FADE IN:

EXT. A TRENCH NEAR LA BOISSELLE, FRANCE — DAY

The trench is filled with WWI BRITISH SOLDIERS ready to scramble over the top. They flinch as an ENORMOUS EXPLOSION nearby is heard. Seconds later dirt and debris begin falling from the sky. Privates BERTIE and ALGY huddle together under their steel helmets.

Never heard nothing blow big as that!

That’s the 7:28 right on time, lads! Chin up, ‘cause we’re going over the top in two minutes!

You scared, Bert?

Just shakin’ with excitement to see some action, Algy. You?

Naw. Like I told mum I’m right 'long as I’m surrounded by Grimsby Chums on all sides. We’ll be home before Christmas and you ’n’ Annie married by New Year!

Fix bayonets!

CUT TO: INT. A GUILDHALL DINING ROOM — DAY

CAPTION: ZURICH, SWITZERLAND. 14 DAYS LATER

In a wood-paneled room, a dozen or so artists are seated at a banquet table. There is evidence of a meal having been consumed along with a considerable number of empty wine bottles. Among the group are TRISTAN TZARA, JEAN ARP, MARCEL JANCO, HANS RICHTER, and ARTHUR SEGAL. Standing at the head of the table, HUGO BALL is reading from a piece of paper. EMMY JENNINGS, his wife, sits on a chair in a corner behind him.

…One shouldn't let too many words out. A line of poetry is a chance to get rid of all the filth that clings to this accursed language, as if put there by stockbrokers' hands, hands worn smooth by coins. I want the word where it ends and begins. Dada is the heart of words.

Each thing has its word, but the word has become a thing by itself. Why shouldn't I find it? Why can't a tree be called Pluplusch, and Pluplubasch when it has been raining? The word, the word, the word outside your domain, your stuffiness, this laughable impotence, your stupendous smugness, outside all the parrotry of your self-evident limitedness.

The word, gentlemen, is a public concern of the first importance.

He finishes and looks around the room with a satisfied grin but is met only by silence. The grin becomes a look of concern. He clears his throat.

And that is the manifesto for this little thing of ours, this Dada movement. What do you all think?

Câcat. Scheisse. Merde. Shit. That is the real word for your "public concern of the first importance."

Ball’s discomfort grows as those at the table chuckle.

We have no confidence in our culture. Everything must be demolished.

These words are not câcat.

We begin again after the tabula rasa. Last night at the Cabaret Voltaire, and the night before, and the night before, and the night before we began by shocking common sense. We go against public opinion, education, institutions, museums, good taste. In short, Dada is art that goes against the whole prevailing order.

Dada is not art! Dada is the anti-art!

Everyone at the table POUNDS on it in enthusiastic agreement.

FADE TO BLACK