Post by Moss Works Jericho's Schedule on Jul 31, 2009 2:10:34 GMT -5
“Yes, I know it’s a slight bit out of the normal traffic pattern, but don’t people still need sustenance off the beaten path? No, sir, thank you.”
*No logical way to transition here, we seem to have written ourselves into a corner, best to think of it as a cold open I suppose
-----
Surf’s on dude!
Beat the summer heat with those groovy boys and girls at Make-Out Cove!
The boards! The babes! The bodacious tunes!
But underneath the water, a party-crasher lurks!
*I know THE movie voice guy is dead, but can we at least get a reasonable facsimile instead of this dork?
----
The groovy boys and girls promised by the trailer shake their G-rated moneymakers around the bonfire. There is a conspicuous lack of tan skin riding those boards, in fact if the sun lands upon the waves in the right way, the surfers seem to become translucent.
*Seriously, can we just spray these kids orange?
The lingo flies around faster than the beach balls. Daddy-o, cat, groovy, dude, gnarly. Girls bite on their bottom lips as they watch boys on the volleyball court. The nerd gets sand kicked in his face. All is right with the world. And as the sun goes down, they all sit in a circle and the non-threatening white boy pulls out his guitar to serenade the crowd.
*This would be the perfect place for one of those…Johnson Brothers that Grace is always talking about
Stacy is the first to see the water bubbling, hence her top billing. A piercing shriek (sweetened in post) announces the arrival of THE BEAST OF MAKE-OUT COVE! A mixture of rubber and foam, zipper proudly visible in the crotch area, this fierce creature sends all the dudes and dudettes scattering like rats from the proverbial ship. Who could possibly save the kids from this harshest of harshed mellows? Maybe former world champion Terry “The Tank” Hughes! He crashes through the door of the crab shack.
*There needs to be some sort of smoke/fog machine set up here, dry ice even. And can we get some of those wood shards to fly a little bit? This entrance needs to be epic.
----
This is the point in the film where we show our hero selling out. Before the monster appears, we see Terry in his makeshift dressing room, and it is heavily implied that he has just finished snorting a big line of coke. Our hero has sold his soul.
Pulling back from the scene, we see our real hero, Moss Edwards, in the midst of his own sellout experience. The assistant director is insisting on cutting out a scene in the script of Terry blading himself. Moss has been holding on to the scene for reality’s sake, but the realization that a concession today could mean another day of paid work tomorrow leads Moss to write it out. Our hero has sold his soul.
*That’s a tad bit overdramatic, isn’t it? Thank Zenu we cut out all those battlefield metaphors, it’s just a script not Normandy
We pull back into the scene and watch as award-winning thespian Nicolas Cage, in full make up as Terry The Tank, misses another cue. The director is heard remarking to his DP “Jesus, it’s like somebody erased his fucking brain or something.”
Moss is walking away from the sad spectacle of an over-hyped former phenom barely earning his paycheck. “Speaking of which, Grace please put the damn phone away and take a note.”
Miss Harding looks up from her rampant texting (hold the phone up more, Sony doesn’t pay to NOT see their product) and doesn’t bother to tell her employer that he confused his internal monologue with an actual conversation again, making his seque irrelevant to her. “A note on what, sir?”
“I really need to pop in to Mrs. Roberts’ office this week and double check the title match contract. And of course, there’s the new HeadShots theme song that they want me to approve before next week’s telecast.”
Grace brings up an email on her Palm. “Oh sir, actually, the front office requested that you NOT come to the ring this week, there’s simply not enough time what with all the Battlegrounds business that needs to be addressed. Airtime is of course a limited resource. Much like clean, usable water.”
*Double check with the rain forest people, they could still have their cause name-checked
The Auteur stops in his tracks. “Battlegrounds business? How could MY address not be considered Battlegrounds business? You do realize, Miss Harding, that upon leaving Mexico I was only promised a spot in a fatal four way, but now, I find myself THE number one contender for the Unified Title. My face is inescapable now. I am the Great and Powerful Oz. I helped knock some sense into Little Lord Fontleroy, and have you seen him lately? The week before our match, he’s in a cape and engaged in a questionable relationship with a middle-aged black man, now he’s walking around in a polo shirt and smiling to stage crew. My fists? Are fucking magical.”
