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Review My Script / Opening scene.
« on: July 10, 2018, 12:32:40 AM »
Hey guys, this is an opening scene from a movie I'm just kinda playing around with for the time being. I would love any feedback/criticism any of you may have. Thank you.



1966, somewhere in the American north-west. A beach with damp sand and deep blue waves, under London-esque cloud cover. A bright yellow lighthouse rests nestled into the sand. A light drizzle falls.
The lighthouse beam is activated.

A man exits a door at the top of the lighthouse. He is the NARRATOR.
He hoists a thick rope over the railing of the lighthouse. He rappels down it's side, onto the sand. He gestures at the lighthouse, addressing the camera.
Stairs are fucked.

As he walks towards us:

Cape Laurent. Nine-teen-sixty-six.
The weather is nice today.

A pang of lightning divides the sky. He looks up at the deep gray clouds.
The townsfolk live in incessant wetness. Annually, the Cape garners a staggering three hundred-inches of precipitation. Children are born knowing the harmony of thunderstorms.

Thunder cracks overhead, deafeningly loud.

Where the weather lacks, their economy reimburses. Almost exclusively specializing in aquaculture and angling, business is booming. At the root of said success, is the Filoxenia Loosejaw.
The townsfolk catch seven-thousand Filoxenia, per diem, with no indication of species abatement.

A large sea turtle, followed by a line of baby sea turtles scuttle across the beach. He picks up the smallest of the babies, who straggles behind it's siblings. He places the baby on it's mothers back. He steps over them carefully. 

It's name, "Filoxenia" is Greek for "hospitality". Or that's what I'm told anyway, I don't speak Greek.

A foghorn bellows. From his jacket, he removes an ivory calabash.

(icy, mysterious)
Rare, labyrinthine, extremely territorial.


An educational poster of the Filoxenia's anatomy. Labels pointing to the multifarious anatomy have "?", written as the description.

Externally, the creature is a bright orange, with spined dorsal features, and glowing blue eyes.


The narrator now trots on a sturdy Quarter Horse along the beach. He puffs on his pipe. He exhales, the smoke trails off.

It is believed to belong to the Stomiiformes order, despite having characteristics and behavioral patterns that no other species in that classification possesses.

He places his pipe back into his jacket pocket. He is tossed a baseball mitt, which he slides on. Off-screen, a blazing fastball is hurled at him. He catches the ball, standing up in the stirrups. He tosses the ball back. He slides the glove off of his hand, and tosses it over his shoulder.

For instance, two front incisors--

An attractive woman in swim attire jogs parallel to him and the horse. His attention diverts to her.

Jennifer, darling, how are you? You look positively angelic.

She smiles a bashful smile. He grabs her by the arm, lifting her onto the horse with him.

Your teeth aren't hiding today.

She playfully slaps his arm. They laugh. He clears his throat, refocusing.

As I was saying, most species within that order are deep-sea dwellers, the Filoxenia is capable of surviving, even flourishing at any depth.

He gets off the horse. He pats it's neck affectionately. Jennifer stays on. He grabs hold of the reins and, and continues down the beach.

But no one cares about the scientific peculiarities, so much as the culinary.


An impossibly showy restaurant with well-dressed, well-groomed diners. They imbibe champagne, and exchange posh laughter.

Five-stars practically dropped to their knee's, begging for the specimen to be imported.


A group of fisherman load crates full of Filoxenia onto a tugboat.

Some have called it the most versatile and malleable seafood on the market.


The tugboat lands at the dock. Three fisherman exit the boat. Four men, dressed in aprons, board the boat. They unload the crates onto the dock.

Major imports included: Copenhagen, Bordeaux, San Sebastian, and of course, Berlin.

A stubby white-haired chef, hands the fishermen a fat stack of cash.

The shake hands, smiling.

