INT. VATICAN GARDENS — EARLY EVENING
The last rays of sun strike the dome of St. Peter’s. The scent of olive leaves hangs in the air. JOE sits slouched on a stone bench, voice low but burning with conviction. POPE PIUS XIII stands nearby, silent as a confessor.
JOE
Your Holiness… she doesn’t want to be a saint anymore. She wants to be Sarah Jessica Parker. She wants to be Carrie. Glitter, gossip, and a closet full of sins disguised as shoes.
He shakes his head in sorrow.
JOE (cont’d)
She caught Carrie fever, and I’m trying to cure it with the medicine of the Virgin Mary. She’s chasing New York fantasies when she was made for a Marian reality.
POPE PIUS XIII
And what does that reality look like?
Joe’s eyes lift. There’s fire now.
JOE
Croatia.
(beat)
Not Manhattan… but Međugorje. Not Cosmopolitans and one-night stands… but a church wedding in Split. A husband. A child. A wooden rosary in her purse instead of lip gloss. She was meant to be a Catholic queen, not a fashion idol on the altar of HBO.
The Pope says nothing, just watches Joe tremble with hope and grief.
JOE (cont’d)
She sang “I am a seeker… a poor sinful creature.” She knows she’s lost. But they hand her stilettos and say, “That’s just modern womanhood.”
(angrily)
No—it’s spiritual starvation with a wardrobe budget.
POPE PIUS XIII
And what will you offer her in place of Carrie Bradshaw?
JOE
I’ll offer her Mary of Nazareth.
(beat)
Not a girl who writes about sex in a high-rise… but the woman who bore God in a stable.
Pope Pius XIII nods slowly, deeply moved.
POPE PIUS XIII
Then go. To Munich. To the stage. To the edge of the glittering lie. Speak not to her ego—but to her soul. You may be the last voice she hears before the lights go down.
JOE
If I can get the money before the cruel summer ends… I’ll bring her home. Not to my bed. Not to the tabloids.
(beat)
To Catholic Croatia.