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Two no-talents nobodies have each created a masterpiece in a kiddie art exhibit at a museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago. That critic over there wants to rep them. Be their manager. Guide their careers.
That critic? He’s going to find out that maybe, just maybe, they both drank from a fountain on the third floor of the museum. Maybe it’s the water that made them geniuses. Regardless, their legacy is secure. They will be remembered. Celebrated.
How jealous would you be? Just one drink. And you could be the celebrated one. But shortly thereafter, you die.
Maybe.
The Fountain follows four characters pulled into an existential riptide.
Jasper P. Duckworth, a washed-up art critic and failed playwright, who wants to champion the fountain. Ross Robards, a successful TV show artist and veteran, who wants to destroy the fountain.
Caught in the middle of this impending minor apocalypse are two underground artists:
B, a middle-aged sculptor, always on the verge of a big break. Will he drink? Jawbone, B’s talented, but self-destructive rival. Will she drink?
Would you drink?
If you’ve ever had a creative idea, urge, or just wanted to call bullshit on something hanging in a museum, you might feel the pull of The Fountain, a literary dramedy in the vein of Vonnegut, Palahniuk, and Monty Python.
Introduction by Pinckney Benedict
Warning: Side effects may include: ego inflammation, FOMO, flashbulb eyes, aphenphosmphobia, loss of privacy, stalkeritis, champagne lips, laryngospasm, combat finger, IBS, loss of common sense, cocaine tongue, chronomentrophobia, and a slight chance of a minor apocalypse. Consult your spiritual advisor before imbibing.