A Filoxenia lies on a cutting board. It is surrounded with vegetable and spices. It gasps and convulses for air. It starts to flop off of the cutting board and onto the counter. A housewife in typical 60's attire, rinses and chops vegetables, absentmindedly. 

Not everything was exported, of course. It was a staple of Captivan cuisine.

The housewife notices, quickly picking the fish up and placing it back onto the cutting board. With one swing she hacks it's head off with a cleaver. It's decapitated body twitches. It's luminescent eyes dim.


An orange food truck, designed in the image of the Filoxenia is parked outside an junior-high school. The name, "Filoxenia 'n Chit" is painted above. A flock of pre-teens surround the truck, fists full of money, impatiently waiting for their order to be taken.   

What could easily go for 500 euros at Gobert-Labadie in Marseilles, you could get for mere pennies at a number of street-shacks and food trucks in Laurent.


The narrator is shirtless and doing chin-ups on the lighthouse railing. Jennifer sits on the sand below watching him. As he does his workout:

Nevertheless, where there's demand, there's competition. Nautical turf wars are an ever rampant problem in these waters, as well as the other three locations the Filoxenia is found.


- A Japanese man on a bamboo paddle-board, with a spear in his hand. He dives into the water, spear first. The surface of the water rustles. The camera PULLS BACK to reveal a huge fishing rig barreling towards the paddle-board. A title identifies the location as: Shiretoko Peninsula - Hokkaido Island.

- An overweight man sitting alone, chest-deep in bubbling water. He is enshrouded in yellow fog while he sips a soixante quinze. A clothespin is clamped on his nose. A Filoxenia jumps through the surface and re-enters at a perfect arc. The man's eyes widen, as he quickly exits the spring. Two burly men dive into the spring fighting for the fish. A title identifies the location as: Sulfuric Mineral Springs - Annapurna Circuit, Central Nepal. 

- An old man fishing on the banks of a gentle river. To his side, a large wicker basket full the bright orange Filoxenia. Distant artillery and gunfire begin to blast. The man frowns. He reels in his line, and collects his basket. A title identifies it as: Nerevta River - Southern edge of Herzegovina.


The Narrator fills a pail with damp sand. To his side, a beautiful sandcastle. He flips the pail up-side down. From the mound of sand he begins to form a spire. Jennifer helps scoop sand. As he does this:

The children of the Cape are fundamentally fatherless, leaving mothers exhausted, and children reckless.
This story starts as it must. It starts with the exalted 'prince' of Cape Laurent. The kingpin and ring-leader, of the aforementioned recklessness. It starts, of course, with:


At that point, I plan on introducing the character with a crazy, mischievous scene.
Terribly sorry for the god-awful formatting, I'm not accustomed to forums. Let me know what you think. Thank everyone :)

Review My Script / Opening scene to a new Western/Horror idea.
« on: August 11, 2017, 11:51:11 PM »
Hi y'all! This is my attempt at a horror/western idea that I had. It's still really fresh so any and all criticism is greatly welcomed and appreciated. Thanks so much!





A beautiful woman with jet-black hair, and wild blue-green eyes. She sits nestled up to a crumbly rock slide, illuminated by the orange light of a small fire. Her broken shadow dancing on the massive pile of rock. She is DELILAH LANCASTER.

A thick leather strap sits tightly pinned between her teeth. A cold sweat dollops her pale forehead. Her breathes are quick and shallow. Her face reads one expression: agony.

From the CU of her face, we travel down the length of her trembling body. She is clad in a tattered & torn clothing. We stop at her right leg. It's length is plastered with cactus needles, bunching at her thigh and thinning out at her shin.  Dark red blood seeps through her trousers. She pours the last of some whiskey on her leg with a groan.

We watch as she gingerly grasps a single needle with her shaky fingertips, and quickly plucks it from her flesh. Her leg kicks and convulses with pain.
We PAN UP to see her face wrinkled with torment.

We watch her face as she continues to excise the needles off-screen. Foamy saliva escapes from the corner of her mouth. The leather strap muffling her haunting wails of pain. A lone tear runs down her dirty cheek.