“Sound hypothesis as always, sir.”
They walk, Aaron Sorkin-style. Moss continues. “Now we have to focus on the future. I know how this goes, now that I’m destined to meet with Travis Roberts he’ll be lured out of the haze with a Mars bar, and he and I will be forced into all these strange non-title situations. Take this week for instance. You and I will be across the ring from…”
“Tate Levene.”
“I’m not going to remember that. So the fat one is going to be a….um….a joke, let’s be honest with ourselves, but admittedly, Travis Roberts has a knack for winning out in these situations. And before you ask, yes I will be expecting you to touch the fat kid if the need arises.”
*Is that too sexual? Should we redub that line? Meh, it’s fine in context. But we should fade out before the epilogue
----
Grace’s legs reach up from the floor, resting gracefully on the couch, a heavenly sight to be sure, one that many a man would pay anything for. And Randy Boolzian once again gets to see it for free. Well, not for free. He has apparently given a token amount of his masculinity. “The paint goes on the nails, not on the toes. You got that, Picasso?”
Before the Red Bull Icon can respond, there is a knock at the door. When it opens, Moss Edwards stands in the frame with a wicker basket in hand. “Why, hello Randolph. I hate to interrupt before what was sure to be a rousing game of Mall Madness, but I need to requisition the services of my PA. Here, I brought you a basket of apples, in return for the necks full of apples you gave me last month. But you know what, for a pair of disgustingly penised women with questionable lifestyle choices, they were indeed lovely company. Now hop to, Miss Harding.”
The young lady sighs and slips her heels back on. She smiles at her friend as she slips out the door. “Don’t use it all up. That shit’s expensive.”
As Moss and Grace disappear down the hall, our eyes are drawn to the wall opposite Randy’s dressing room. Can after can, row after row, of refrigerated beverages. A vending machine, filled to breaking point…with Rock Star.
*No logical way to transition here, we seem to have written ourselves into a corner, best to think of it as a cold open I suppose
-----
Surf’s on dude!
Beat the summer heat with those groovy boys and girls at Make-Out Cove!
The boards! The babes! The bodacious tunes!
But underneath the water, a party-crasher lurks!
*I know THE movie voice guy is dead, but can we at least get a reasonable facsimile instead of this dork?
----
The groovy boys and girls promised by the trailer shake their G-rated moneymakers around the bonfire. There is a conspicuous lack of tan skin riding those boards, in fact if the sun lands upon the waves in the right way, the surfers seem to become translucent.
*Seriously, can we just spray these kids orange?
The lingo flies around faster than the beach balls. Daddy-o, cat, groovy, dude, gnarly. Girls bite on their bottom lips as they watch boys on the volleyball court. The nerd gets sand kicked in his face. All is right with the world. And as the sun goes down, they all sit in a circle and the non-threatening white boy pulls out his guitar to serenade the crowd.
*This would be the perfect place for one of those…Johnson Brothers that Grace is always talking about
Stacy is the first to see the water bubbling, hence her top billing. A piercing shriek (sweetened in post) announces the arrival of THE BEAST OF MAKE-OUT COVE! A mixture of rubber and foam, zipper proudly visible in the crotch area, this fierce creature sends all the dudes and dudettes scattering like rats from the proverbial ship. Who could possibly save the kids from this harshest of harshed mellows? Maybe former world champion Terry “The Tank” Hughes! He crashes through the door of the crab shack.
*There needs to be some sort of smoke/fog machine set up here, dry ice even. And can we get some of those wood shards to fly a little bit? This entrance needs to be epic.
----
This is the point in the film where we show our hero selling out. Before the monster appears, we see Terry in his makeshift dressing room, and it is heavily implied that he has just finished snorting a big line of coke. Our hero has sold his soul.
