OFF WITH HER HEAD

He came to Earth as a god but must live the life of a human. But, is he Marie Antoinette or is he insane?

Live, love, play hard, die by guillotine.

This feature length comedia del arte cabaret is set in the late 1780's, influenced by the Théâtre du Grand Guignol. The film emphasizes satire and parody fantasia to express a demi-god's exasperation at being reincarnated as a French aristocrat. Using actual written gossip the work takes on a massive media wheelhouse to play the eleven pamphlets out one by one.

It happens that these story images are deliberately chosen from the arena of written media during the start of the French Revolution; rather then placing them in conventional order, they have been selected for the path of the irrational absurdity of their content. The game of life becomes a reality to an outside entity, the soul, which often shuns the immediate understandings of the prism. The psychotic and the brilliant, the exuberant and the hallucinated, rest underneath the narrative, the artist experiment, and the dreamscape embodied. Here, every word and body performance is capable of transmitting a distinct feeling of catharsis through the story arc and the imminent end. Ultimately one is asked to acknowledge the mirror of the monster within.

Taking each propaganda illustration and acting it out reveals the terrific lies the writers experimented with in the creation of her fall, from the ludicrous idea of bestiality and incest in the royal family to the size of her wig and embezzling millions back to Austria. Here we may prove that propaganda can kill you. Further, shot completely in an abandoned railyard, the location lends itself to a vast feeling of neurosis contained. There is within it the insinuation of reality vs insanity, immortality vs mortality, and the fantastic vs the domestic.

Specifically, the film was shot using an Insta 360 One R, giving the audience the ability to watch the movie in 2D on the big screen and the 3D 360 version for Oculus.

Our film package includes both a 2D and a 3D 360 version: one film for the flat screen and one for the immersive experience in the visor. We shot this film with the concept of the Witness in mind as an invisible character. When watching this work, you, alone, are being played to, as the characters break the fourth wall consistently looking back at you, in every direction you turn.
Content: occasional sexual nuance and simulated violence

To watch with subtitles go to this link on Youtube:
https://youtu.be/cvJEiBBTcxI

If you would like to see this feature film in 3D virtual reality, rather than the attached 2D version, please go to this link:
https://youtu.be/NZ-B32zY3k8

If used as a moving image installation the costumes, monologues, and location transmit a distinct feeling, through a singular gaze, of catharsis as multiple triptychs in a row. Visually stunning alone and in a gallery setting. May be set in the frame of a flatscreen or in an available Meta Oculus visor.

More on the characters:
Demi God who becomes Marie.
The Demi-God/Marie is a paradox, a being caught between realms, divine yet bound to flesh, immortal yet doomed to die. They descend to Earth not as a mere spectator, but as a participant, cast into the body of Marie Antoinette, where they are forced to endure the grotesque theater of human cruelty.

This character embodies the collision of the celestial and the mundane, experiencing firsthand the absurdity, horror, and decadence of a world teetering on the edge of revolution. Through Marie, the demi-god feels pain, pleasure, betrayal, and ultimately, death—an initiation into the human condition. Their existence is a cruel irony: a god trapped in the most reviled body of the era, vilified through propaganda, reduced to caricature, and sacrificed in a spectacle of bloodlust.

Yet, this descent is also a transformation. Through suffering, the Demi-God/Marie becomes more whole, more knowing. They walk through the dreamscape of history, stepping into the absurd, the monstrous, the hysterical fabrications spun by revolutionaries and pamphleteers. Their body becomes a battlefield of perception and myth, a canvas on which society scrawls its fears and desires.

In performance, they oscillate between divinity and delirium, tragedy and satire. The Marie they inhabit is both a woman and an archetype, both real and imagined. Every gesture, every word, every glance toward the camera is charged with the weight of a soul trapped between realities, bearing witness to the cruelty of a world that delights in its own fictions.

And in the end, when the blade falls and the body is severed, the Demi-God ascends—not broken, but enlightened. They return to their divine form, carrying with them the raw, brutal truth of humanity, forever changed by the brief, terrible beauty of being alive.

The Monster:
The Monster is an ancient, enigmatic, and terrifying figure, a being that exists between worlds, serving as a handler of gods, a guide through transformation, and a keeper of fate. Clad in a frightful mask and adorned with horns, The Monster embodies the inescapable forces of change, death, and rebirth. Their presence is both ominous and inevitable, like a grim shepherd leading deities into their mortal trials.

They carry a glowing lantern, a small beacon in the abyss, hinting at their dual nature—both destroyer and guide, executioner and caretaker. Their movements are deliberate, slow and ritualistic, creating an air of ceremony and inescapable fate. When they speak, their words are not just dialogue but declarations of cosmic law, spoken with a voice that carries the weight of eternity.

