So if you want to make a movie, I have the beginnings of a script.

So the other day I started thinking about making the most crass possible movie script I could think of. It needed to have every possible Hollywood convention in it, but still be something I’d want to watch (maybe). So here’s what I came up with:


The chase is on! Several 80’s-style Range Rovers weave down a narrow jungle road. The sound of gunfire. Tires kicking up dust. Reckless speed. The lead rover is driven by a man, beside her a woman desperately shielding a baby with her body.

Bullets whiz by. Glass cracks and shatters.


Monastary grounds. Distant bells. Placid nature. A group on nuns in habits move along a well-groomed path.


A range-rover sunroof pops open and a machine gun wielding thug emerges. He takes sight and opens fire. The lead rover is riddled with holes.

A tire bursts! And the lead rover begins to look like it’s out of control as the tire beings to shred…


A choir in song, voice united, a majestic noise. ZOOM IN slowly, starting to focus on a particular nun, her eyes closed, singing.


The lead rover loses contol! It plunges off the road into the dense underbrush. The rest of the range rovers have to stop and reverse to follow.

But it’s just a ruse — the driver has pulled into a hidden path. He’s having trouble controlling the vehicle. His shredded tire is almost gone. Branches thwack against the side of the rover.

The man stops the rover. He and woman abandon it and continue on foot.


The choir, still in song. We ZOOM IN still slowly until her face fills the shot. Her eyes closed, mouth open in song. She looks to the right. We see 3/4 of her face.


Running — no sight of the persuers — but then BANG, the man almost stumbles. We see the spreading blood of a bullet hole in his back. He stops running. He chokes up blood.

The woman stops running and looks back, terrified.

BANG — a bullet whistles by.

“GO”, the man says. “GO!”

BANG — another bullet misses.

She hesitates and then moves on, running for her life.

BANG – she, too, hesitates. blood blossoms from her chest. She stumbles, falls to her knees, still clutching the baby.

No more bullets. Silence. Her eyes glaze over.

A woman emerges from the bush, a native. Is this pre-arranged? Did she know to find them there?

The woman takes the baby, holds it up against her, its head peeking over her shoulder. They run with preternatural speed through the forest.

As they run we see the baby, eyes closed, mouth open in a infant scream, a line of blood trickling down from a gash on its head.


The nun turns her head, her eyes closed, mouth open in song, and we see it — the scar along the side of her head.



* * *

(It’s Batman crossed with The Sister Act.)

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