A title card:



Delilah powerfully strutting through a field of brush. A single revolver hangs in a leather holster, loosely on her her hip. A sawed-off shotgun hangs from a weathered cowhide strap across her back. A thin sackcloth satchel crosses the shotgun strap. She wears a large brown sombrero to shield her from the constant onslaught of the midday sun. Visibly tired, but undeterred, she pushes her way through the brush and out of frame.

She comes to a small, raised warp in the terrain, and hurries to the top.
Barren but beautiful, a vast desert lies before us. A plain of brush is dotted sporadically with cacti. She takes it all in and sighs a sad sigh.
We, again, observe our surroundings. We do a Sergio-Leone type quick-zoom of the far-distant horizon. A tired man gaits on his horse through the brush, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He takes a swig from a canteen.
A slightly panicked expression smears her face.


She turns and runs out of frame.


Delilah walks through the middle of a dried up riverbed. She sweats profusely. She sits, resting her back on the bank. She rifles through her satchel and removes a leather bota bag, takes two sips, and replaces it.

Savoring the last bit of her short break, Delilah scans her surroundings. The change of expression on her face suggests she's found something of interest.

She rises absentmindedly, placing the bag back on her shoulder, her eyes still transfixed.
We follow her as she steps out of the riverbed, headed for a rock face. She steps to it's base, and caresses a odd type of rope. She tugs it roughly as loose pebbles and dirt dust her skin and hair. The rope seems sturdy enough to hold her weight. With one more good yank, the rope stays in place.
She tightens her shoulder strap, as well as the holster around her hip.

She grips the rope with her fists, then swings her legs up and firmly plants them onto the rockface. She begins her ascension.
Her feet lose traction every so often, propelling a cloud of dust from beneath them.
She rests intermittently, holding on for dear life with one arm, while giving the other a breather.

Powering through the last ten feet of the climb quickly she struggles over the lip of the cliff.

Delilah lies on her back panting, her spine askew from the shotgun beneath it.

She gatherers herself, gets to her feet, and dusts off her filthy clothing.

She observes her new surroundings and takes a long, deep breath. She grabs the rope and pulls it over the cliffs edge, resting it next to the rock to which it is fastened. She spots a clearing in a dense thicket and makes for it.


Delilah walks through a heavily shaded thicket of dried brush and brambles. A lightly beaten path guides her along.
She continues down the path, branches snagging and tugging on her clothes. Her face is alert, scanning for dangers. Her feet are silent as she stealths along the sandy floor.

She stops in the center of the trail, her eyes wide. She grasps the barrel of her shotgun, swinging it to aim in front of her.
We stand between her legs in a low angle shot, looking down the length of the trail. A lone human skull sits direct-center of the beaten path.

CU of Delilah:

Though shaded, the suns immense heat beats down through the overgrowth. Rivulets stream down her forehead. Her wild eyes dance in her skull, checking for peculiarities.

Exit CU

Still pointing the business-end of her sawed-off down the trail, she reaches down to touch the skull.
It's brittle surface crumbles at her gentle touch. She stands, and continues on.


It's slightly darker now, and the harrowing heat is starting to lessen.
She remains on the same path as before, still alert, wary of trouble. The trail widens, and Delilah slows her pace.

In front of her lies the mouth of a massive. At the top is an overhang covered in brush. From the overhang, thousands of human and animal bones are tethered, dangling over the edge at various lengths. Unlit torches sit on either side of the cave's opening.
Intimidating but seemingly abandoned.

Delilah takes a few cautious steps, stopping in the center of the clearing. Pointing the shotgun into the mouth of the cave, she tiptoes to the caves left side. She grips the torch removing it from its perch. She inspects it curiously, before replacing it.
As she does so, the distant slap of bare feet can be heard against the trodden sand. Quick as a whip, Delilah turns to face the noise.
Quick zoom on Delilah's beautiful eyes, glancing back and forth, scanning for danger. Quick zoom out.

