks up from her coffee.

EVELYN
(flat)
You preaching inside now?

PREACHER
(smiles faintly)
I preach where the ground’s soft.

Evelyn shakes her head, goes back to stirring.

The RADIO crackles. A faint WEATHER ALERT filters through:

RADIO (V.O.)
…flash flood warning in effect for Logan County until…

The words dissolve into static. Nobody speaks.

CLOSE ON: WINDOW
Through the watery blur of glass, faint HEADLIGHTS appear in the distance, trucks crawling slowly into town.

The townsfolk notice. Nobody moves.

CLOSE ON: EVELYN
Her hand freezes on the spoon. She stares, eyes narrowed, as if she already knows what’s coming.

FADE OUT.

Scene 3 — The Circus Tent

FADE IN:

EXT. FIELD AT THE EDGE OF TOWN — AFTERNOON

Rain sheets down over a muddy expanse. Trucks idle, their engines ticking low.
Men in slickers drag ropes through ankle-deep mud, shouting orders the storm swallows.

A massive CANVAS rises slowly, heavy with water, groaning against the wind.
It is not colorful — only gray, sagging, like an enormous bruise on the horizon.

EXT. FENCE LINE — CONTINUOUS

LILA (17) and her BROTHER (9) stand at the rusted chain link, faces pressed to the gaps.

The BROTHER points as a forklift BEEPS backward.
On its prongs: a tarp-wrapped bulk, dripping, sagging.

LITTLE BROTHER
Is that the whale?

LILA
(quiet, uncertain)
I don’t know.

The tarp sloughs water like skin. Steam rises faintly in the cold air.

INT. TENT — EARLY EVENING

Lanterns sputter, throwing weak halos of light.
Mud churns underfoot. The rain on the canvas above is deafening, a low roar that never stops.

At the center: a GIANT GLASS TANK.
The water inside is murky, green with algae, silt swirling with each shift of the ground.

Inside: a WHALE. Pale. Enormous. Folded in on itself, swollen by time and water.

The TOWNSPEOPLE filter in, dripping, moving in slow circles around the tank. No one speaks at first. Boots suck in mud. Jackets drip. Children clutch their parents’ hands tighter.

ANGLE ON: EVELYN
She steps closer than the rest. Her breath fogs faintly against the glass.
She whispers under the roar of rain:

EVELYN
We’ve been waiting for you.

MARK enters at the back. He freezes when he sees the tank.
His laugh catches in his throat, half-strangled. He doesn’t approach.

A CHILD reaches out, presses a small hand to the glass.
The skin beneath is mottled, gray-blue.
The whale does not move.

The silence deepens.

Finally, a WOMAN’S VOICE from the crowd:

WOMAN
(soft, trembling)
It’s dead.

The words ripple outward. Some nod faintly, others frown, unwilling.

ANGLE ON: THE PREACHER
He stands near the entrance, rainwater still dripping from his beard. His eyes shine as though he’s already won.

PREACHER
Do you feel it?
That’s the light I told you.

No one answers.

CLOSE ON: LILA
She looks down. In the mud near her boot — a PAGE, waterlogged, smeared with ink.
She picks it up carefully, eyes narrowing at the endless sentence twisting across it.

The words shimmer faintly in the lantern light — or maybe in her own imagination.

She tucks it quickly inside her coat.

The CROWD lingers. Some stare with reverence, others with unease. A man mutters a prayer. Another spits in the mud. Children look between their parents’ faces and the pale eye of the whale.

WIDE SHOT — THE TENT
The lanterns swing in the draft. The glass tank looms in the center, a grotesque altar.
Rain pounds the canvas roof as if the sky itself is pressing down.

Nobody speaks. Nobody leaves.

FADE OUT.

Scene 4 — The Whale and the Word

FADE IN:

INT. CIRCUS TENT — NIGHT

The rain on the canvas has deepened into a constant roar.
Lanterns flicker, light bending through the glass tank. The WHALE floats closer to the surface now, pale bulk rippling faintly as water shifts.

The CROWD remains — not leaving, not speaking. Boots stuck in mud, faces tilted upward toward the enormous silence.

ANGLE ON: MARK
He steps closer, jaw set, voice bitter.