Pulling back from the scene, we see our real hero, Moss Edwards, in the midst of his own sellout experience. The assistant director is insisting on cutting out a scene in the script of Terry blading himself. Moss has been holding on to the scene for reality’s sake, but the realization that a concession today could mean another day of paid work tomorrow leads Moss to write it out. Our hero has sold his soul.
*That’s a tad bit overdramatic, isn’t it? Thank Zenu we cut out all those battlefield metaphors, it’s just a script not Normandy
We pull back into the scene and watch as award-winning thespian Nicolas Cage, in full make up as Terry The Tank, misses another cue. The director is heard remarking to his DP “Jesus, it’s like somebody erased his fucking brain or something.”
Moss is walking away from the sad spectacle of an over-hyped former phenom barely earning his paycheck. “Speaking of which, Grace please put the damn phone away and take a note.”
Miss Harding looks up from her rampant texting (hold the phone up more, Sony doesn’t pay to NOT see their product) and doesn’t bother to tell her employer that he confused his internal monologue with an actual conversation again, making his seque irrelevant to her. “A note on what, sir?”
“I really need to pop in to Mrs. Roberts’ office this week and double check the title match contract. And of course, there’s the new HeadShots theme song that they want me to approve before next week’s telecast.”
Grace brings up an email on her Palm. “Oh sir, actually, the front office requested that you NOT come to the ring this week, there’s simply not enough time what with all the Battlegrounds business that needs to be addressed. Airtime is of course a limited resource. Much like clean, usable water.”
*Double check with the rain forest people, they could still have their cause name-checked
The Auteur stops in his tracks. “Battlegrounds business? How could MY address not be considered Battlegrounds business? You do realize, Miss Harding, that upon leaving Mexico I was only promised a spot in a fatal four way, but now, I find myself THE number one contender for the Unified Title. My face is inescapable now. I am the Great and Powerful Oz. I helped knock some sense into Little Lord Fontleroy, and have you seen him lately? The week before our match, he’s in a cape and engaged in a questionable relationship with a middle-aged black man, now he’s walking around in a polo shirt and smiling to stage crew. My fists? Are fucking magical.”
“Sound hypothesis as always, sir.”
They walk, Aaron Sorkin-style. Moss continues. “Now we have to focus on the future. I know how this goes, now that I’m destined to meet with Travis Roberts he’ll be lured out of the haze with a Mars bar, and he and I will be forced into all these strange non-title situations. Take this week for instance. You and I will be across the ring from…”
“Tate Levene.”
“I’m not going to remember that. So the fat one is going to be a….um….a joke, let’s be honest with ourselves, but admittedly, Travis Roberts has a knack for winning out in these situations. And before you ask, yes I will be expecting you to touch the fat kid if the need arises.”
*Is that too sexual? Should we redub that line? Meh, it’s fine in context. But we should fade out before the epilogue
----
Grace’s legs reach up from the floor, resting gracefully on the couch, a heavenly sight to be sure, one that many a man would pay anything for. And Randy Boolzian once again gets to see it for free. Well, not for free. He has apparently given a token amount of his masculinity. “The paint goes on the nails, not on the toes. You got that, Picasso?”
Before the Red Bull Icon can respond, there is a knock at the door. When it opens, Moss Edwards stands in the frame with a wicker basket in hand. “Why, hello Randolph. I hate to interrupt before what was sure to be a rousing game of Mall Madness, but I need to requisition the services of my PA. Here, I brought you a basket of apples, in return for the necks full of apples you gave me last month. But you know what, for a pair of disgustingly penised women with questionable lifestyle choices, they were indeed lovely company. Now hop to, Miss Harding.”
The young lady sighs and slips her heels back on. She smiles at her friend as she slips out the door. “Don’t use it all up. That shit’s expensive.”
As Moss and Grace disappear down the hall, our eyes are drawn to the wall opposite Randy’s dressing room. Can after can, row after row, of refrigerated beverages. A vending machine, filled to breaking point…with Rock Star.