An arrow whizzes by her right arm, grazing her shoulder, then embedding itself into the sandy rock behind her.
After a quick glance at her shoulder, she runs full pelt adjacent to the trail.

Skillfully traversing the terrain, Delilah doesn't so much as glance back. She is occasionally, narrowly missed by a stray arrow. The ominous loud footsteps follow her, as she continues to sprint.
An unearthly wailing screech reverberates through the brush. Delilah finally breaks, and without breaking stride, looks over her shoulder.
We see two large, shadowy figures bolting in our direction, closing in on Delilah.

Still running full steam, Delilah takes at aim at one of the figures with her shotty. She fires, sending bad news to who/what ever is on the other side.
The same wailing screech is heard, accompanied by the dull THUMP of a body hitting the ground. Delilah continues on like the prettiest locomotive you ever saw.

Suddenly, a huge naked, hulking figure blindsides Delilah, knocking her clean off her feet and into the rock-face. She squeals as she makes rough contact with the cliff. She lands hard onto a steep-slope as she begins to slide down it.
She desperately tries to dig her fingers into the loose sand, but to no avail. She continues to slide, until there's nothing left to slide on. She falls fifteen-feet, landing brutally on her stomach. Her leg snags on a beast of a cactus.


Delilah shows for the first time, that she is human. She wails in pain, grasping for breath, body jarred awkwardly. Her firearm lies close by.
Delilah struggles to fill her lungs, but calms herself down quickly.

She regains herself with deep, grated breaths.

CU of Delilah's face:

Delilah grits her teeth, flares her nostrils, and furrows her eyebrows. We hear a nausea-inducing sound of flesh separating from the cactus. She lets out a haunting scream as she does so, off-screen. Once separated, she rolls onto her back, and catches her breathe once more.
Aside from Delilah's pained painting, it is eerily quiet. After a short while, she collects herself, then reaches for her shotgun. Once in hand, she sits upright, wincing as she scoots on her ass toward the cliff.

She rests her back on the cliff, slouched. Her bota bag has managed to stay across her body. She takes off the top, tilts her head, and empties the reservoir into her throat. She wipes the last bits of water from her lips. She sets the bag down, with a heavy sigh.
She takes hold of her shotgun, snaps back the barrel, rummages through her satchel, and replaces the empty chamber with a shell. She snaps the barrel back into place.

Looking up from tending to her gun, she stiffens. Standing tall is an extensively-tattooed, native american-esque, man. He stands at well over six feet tall, heavily built. Fragments of bone have been stitched into his skin, accessorizing the tattoo's. His hair is a long, black, tangled mess, coming to his shoulders. His face has been cut, stitched, and implanted with bone fragments.

Delilah slightly quivers, while slowly raising her gun.
It raises his tomahawk, and screeches, sending a shiver down our spine.

It bolts in Delilah's direction. It's tree-trunk like legs carry him incredibly fast.

Before it gets anywhere near Delilah, she squeezes the trigger twice, emptying both chambers into his chest. Without a sound, it falls face-first into the dirt before it's corpse slides to Delilah's left. It's horrifying face can be seen close up. Void of life and full of cruelty, it lay lifeless, jaw-gaped. Delilah looks at it in disgust as a spaghetti western theme begins to play.



As the credits end, the spaghetti western theme swells to a sorrowful crescendo, then:


Review My Script / Opening scene to new screenplay.
« on: September 15, 2015, 08:28:54 PM »
Hi, guys! Was wondering if perhaps you guys could critique this for me. Not any context to be given as it's the first scene of the film. Any help is greatly appreciated! And sorry about the formatting. I know it's painful on the eyes, but I'm still learning.