MARK
It’s not a miracle.
It’s meat in a box.

He slaps the glass once, sharp.
Water sloshes inside, a wave rolling over the whale’s skin.
Some townsfolk gasp; others flinch. The sound echoes hollow.

MARK (CONT’D)
That’s all. Meat. Nothing more.

He spits in the mud, eyes locked on the pale eye staring back.

CLOSE ON: LILA
She crouches against the tent’s side, pulling the PAGE from her coat.
The ink has bled, but words still coil endlessly, spilling across the paper without pause.

LILA
(whispering, reading)
“…the village waits, and the waiting becomes its own death, and still the sky does not clear, and still we walk…”

Her BROTHER leans in, eyes huge.

LITTLE BROTHER
Who wrote it?

Lila shakes her head, folds the page close to her chest.

CUT TO:

INT. EVELYN’S HOUSE — SAME TIME

The sound of rain seeps through thin walls.
Evelyn sits at her table. The lemon glows faintly in its chipped bowl, absurd against the gray.

She lifts it, rolls it in her palm, sets it back down. Her hands linger on it like it is the last proof of life.

A drip falls into a glass of water. She doesn’t move.

CUT TO:

EXT. STREET — SAME TIME

The PREACHER walks barefoot through mud, head tilted back, arms loose at his sides.
Rain runs over his face as he whispers to himself, a litany swallowed by the storm.

PREACHER
(soft, rhythmic)
The beast in the water.
The Word in the mud.
The sign in the silence.

INT. TENT — CONTINUOUS

Some townsfolk drift closer to the glass, fingertips brushing its surface.
Others hang back, arms crossed, skeptical but unwilling to leave.

EVELYN enters, her face pale in lanternlight. She steps right up to the glass, staring into the whale’s blind eye.

EVELYN
(quiet, almost prayer)
No… it’s us.

Her words ripple the silence. A WOMAN behind her weeps once, quickly silenced.

CLOSE ON: LILA
She unfolds the page again, lips moving silently with the words.
The ink seems to pulse under the lantern’s swing.

She mouths the lines as though repeating a secret prayer.

Her brother whispers:

LITTLE BROTHER
Does it end?

Lila doesn’t answer. She folds the page and hides it again, eyes locked on the tank.

WIDE SHOT — THE TENT
The whale floats, lanterns sway, rain hammers the roof.
The people are suspended between reverence and dread, none willing to break the circle.

The camera lingers long enough that the silence feels unbearable.

FADE OUT.

Scene 5 — The Preacher’s Sermon

FADE IN:

EXT. CIRCUS TENT — NEXT EVENING

The rain is steadier now, falling like chains from the sky.
Lanterns glow dim through the canvas, the whale’s shadow looming from inside.

A SMALL CROWD gathers outside, coats plastered, children wrapped in blankets. They wait, but for what they don’t know.

The PREACHER climbs onto an overturned crate. His arms spread wide. His voice cuts through the storm.

PREACHER
It is here. The sign.
The beast in the water.
The witness of our ruin.

The crowd stirs uneasily. Faces wet, hollowed by hunger and rain.

CLOSE ON: LILA
She stands at the edge with her BROTHER, clutching her coat where the PAGE is hidden. Her brother stares wide-eyed, spellbound.

PREACHER (CONT’D)
And the Word —
yes, the Word walks among us.
Written in mud, carried by rain, already waiting.

A low murmur spreads. Some nod. Some cross themselves.

MARK pushes forward from the back. His laugh is short, bitter.

MARK
You’re all fools.
It’s a dead whale in a tank. That’s all.

The crowd parts slightly. All eyes swing between Mark and the Preacher.

MARK (CONT’D)
You think this—this circus rot—
is salvation? It stinks already.

He points toward the tent.

The PREACHER locks eyes with him, smiling faintly.

PREACHER
Even the dead speak.
Even rot carries truth.

MARK
(angry, voice rising)
It’s meat. Meat in a glass box!

EVELYN steps closer, her face pale but firm.

EVELYN
No.
It’s us.

The words hang. Rain drums louder.

A WOMAN covers her child’s ears. A MAN whispers, “She’s right.” Another hisses, “Blasphemy.”