Physically, The Monster is imposing, though their true form remains uncertain beneath the mask. They may be tall, with a shadow stretching unnaturally long, or perhaps their presence is simply too much, too vast, too unknowable to be contained in a singular shape. Their mask is not just a disguise but a symbol, a visage of terror meant to strip away the pride of gods and remind them of their mortality.

Yet, despite their frightful appearance, The Monster is not without mercy. They do not simply cast the god into suffering but walk with them, guiding them to their fate. There is an eerie tenderness in the way they remove the god’s mask, in the way they help them up, in the way they deliver them to their new form.

They are neither villain nor hero but a necessary force—the executor of divine transformation, the one who strips power and reassigns fate, the ever-present witness to the fall of gods.

Rose Bertin:
Rose Bertin is a sharp, sophisticated, and highly skilled dressmaker, a woman who operates in the dangerous intersection of fashion, power, and survival. As the personal designer and dresser to Marie Antoinette, she moves through court life with a practiced grace, careful not to overstep—but never afraid to bite back when necessary.

She is reserved, precise, and efficient, never lingering longer than necessary, never revealing more than she must. But beneath her carefully maintained professional detachment, there is a cynical wit, a deep intelligence, and a capacity for genuine care—though she would never admit it outright.

Her movements are quick, purposeful, and tinged with an air of reluctance, as if constantly caught between duty and distaste. She hates the frivolity, the excess, the absurdity of her role—yet she executes it flawlessly, because perfection is her currency, her armor, her survival.

Physically, Rose is poised and elegant, always immaculately dressed, though never ostentatious. She dresses the queen, but she is not the queen. She exists in that dangerous liminal space between servant and confidante, a role that requires her to be both invisible and indispensable. She always curtsies when she is before the Queen.

The Scribe:
The Scribe is a reluctant messenger, a truth-teller burdened with the weight of their role. They are tasked with delivering daily announcements to the Queen—an obligation they fulfill with practiced elegance, but not without irritation. The Scribe is brilliant, articulate, and composed, their intelligence evident in every measured word and poised movement. They prefer efficiency over spectacle, clarity over embellishment.

Yet beneath their calm, collected exterior lies a fierce, impassioned soul, one that has seen too much and carries the scars of bearing witness. They have walked through the streets of hunger, watched suffering unfold firsthand, and felt the cold indifference of the privileged. Every proclamation they deliver is both duty and torment, for they know their words are heard but rarely heeded.

They unroll their scroll with precision, their tone steady and authoritative. In these moments, they are the picture of dignified restraint, delivering news with an air of detachment, a shield against the frustration they dare not show. But when the role demands, when the truth is too raw to be muted, the mask slips.

In those moments, The Scribe transforms. They are a prophet, a revolutionary, a poet, a desperate soul all at once. Their words take on a sermon-like cadence, a rhythmic plea or condemnation, demanding attention, forcing those in power to confront their failures. They whisper, they yell, they seethe with the exhaustion of being ignored.

Physically, The Scribe stands tall despite their burdens. They may be gaunt but unbowed, or strong and handsome, dressed in tattered yet dignified clothing, something that speaks of hardship but never defeat, or dressed in a very fine suit that might be their only valuable. Their eyes burn with intensity, betraying the moral outrage, the righteous despair, and the relentless demand for compassion that fuels them.

They long to simply deliver the news and depart. But the world they inhabit does not allow such ease. Their presence lingers, even after they exit, the weight of their words an echo in the silence.

The Boxing Boy
The Boxing Boy is a spectral remnant of a bygone era, a silent yet striking presence that bridges each scene with an unspoken message. They are both an artifact and an omen, a living cue card marking the transition between moments—from one act to the next, from one fate to another, from life to death.

They move with graceful precision, a practiced performance born from repetition, their body language speaking in place of words. Their smile is fixed, almost eerie, a remnant of an old showbiz charm that no longer quite fits the world they inhabit. Dressed in tiny black shorts, boxing boots, and a cropped t-shirt, they exude both a playful allure and an unsettling detachment, as if they exist outside of time, trapped in an endless cycle of announcing what comes next.

Their apparition-like presence is heightened by their silence. They do not react, do not acknowledge the chaos around them—they simply carry the sign, walk the circle, and vanish.

Each appearance is a ritual, a momentary pause between the living and the dead, the past and the present. Their signs dictate the unfolding reality, as though they hold an unseen authority over the narrative. And yet, they remain unaffected, untouched—a messenger, never the message.

They walk clockwise, always forward, never backward, their movements precise, controlled, as if bound to an unseen rule. They pass the audience, offering a fleeting glimpse of meaning before disappearing once more into an awaiting abyss.