A Sunday at the Hurlingham Club
A film in five acts, notionally written and directed by Wes Anderson.
By Luce Martini
TITLE: "A Sunday at the Hurlingham Club"
A film in five acts, notionally written and directed by Wes Anderson.
Chapter 1: The Peacock and the Press Tour
Subtitle: Wherein an entrance becomes a portal, a peacock an unbilled actor, and the green smells of noble press.
INT. GUEST ENTRANCE - MORNING
A static shot frames a weathered brick wall, on which is mounted a brass plaque:
"THE HURLINGHAM CLUB - 1869”
NARRATOR (V.O.)
(Calm, slightly nasal)
"London, today. Summer. Temperature: 32°C. Humidity: average. A young woman crosses the threshold into a parallel time."
EXT. PRESS AREA GARDEN - CONTINUOUS
In the centre of a perfectly mown lawn, a great white confection of canvas, gracefully collapsed upon itself, which hangs a sign:
"HURLINGHAM CLUB - GUEST ENTRANCE - PRESS & INVITÉS"
like the entrance to a time capsule.
A peacock—theatrical and absurdly photogenic—caws, hops, and climbs. It never stops.
The protagonist (unnamed, but tastefully dressed) observes. She does not smile. She makes a mental note.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
"It was the first sign. You are not in a simple tennis club. You are on the set of a film that was never shot."
Chapter 2: Afternoon Tea and the White Façade
Subtitle: Wherein beers mingle with tea, and luxury has a rustic yet impeccable taste.
EXT. MAIN FAÇADE - AFTERNOON
The camera opens on a dazzling white. Garden chairs, round tables, ladies in floral hats. They sip tea, they laugh. A distant lawn hosts a mysterious and forgotten game.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
"Colonial perfection meets human imperfection. No tennis courts in sight. Just beautiful, relaxed people, drinking with a studied elegance."
A slow zoom on a Rolls Royce amongst the daisies. A boy plays with a racquet. Perhaps he is a diplomat's son, perhaps not.
Chapter 3: The Elegant Contrasts
Subtitle: Wherein Jordans are reflected in loafers, and age becomes merely an opinion.
EXT. COURT 1 - EVENING
The private "GIORGIO ARMANI" stand looms like a temple. Black letters on a cream background. The crowd applauds. A young boy in jeans and a shirt claps next to a lady in a cream-coloured suit.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
"The dress code was ‘Summer Garden Party’. The result: a collage of eras, styles, and generations. Wes would be proud."
The Armani box looks like the deck of a yacht moored in Porto Cervo. The merchandise is chic, vaguely nautical.
Interlude – The Match
Subtitle: In which tennis becomes theatre, but not everything deserves the spotlight.
EXT. MAIN COURT – somewhere in PM
A symmetrical frame: two wicker chairs, one unopened bottle of water, a towel folded with suspicious precision.
Narrator (precise, ever so slightly amused):
"Two matches were played that day.
The first: a young Italian Luciano Darderi, not quite suited to grass—neither botanically nor stylistically—against a former champion, Marin Cilic whose glory days were longer than his rallies.
The match? We won’t spill the tea on that one. Let’s just say: it happened."
CUT TO – SOME TIMES LATER
"The second, however… Shelton versus Echeverry.
One a cartoon superhero, The Mask in tennis whites, the other an elegant, net-rushing outlier who might have stepped out of a Borges story.
But again, no spilled tea.
Some matches belong to the mystery."
Curtain."
EXT. TALL HEDGE – COMPLETE SILENCE
A ball kid tosses a ball skyward for no apparent reason. The peacock applauds (internally).
END OF INTERLUDE
Chapter 4: The Hedges Speak
Subtitle: Wherein the tennis courts appear like visions, and the colour white becomes sacred.
EXT. PATHS BETWEEN HEDGES - LATE AFTERNOON
The camera follows the protagonist as she walks. The hedges part to reveal glimpses: players dressed in white, like apparitions. Everything is still, then suddenly everything is in motion.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
"Tennis amongst the hedges. An idea that only a visionary gardener or an obsessive director could have conceived."
The clubhouse within is a reliquary: cups, polo cushions, golfing carpets. But the magic is outside.
Chapter 5: London Isn't London
Subtitle: Wherein the city dissolves, and la dolce vita takes over beneath a passenger jet.
EXT. TUBE EXIT / CLUB ENTRANCE - MONTAGE
NARRATOR (V.O.)
You feel you are in a place of 'slow living', of 'la dolce vita', as Armani would say. More Italy than London. And it's surreal, because then you look up and these steel giants constantly remind you where you are.
A huge shadow briefly darkens the lawn. Everyone looks up, unflustered.
TILT UP towards the sky.
A BOEING 747 is descending towards Heathrow. It is incredibly low, so low you could almost touch it. Its roar is a dull, persistent rumble.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
"It wasn't London. Not anymore. It was Viareggio disguised as Wimbledon, Porto Cervo disguised as an aristocratic picnic. And above it all, always, the rumbling aeroplanes."
The aeroplane exits the frame. The camera returns to the people, who have already resumed sipping their tea.
EXT. EMPTY COURT - SUNSET
A final image: an empty tennis court, the "Giorgio Armani" name reflected on a pane of glass. A peacock walks across the scene.
Fade out.
Disclaimer: This may surprise you, but almost all of the events described in this story are real — they actually happened.
Luce Martini