ANGLE ON: LILA
She slowly draws the PAGE from her coat. The ink, blurred and bleeding, glimmers faintly in lanternlight.
She mouths the words silently, almost prayer-like.

Her brother whispers:

LITTLE BROTHER
What does it say?

Lila doesn’t answer. She hides the page again, pressing it tight against her chest.

The PREACHER raises both arms higher. His voice grows fierce, echoing in the storm.

PREACHER
You must choose.
Stand in the light, or sink in the rain!

Thunder cracks overhead. The lanterns flicker.

The CROWD shudders — split, uncertain, trembling between belief and despair.

CLOSE ON: MARK
His face contorted in anger, but his eyes wet. He doesn’t move.

CLOSE ON: EVELYN
Silent, staring at the tent.

CLOSE ON: LILA
Her lips still shaping the endless sentence.

WIDE SHOT — THE CROWD
Half lean toward the Preacher, half drift away into the dark.
The divide has begun.

FADE OUT.

Scene 6 — The Collapse Spreads

FADE IN:

EXT. TOWN STREETS — NIGHT

The storm intensifies. Water gushes along gutters, pours into open drains.
Streetlights flicker, then one by one go dark, leaving only lanternlight in windows.

A SIREN wails once — fractured, dying — then cuts off.

The town is sinking.

INT. EVELYN’S HOUSE — BEDROOM

The room glows faintly from a single candle.
Her FATHER lies in bed, face pale, chest rattling with shallow breaths.

Rainwater drips steadily through the ceiling into an overflowing bucket.

EVELYN kneels beside him, gently drying his damp feet with a towel. Her movements are slow, ritualistic.

FATHER
(whispering)
Did you get the bread?

EVELYN
I got it.

FATHER
The good one?

EVELYN
They don’t carry that anymore.

A long pause. He exhales once — harsh, final. His chest falls still.

Evelyn sits motionless. Then she pulls the sheet over his face.
She does not weep.

EXT. MARK’S HOUSE — SAME TIME

Water creeps across the living room floor, swallowing photos and papers.

MARK stands barefoot in the flood. He picks up his old SAFETY VEST, soaked and limp, then throws it against the wall.

He digs in a cardboard box — finds a Polaroid of a sunlit creek.
He holds it to the window, but outside there is only storm.

He lets the photo slip into the water. Watches it drift.

MARK
(low, bitter)
You win.

He takes a long pull from a bottle.

EXT. MAIN STREET — SAME TIME

Families pack trucks in the rain, voices low and urgent.

A WOMAN drags a suitcase through mud. A MAN nails boards across his windows.
Children clutch stuffed animals, too tired to cry. Dogs bark, then are pulled into cars.

Some neighbors shout farewells. Others slip away without a word.

INT. DINER — SAME TIME

A few stragglers huddle around low lanterns, watching water seep across the floor.

WOMAN
It’s the end.

MAN
(shaking his head)
Just a storm. Nothing more.

The PREACHER bursts in, soaked, eyes blazing.

PREACHER
The whale remains! The Word remains!
Even as we fall, they endure!

A ripple passes through the room. Some bow their heads, murmuring prayers. Others look away, faces gray with doubt.

EXT. FIELD — SAME TIME

The TENT sags under the weight of rain.
The WHALE’S tank overflows, water running down the sides, spilling into the mud.

The whale drifts upward, its swollen body pressing against the glass. Its pale eye stares blankly through condensation.

The stench is unbearable.

INT. EVELYN’S HOUSE — CONTINUOUS

Evelyn sits in silence beside her father’s covered body.
The PAGE Lila gave her lies on the table, ink bleeding slowly across its surface.

She whispers, almost mechanically:

EVELYN
Not prophecy. Memory.

She presses the page flat with her palm, as if to hold it in place against the storm.

EXT. WIDE — THE TOWN

Dark houses. Abandoned porches.
The diner glows faintly in the gloom. The circus tent looms like a drowned cathedral.

The rain never stops.

FADE OUT.

Scene 7 — Manuscript in the Flood

FADE IN:

EXT. MAIN STREET — DAWN

The flood has risen overnight.
Abandoned cars sit half-submerged. Signs creak and sway.

