Tuesday, August 11, 2015

movie treatment: Beach Volleyball Holocaust

Only a lesbian could guide them.

Rutledge Wood, part-time codspank, wannabe lifeguard, becomes transmogrified, empowered babies.  He's the bringer of the violence on the beach.

You kicked sand in the wrong face this time, hosebags!

 Sleek, athletic bodies.  And one with breasts like Taryn Tyrell, right fruitful and abundant, fecund, as it were.  Character?  Character don't matter when you're in a tiny bikini.  Also, I'm sure the DP can get plenty of shots of the femmes digging sand out of the cracks of their sleek asses.  As stated earlier, the coach is a lesbian, which brings up the concepts of impotence and penis envy, infantilism in authority figures, with a lipstick lesbian in place of the male's shadowy anima.  Should would have man issues.  This is how I would write it, for my own sense of humor.

An old Jeep Cherokee.  Some warm beers.  A crappy lawn chair.  The killer picks at his nipples, because they sunburned and hurt like two bee stings.  And he has a stiffy, pretty much the entire film, so some PA would have to find a suitable item to shove in his pants.  These are mere props.  Sauce for the goose.

This is art, don't you see?

 

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