Movie pitch

A “pitch” is a verbal presentation of an idea for a film, generally made by a screenwriter to a studio executive, in hopes of attracting financing for the idea’s development. (People who live in California probably know this already, but since I live in Minnesota and my audience isn’t born yet, I thot that I should define my entry’s title.)

Obligatory image

Dear diary,

Here’s an idea for a movie. A flying squirrel begins stealing the roofs off houses. (This would not be an animated cartoon movie, no; the filmmakers would have to find a way to use an actual flying squirrel to play the villain, using trick photography or something, so that they could declare at the end of the picture “No animals were harmed in the production of this film”.) Alright, so there’s this flying squirrel, which everyone thinks is so cute, but the problem is that it keeps stealing everyone’s roofs: no one knows why, and there’s no knowledge of what the squirrel is doing with the stolen goods. Maybe he or she is piling them up somewhere, for use as a dam — who knows. Anyway, then there’s a scene of the townsfolk discussing what the squirrel’s motive could be, and the possible solutions to this problem:

One person posits that the squirrel is performing acts of justice to punish evildoers, because only corrupt rich people’s roofs are being taken; but another citizen replies that that’s a stupid notion since only rich people can afford to live in this place anyway, so if the squirrel wanted to be fair and steal from the non-rich as well, he or she would have to grab the wigs off their heads (the joke is that wigs are the roof of the skull), or puncture their tabernacles. “Stop all this arguing!” an elderly lady says from the back of the church (the scene takes place in an old roofless church), “We need to figure out how to SOLVE this problem, instead of bickering with each other.” “I have an idea,” says a man who looks like the typical Hollywood-film version of Jesus: “We could shoot the vermin.” And he holds up an old rusty nondescript infantry weapon from the World War Two era. “Does that thing even work?” asks a young woman with a worried expression on her face. “Of course it still works,” says Jesus; “it may look a little worn on the outside, but I clean and lubricate it regularly”; then, to demonstrate, he aims and shoots at the baptismal font, thus causing a thin stream of water to pour from the side of its basin, after which the bullet can be heard whizzing and ricocheting around the room for a spell.

So the next scene shows the congregation gathered and watching in tense expectation while their armed Jesus aims at the sky — he’s carefully waiting for the squirrel’s next roof-theft attempt. Sure enough, the little rodent comes gliding down from the horizon and swoops toward the house where Jesus is standing. The squirrel’s talons are seen in close-up gripping onto the edge of the roof, and lifting it noticeably… Suddenly: BANG! — a gunshot is heard, and the roof drops back in place; and, now in a medium shot, the squirrel is shown clutching its heart falling earthward. The villagers all hasten toward the site: they stand over the fallen creature and note its features. Its eyes are closed: it doesn’t seem to be breathing. “It’s so cute, mommy!” says a little girl: “It looks like its sleeping.” “It sure is cute,” says mom; “but I’m pretty sure it’s dead.” “It is a lot cuter than you’d expect,” remarks Jesus, as he picks up and holds the thing at arm’s length by its wings: “Perhaps I made a mistake in killing it. I was expecting it to look more like a bat or a vulture. Or something like a gargoyle. Because they say that squirrels are basically rats with bushy tails, and that bats are just airborne mice; therefore you’d think that a flying squirrel would appear more like an abomination in the eyes of God. But this one’s really, really cute. I almost wish we would have simply pardoned his crimes, instead of administering capital punishment. I mean, we can always build new roofs for our homes; but this creature here is special — I can feel it. As William Blake wrote: ‘every thing that lives is Holy.’ So this reminds me of that scene from Coleridge’s famous poem where ‘the ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen’. I really wish I would have thot twice before heading out on my violent rampage. Can you all find it in your hearts to forgive me?”

And the congregation forgives the Jesus lookalike willingly, for they can tell that he just made an honest mistake in murdering their tormentor. So, to preserve the memory of the squirrel, they carefully embalm it, and they affix gems of immeasurable worth all over its body, and then they dip the corpse in black enamel, and display it in the midst of their town. They end up worshiping this idol, “not as a god, but as a god might be” (to take a line from Wallace Stevens). By way of an intermediary, the idol, whom the townsfolk have now christened “Yojo”, even delivers an elaborate manifesto containing systems of behavior which the people are to follow. And the people accept this gift graciously, and they adhere to the teachings of the manifesto, and they prosper greatly.

Then one day in the middle of summer, when everyone is expecting it to be hot and humid outside, there’s a scene showing one of the villagers awaking from sleep at the instant of sunup — he’s the only character whose roof did not get stolen in the first act, so his house is relatively secluded; we can only see the outside world thru its front bay window — and it is to this very window that this character now lazily walks: he opens the drapes and gazes out, and lo: a thin veil of fresh snow covers everything! And it is not melting! Snowfall in summertime! Plus, since the villagers have not rebuilt their stolen roofs (as there was never any reason to do so, since, after they placed the gemmed and enameled squirrel as their nation’s centerpiece, the weather has remained a perfect dry balmy comfortable temperature, with no precipitation ever), the snow was able to infiltrate each roofless abode and leave a layer of soft pretty whiteness upon the interior: the furniture is coated, the dining room is coated, even the beds with their sleepers are blanketed in snow.

This is where the movie ends. It cuts to a black screen, and the credits begin to scroll slowly; and a sophisticated new orchestral composition graces the soundtrack, which is extremely appealing.

As the audience leaves the theater, they remark one to another, “What did I just watch?” And some can be heard saying “What does it all MEAN!?” And little babies are crying, and toddlers are complaining in boredom, and their embarrassed parents are trying to hasten them out of the theater.

Then there’s the annual Award Show. The stage looks like it’s carved out of purple ice — it’s hard to decide whether we should describe it as “garish” or as “gaudy”… let’s say that it’s a vulgar distasteful blend of the two: I really like it. Ideally, the feminine attendees of this Award Show should be dressed fashionably, which is to say: over-toeing the border of modesty; and the masculine attendees should be dressed in suits that hide all but their mug. Now the opening speech is delivered by your favorite actor; and this speech, which you’re expecting to be dull and monotonous, ends up being extremely interesting: it’s probably the best opening speech you’ve ever heard. Then begins the presentation of the awards:

Fast forward to the most coveted award: the award for “Best Movie”. Two beautiful people, very finely dressed, approach the icy podium. They engage in some humorous banter before announcing the names of the competitors. Eventually they say: “And the winner is…” and then tense moments pass as they fumble with the envelope that contains the final judgment — this makes everyone in the audience even more nervous (we’re all praying that our own motion picture wins; so the suspense is unbearable: we’re all sweaty and agitated)… Finally the postcard declaring the answer is disclosed:

“The Award for BEST EVER goes to Bryan’s Movie about the Flying Squirrel (2019)!”

Yay! We won! (Who would have thot that a stupid blog post could become an Award Winning Film!?) So you and I, and everyone else in the readership of this sci-fi masterpiece that we’re engaged in creating with our shared brains at the moment, race up to the podium to accept our award. We trample each other in the process; tread on each other’s shoes and elbow each other out of the way, to get there first. You yourself snatch the prize from the presenter’s grip, and you’re momentarily taken aback when you realize, upon looking closer, that it’s a statuette of Yojo: the gem-studded squirrel from our feature presentation, before we enameled him. Then you look out into the audience, to give your acceptance speech, and the entire sea of faces occupying the theater are, one and all, lookalikes of the Jesus character from our film. And they all raise their firearms in tandem.