MARK wades through waist-deep water, teeth clenched, clutching a swollen MANUSCRIPT above his head — dozens of pages he has gathered and pressed together.

His voice cracks as he shouts into the storm.

MARK
You won’t take this! You won’t take it!

He stumbles, water surging around him, but clutches the pages tighter, almost weeping with rage.

INT. EVELYN’S HOUSE — SAME TIME

Evelyn sits by her father’s still body, the PAGE LILA gave her spread on the table.
Ink has bled into endless rivers, yet sentences still coil faintly across it.

The door creaks open. LILA slips in, soaked, clutching her brother’s hand. She pulls the PAGE from her coat.

LILA
(urgent whisper)
It’s us. Everything. It’s written here.

She lays it beside Evelyn’s copy. They match — one memory bleeding into another.

EVELYN stares at both, eyes hollow but sharp.

EVELYN
Then it’s no prophecy.
It’s memory.

LILA trembles. Her brother watches, wide-eyed, whispering:

LITTLE BROTHER
What if it writes us next?

Silence. Evelyn presses her palm on the pages to keep them still, though they ripple with each drip from the ceiling.

EXT. STREET — CONTINUOUS

MARK stumbles through the flood, face raw, screaming at no one.

MARK
It’s ours! Do you hear me? It’s ours!

A few neighbors watch from windows, pale silhouettes, whispering: “He’s lost his mind.”
But one man whispers back: “No… he’s carrying the Word.”

Mark staggers on, manuscript clutched like scripture.

INT. DINER — SAME TIME

A dozen townsfolk huddle, the water creeping across the floor.
The PREACHER stands tall at the counter, soaked to the bone, arms lifted high.

PREACHER
The Word survives!
The whale survives!
Even as we fall, they endure!

Some nod, eyes shining. Others recoil, faces twisted with disgust.

A WOMAN whispers to her husband: “What if he’s right?”
The husband mutters back: “Then God is cruel.”

CLOSE ON: LILA (in the diner now, holding the PAGE against her chest).
She mouths the words silently, repeating them over and over. Her lips move faster, like a prayer or a curse.

Her brother tugs her sleeve.

LITTLE BROTHER
Does it ever end?

She doesn’t answer.

EXT. FIELD — SAME TIME

The whale’s tank tilts, sagging deeper into the mud.
Rain hammers the cracked glass, water spilling over.
The whale’s massive eye stares out, fogged, blind, yet terrible in its stillness.

A single PAGE floats out through the collapsed tent flap. It drifts down a flooded ditch, its ink bleeding into black water until nothing remains but a smear.

WIDE SHOT — THE TOWN

• Mark trudges through the flood, manuscript clutched like fire.

• Evelyn presses pages flat with trembling hands, whispering to herself.

• Lila repeats the words silently, almost possessed.

• The Preacher proclaims survival into the storm.

The town is split — believers, doubters, madmen — all bound to the same Word.

The rain does not stop.

FADE OUT.

Scene 8 — Vanishing Circus

FADE IN:

EXT. FIELD AT TOWN’S EDGE — MORNING

The rain has softened to a steady drizzle. Mist clings to the ground.
The once-erect CIRCUS TENT sags, ropes slack, canvas torn.

The TRUCKS are gone. No performers, no workers.
Only silence and the echo of absence.

INT. TENT — CONTINUOUS

The tank remains, half-sunk in mud, water spilling over its rim.
The WHALE floats grotesquely near the surface, body bloated, pale eye staring through condensation.

The air inside is unbearable — sour, thick with rot.
A SMALL GROUP of townsfolk enters cautiously, covering their noses.

WOMAN
(whispering)
They left it.

The words ripple through the crowd like contagion.

EXT. FIELD — SAME TIME

The PREACHER stands on the crate again, soaked through, face gaunt.
His voice cracks but he shouts with fervor.

PREACHER
Do you see?
They have given us the sign!
They left the proof among us!

A FEW FOLLOWERS cry out “Amen!” and kneel in the mud.
Others back away, gagging against the stench, faces twisted in doubt.

INT. EVELYN’S HOUSE — SAME TIME

EVELYN sits at the table, staring at the PAGE spread beneath a glass.
The ink has bled almost into nothing, but faint coils of the endless sentence still linger.

