Rosemary is a brief comedy telling the story of a director of the same name during an award ceremony.
Frozen in place Rosemary quivers as it dawns on her, the crowds gaze right through her. They've not yet recognized she's there. All her efforts in becoming a successful director gone to waste as no one knows it's the premiere of her film in the first place.
She isn't the most attractive of women. And this happens at each of her premieres. She goes unnoticed. But this time she's had it. Rosemary came ready to end the night with a bang.
"If they don't remember me now, then it doesn't matter," she whispers speaking to herself. A normal occurrence these days. Her delusive mind has gradually collapsed on itself and her obsessive need for this attention drives her motivations. She can't seem to cope with the fact that her films turn out to be each year's box office top seller yet she remains unknown to the world. "It's the first goddamn credit in every movie. How is it even possible?" She's increasingly impatient with the lack of recognition. Living unacknowledge for her work is a nightmare.
"Why don't these people see me? Know my name?" she asks herself with increasing aggravation. Her whisper's tone darkens to a twisted schizophrenic anger. Having worked on her body the entire production of the film with hopes that at this moment at least the superficial would be noticed seems a waste since even that won't catch the eyes of these shallow moviegoers. These other directors and celebrities, they all fail to notice she exists.
Underneath her dress, strapped to her stomach is the dead-man's trigger she plans to hold up when she's accepting the award she wins each year. She's always invisible while on stage. Her speech never gets a clap. Yet, the mention of a single film she's made has the crowd instantly exploding with a standing ovation.
She hovers over the red carpet into the theater, unnoticed. Takes her seat, surrounded by the most famous and influential directors in the world. Technically her peers. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with creators of magnificent films such as 'The Fairy Tale of Love' and 'The Cripple Who Could', a drama about a mentally challenged boy who plays the saxophone like a pro until he's run over by a bus and is remembered only then. Rosemary knows she won the award for her 'Fifty Shades of Gay'. She doesn't need to be told. Hands down, her films and her talent are superior to any and all others in the theater, but she remains unknown.
Finally, her name is mentioned as a winner. For the thirty-first year in a row complete silence overtakes the audience. She slugs her way to the stage, head down, shoulders drooped.
The crowd's shutter begins, "Who is this lady?"
She'll be remembered for sure this time. Her last film, her last work, the big bang she wants to end her career with is only seconds away. Just confused faces away from being recognized the way she always wanted.
On stage, staring at the confused producers and directors in the front row, she unzips her dress and it drops to the floor exposing her flawlessly crafted nude body strapped with enough C4 to clear out the first twenty rows easily.
No one bats an eye. They think it's a strange sort of performance art. "I hate all of you!" She screams into the microphone enraged and ready. She grabs the trigger and squeezes it tightly.
"Once I let this go it's all over!" She continues yelling before she notices everyone talking among themselves or playing candy crush on their phones.
"What the hell is wrong with everyone!!!!?" No one pays attention.
"... Fifty Shades of Gay?" She whispers into the mic. The crowd explodes in awe. Standing ovations. Cheering, whistling, amazement. And they realize she's up there again, just like that it's over and she's invisible again.
"FUCK!" She screams tossing the tightly held trigger at the audience and bursts into a magnificent ball of fire, ever growing and expanding into the front rows of the theater. Arms, legs, heads, dicks, and whatever else you can imagine flew out inter the further back rows of uninterested visitors. The intercom turns on. A loud screech is followed by static before it clears up and a voice talks to the audience.
"We'll resume the awards tomorrow. Sorry for the inconvenience. Enjoy your night and see you all back here at 7 pm after cleanup."