The 1910's. A forty year old man sits by himself at a small circular table covered with a red and gold tablecloth and an endless assortment of exquisite-looking food. He is CHRISTOPHE. He sits in a massively colorful and extravagantly large dining room. The room is decorated with a seemingly infinite amount of flowers. The ceiling is painted similar to the Sistine. A truly remarkable and elegant establishment.
There is no one else in the restaurant save a lone cook who stands fifty feet behind Christophe at the doors that lead into the kitchen. He is the owner of the restaurant; his name is ALPHONSE.
Christophe takes his knife and fork and cuts himself off a small piece of Eclair. He takes a bite, smiles, and pushes the dish aside. He grabs his glass, and takes a quick sip of wine. A pained look sweeps across his face. He raises his hand, as if to take an oath, and summons the Alphonse with two fingers.
Alphonse power-walks with his hands behind his back. He takes his place to Christophe's left.

(french accent)
Yes, Sir Christophe?

(english accent)
Well, I must say, I'm very impressed. The Polet Aigu Tarragon is exceptional. The Cordon Bleu is sublime. The mussels will, I'm sure, be the topic of damn near every conversation regarding shellfish, but you must rid yourself and your restaurant of that God-awful wine.

What's wrong with the wine, Sir?

To put is bluntly, it tastes quite like ass.

I see...

Christophe detects the disappointment in his voice.
Well don't lose any sleep over it. I know first hand that you have far more delicious wine than this atrocity.

It's just, that particular wine was my late mothers favorite.

Do you want to sacrifice your reputation as well as your restaurants for a bit of nostalgia?

I suppose you're right.

(somewhat condescending)
I suppose I am. Alphonse, you know how difficult I can be. But the honest truth is that this wine was the only thing that detracted from my wonderful experience here. And I mean that. Get rid of this wine.

Yes, Sir. Thank you, sir. Please do come again. Please, do come again. There's always a spot for you here.

I will most definitely be back. Ciao.


Christophe dabs the corners of his mouth with a cloth, and begins to exit. The audience and Alphonse stay in the same position until we hear Christophe open the door and close it as he exits. As soon as the door shuts, Alphonse jumps out of his skin with excitement. He runs circles around a few tables and sprints through the kitchen doors letting out one final, incredibly loud, yelp.

Review My Work / How's this short Monologue?
« on: September 03, 2015, 07:26:04 PM »
I fee like this might be a little to forced, but I'll let you guys decide.

Mister, the first of your many trespasses began with your frightening and unsightly appearance. I firmly believe that when approaching a lady, such as I, that you are to do so with hygiene and respect. A concept you certainly have not grasped. Secondly! A gentleman does not insult a woman in any way, shape or form. Poking fun at name, weight or the like is most unacceptable. Thirdly, a gentleman may NEVER touch a woman without consent. This man here, violated every rule I just stated, and he did so with no hesitation. I know, I know, I'm expecting a lot from saloon dwellers, but even people like you should have some sense of human decency.
Now, any questions, comments, concerns, ideas or jokes about what I have taught you on this eventful day?

Please be honest but polite with your feedback. Thanks!
-Bailey Neve

Welcome Board - START HERE! / New Memeber! Advice?
« on: August 26, 2015, 07:45:07 PM »
Hi, guys! My name is Bailey Neve, I'm 16 years old and from the great state of Utah. And despite my girly name, I am in fact a boy. So here is my dilemma:

Right now I'm working on a project. A screenplay to be exact. It's a Western and I've invested countless hours on it. At the moment, I have written about 95 pages in it, and I feel as though I'm not even beginning to come close to finishing it. I suspect I will need at least one hundred more pages before I've completely told the story I want to tell. I was wondering if that is too long? I don't want to send it in to festivals or competitions   and no one will read it because it is far too long. Should I edit it and compress a little bit more? I
Also, I was wondering if any of you fellow screenwriters have any advice for me. Not looking for anything in particular, however, any and all advice is needed and appreciated.
Thanks so much and I look forward to becoming a regular on this site.

Bailey Neve

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