She whispers, voice shaking:

EVELYN
Not prophecy.
Memory.

Her gaze drifts to the horizon where the sagging tent looms, barely visible through mist and rain.

EXT. FIELD — AFTERNOON

The canvas collapses further, folding in on itself.
The tank leans, tilted, half-swallowed by mud.
The whale’s body shifts upward, pressing against the glass, as if trying to rise.

The PREACHER keeps shouting, but fewer listen now. His voice dissolves into the hiss of rain.

A TEENAGER throws a rock at the tank. It bounces, leaving only a dull thud.
He runs. No one follows.

EXT. MAIN STREET — SAME TIME

The smell spreads. People gag behind closed windows.
Doors slam shut. Curtains close.
The rot of the whale becomes the town’s new air.

EXT. FIELD — NIGHT

Lightning splits the sky.
For a moment, the whale’s eye glimmers as if alive.
Then darkness returns.

The canvas, now little more than rags, flutters weakly in the storm.

The PREACHER kneels in the mud, hands lifted high.
No one is left to listen.

FADE OUT.

Scene 9 — Departures

FADE IN:

EXT. MAIN STREET — MORNING

Floodwaters have receded, leaving mud, wreckage, and silence.
Porches stand empty. Doors hang open.
A line of cars and trucks crawls out of town, engines coughing, tires sinking in muck.

Children press their faces to windows. Dogs bark faintly from backseats.
Neighbors do not wave. They only watch each other leave.

INT. EVELYN’S HOUSE — SAME TIME

The windows are open; the smell of rot drifts inside.
EVELYN boards them shut with slow, deliberate strikes of a hammer.

The body of her father is gone, buried hastily the night before.
His room is empty.

She pauses at the lemon in its bowl, now shriveled, spotted with mold.
She lifts it once, then sets it gently back.

EVELYN sits at the table, stares at the PAGE beneath the glass.
She does not move to leave.

EXT. BUS STOP — SAME TIME

The rusted shelter leans into the mist.
LILA (17) and her BROTHER (9) wait with a single bag, soaked shoes, hollow eyes.

They stand silently, clutching each other’s hands.
The PAGE is tucked inside Lila’s jacket. She fingers it nervously, as if it might vanish.

In the distance, faint HEADLIGHTS cut through the drizzle.
A BUS approaches slowly, wheels slapping against puddles.

The doors hiss open. The DRIVER, faceless in shadow, waits without a word.

Lila looks back once — the faint outline of the tent, the sagging houses, the whale’s stench rising like fog.

She tightens her brother’s hand. They step aboard.

The doors close. The bus pulls away, vanishing into mist.

EXT. STREET — CONTINUOUS

MARK trudges barefoot, soaked jacket clinging to him.
In his arms, the MANUSCRIPT — swollen, unreadable, but clutched like a holy relic.

His eyes burn with fever. He mutters to himself, sentences that don’t end.

MARK
(over and over)
It’s ours. It’s ours. It’s ours…

Neighbors peek through curtains as he staggers by, whispering:
“He’s gone mad.”
“No… he carries the Word.”

Mark keeps walking until the mist swallows him whole.

EXT. FIELD — SAME TIME

The collapsed tent flutters faintly.
The WHALE drifts in its cracked glass, rotting, its eye pale, unblinking.

No one comes near now.
Only the PREACHER kneels in the mud, arms outstretched, speaking to the empty field.

PREACHER
(to no one)
It endures. It endures when we cannot.

His voice breaks. No one hears.

WIDE SHOT — THE TOWN

• Cars vanish down the road.

• The bus disappears into the gray horizon.

• Mark staggers, manuscript clutched above the flood.

• Evelyn boards her last window, then sits in silence.

• The Preacher prays to no one.

The town dissolves piece by piece, until only echoes remain.

FADE OUT.

Scene 10 — Final Echo

FADE IN:

EXT. TOWN — NIGHT

The storm has slowed, but the rain never ends.
Streetlights flicker faintly, then one by one go out, leaving only blackness and the sound of water.

The town lies hollow: boarded windows, empty porches, abandoned cars sunk in mud.

