10.29.2006

Tim Osman Wants to Kill Your Children

Here's the script for the teaser trailer that I'm going to film in a month or two. If you're local and are interested or know anything about movies or have equipment we can borrow or money you desperately want to give away or know anybody with any connections to Famous or Powerful People, please, let me know.

If you're not used to reading movie scripts, the format is pretty much like a play, though I'm not suggesting that what's below is perfect. I haven't read or written a film script in years, so I'm not sure if you use quotation marks or whatever, but it's close enough for now.

POSSIBLE TRAILER

Silouette. Long shot. Camera slowly pushes in.

NARRATOR: "Tim Osman is a bad man. Tim Osman is a liberal. Tim Osman thinks you should wear a veil...or a burka...or some kind of sheet or something. Tim Osman wants to kill you. But worst of all: Tim Osman wants to kill your children."

Fade in on medium shot of Osman, in a bare semi-shadowed medium blue-gray studio, on a stool. He looks around quizzically.

OSMAN: "Sorry. I--I didn't catch that part. Did you say something?"

NARRATOR: "Yes."

Fade to black. Slow zoom on typical film fest laurel quotations. Big, dramatic kettle drum resonates (as in 2001).

NARRATOR: "From the makers of...mmm...a couple of short films you probably haven't seen and Anal Pounders Four and Midget Donkey Blowjobs Five--What!?" Bleeped language. "--divorced for finding that! I can't afford another--"

STUDIO ENGINEER: Bleeped cuss word. "Fuck this shit!"

NARRATOR: "Works for me."

Sound of door crashing open. Lots of bleeped shouted epithets. Scuffling. Cries of pain.

INTERLOPER: "--finish the fucking trailer or I'll--"

STUDIO ENGINEER: [frightened] "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Absolutely. I understand. I understand...."

NARRATOR: "Dmitri, are you okay? Dmitri!?"

STUDIO ENGINEER (Dmitri): [whimpering but trying to sound tough] "I'm okay. Yeah, I'm okay. I'm fun. He just surprised me is all."

Resume zoom on quote. Background noise of studio, steps, door closing.

NARRATOR: "This fall...or possibly next fall, depending on whether our captors can get a decent distributor...so, like if you know anybody, please, call them at 504-522-1408,"

Substitute still of phone number (same font) on screen in large characters.

NARRATOR: "Again, that's 504-522-1408.

During voiceover, number flashes and then each digit flashes once, in sequence.

NARRATOR: "And if they're not in, please, please, I fucking beg you [beat] leave a message and repeat your number twice so they're sure to get it. Thank you. [beat] Thank you. I mean really. [hushed tone] These evil fuckers have me locked up and they're [beat] threatening to [bleep] my chil--!"

Sound of door crashing open. Muffled shouts and epithets. Sound of NARRATOR crying for help. Pain. Blows. Whimpering.

NARRATOR: "...get ready for Tim Osman [beat] to kill your children."

CUT TO:

Osman on stool. Medium shot.

OSMAN: "What!? I--I don't want to--"

NARRATOR: "Shut up, liberal."

FADE TO BLACK on Osman.

OSMAN: "Hello? [beat] Hello?" Taps on microphone. "Is this thing on?" Steps echo. Sound of jiggled doorknob. "Hey. Hey! I--Can you open this [bleep] thing!?" Pause. Sigh. [Bleeped "shit" We hear the "t"].

Basso profundo echo of kettle drum. Zoom in on far-off title, maybe with whooshing sound for each word as it approaches, with ever-increasing insistence and pitch of temolo violins until they reach near-dog-whistle pitch.

TITLES: "Tim. Osman. Wants. To. Kill. Your. Children."

Background sound: children laughing at playground, etc.

UNNAMED CHILD: [faintly] "I'll never tell...."

We hear an unseen child scream.

UNSEEN CHILD: Please, don't hurt me!

We hear a wicked cackle from whomever is threatening the children.

FADE TO BLACK. Zoom in on title, as before.

TITLE: FALL 2008. OR POSSIBLY NOT. IT DEPENDS. [Smaller letters, each line decreasing in size in an absurd fashion] So much depends on a distributor / Glazed with, er, rain or something / beside, or maybe on, or next to, if I may / no, not white chickens / that won't work / hmmm... / anybody? a little help...? / [very small letters] 504-522-1408 / that's 504-522-1408 / Visa, mastercard, COD or money orders accepted. Shipping and handling included. / Thank you for your business!

FADE TO BLACK.

Applicable credits.

Credits aside, my grandmother, Louise--help me out here, Ned and Matt--has had Parkinsons' for at least two decades. My grandmother for two decades has frightened me over her use of a knife. Rush Limbaugh once again proves he's so much more than just a drug-addicted pedophile.

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