EXT. FIELD — CONTINUOUS

The circus tent is gone, collapsed fully into the muck.
The tank leans at an angle, half-buried. Its glass is cracked, leaking in thin streams.

The WHALE floats grotesquely near the surface, body bloated beyond form. Its pale eye gazes blankly, fogged, like a moon behind clouds.

Lightning splits the sky — for a second, the eye gleams as if alive.
Then darkness swallows it again.

EXT. FLOODED DITCH — CONTINUOUS

A single PAGE drifts in the current, ink bleeding outward like veins in water.
Letters smear into one another until they dissolve into black stains.
The page glows faintly, then dims, vanishing under the flow.

INT. EVELYN’S HOUSE — SAME TIME

EVELYN sits at her table, a lantern burning low.
The lemon in the bowl has shriveled into collapse, more shadow than fruit.
The PAGE beneath the glass is now blurred to illegibility.

She sits motionless, staring, listening to the rain on the roof.
A drip falls into the silence every few seconds, a heartbeat she cannot stop.

EXT. COUNTRY ROAD — CONTINUOUS

The BUS is gone, swallowed by mist.
The cars are gone.
The road is empty, vanishing into gray.

No sound but rain.

EXT. FIELD — NIGHT

The PREACHER still kneels in the mud. His voice is hoarse, almost gone.

PREACHER
(whispering)
It endures. It endures.

His hands tremble, still raised to the empty sky.
Finally, they fall. His head bows. He is silent.

EXT. WIDE — THE TOWN

The camera pulls back slowly.

• Evelyn’s house, boarded, light flickering faintly inside.

• The whale in its broken tank, eye staring at nothing.

• The Preacher a small figure in the mud.

• Streets empty, rain smearing everything into one gray wash.

The town breathes like a corpse — still, yet heavy.

CLOSE ON — THE WHALE’S EYE

The camera lingers.
Rain runs down the glass, streaking across the pale, unblinking orb.
For a moment, the reflection of lanternlight makes it seem alive.

Then the lantern gutters out. Darkness.

FADE TO BLACK.

SILENCE.

THE END

Final Thoughts by László Krasznahorkai

At the end, nothing is resolved. The whale remains, the rain persists, and the pages dissolve into the water. And yet — this is the truth of human life. Not the triumphs we imagine, not the endings we demand, but the persistence of walking on when all else has collapsed.

If there is meaning, it lies in the endurance itself: Evelyn pressing a page flat against the table, Mark stumbling barefoot through floodwater with his manuscript, Lila whispering words that cannot be stopped. They do not escape despair, but they do not surrender to silence either.

In the end, it is not prophecy that survives, but memory. And even when the words blur, the act of reading — of holding the page, of whispering its endless sentence — becomes the only form of salvation left to us.

Short Bios:

László Krasznahorkai

Hungarian novelist and 2025 Nobel Prize laureate, renowned for his long, unbroken sentences and apocalyptic vision. His works, including Satantango and The Melancholy of Resistance, inspired this reimagined screenplay.

Béla Tarr

Legendary Hungarian filmmaker who adapted Satantango into a seven-hour masterpiece. His bleak, hypnotic style serves as a cinematic foundation for this new vision.

Evelyn (Fictional Character)

A weary woman who becomes the quiet center of the story, balancing care for her dying father with the unbearable knowledge that collapse is already complete. She embodies endurance without illusions.

Mark (Fictional Character)

A bitter loner, raging against despair but unwilling to let go of the manuscript he believes must be preserved. His madness blurs the line between prophecy and delusion.

Lila (Fictional Character)

A teenage girl who discovers and clings to a page of the endless manuscript. Her whispered repetition of its words captures both youthful faith and the haunting inevitability of collapse.

Lila’s Brother (Fictional Character)

A child whose innocent questions sharpen the story’s despair. Through his eyes, the page becomes both a terrifying prophecy and a fragile hope.

The Preacher (Fictional Character)

A self-appointed prophet who interprets the whale and the manuscript as divine proof. His sermons divide the town, exposing the hunger for meaning amid disaster.

The Whale (Symbolic Figure)

A massive, decaying presence at the heart of the circus tent. Neither alive nor fully dead, it becomes the ultimate mirror of endurance, despair, and the silence of God.