₦airaland Forum

I already commented on this somewhere else, but I just wanted to say I really enjoyed it and that you always write about important issues that everyone else ignores.

I know you've been busy these past couple of months so lemme see what you've been up to.

There have been quite a number of competitions which have held the whole country spellbound with exciting themes based in trivia, musical talent, beauty, acting, and even sometimes, nothing in particular (ie the Big Brother franchise).




However, despite all these quality content based contests there still lies one massive area of youth interest that has recieved very little exposure.




During the past few months, TEAM Z Entertainment has been tailoring a poetry competition specifically for NAIRALAND.COM which will hold November/December 2007.




This contest is built to showcase the very best of poetry in it's simplest form. A poetry recital contest for amateur poets to be televised round the country. A contest in which the very best of the best will present the most contemporary poetry to be spoken and heard.




A proposal for sponsorship has been demanded by First Bank Nigeria for financing considerations.




Currently, there is a massive exodus of youth to the segments of music and movies in the entertainment industry in Nigeria. Gradually, other aspects of the arts such as theatre, fine arts and poetry are shrinking as they become less and less profitable.




There's always one artiste launching an album or a new home video in stores every week of the year yet there's hardly any news of book launches or art exhibitions by young Nigerians.




It is this trend we want to change. We want to bring together a new breed of Nigerian youths that will continue what the Soyinkas and Achebes have carried on from older generations to be passed on to the future.




Considering the nature of capital and the kind of structure such a contest will require, TEAM Z Entertainment is trying to collaborate with NAIRALAND.COM and is seeking financial sponsorship from First Bank, as the crew at TEAM Z acknowledges that First Bank is favourably positioned to successfully sponsor this kind of a contest, and having a branch network that spans to every cranny in the country, we foresee this event only serving it's as a promotional tool in the hands of a truly national organization as First Bank.




Although, for NAIRALAND.COM to officially engage in this venture, we need to know if "Nairalanders" support this.




So for those who are in support of this motion, say AYE. Those who are against it, say NAY.

The TEAM Z/First Bank/Nairaland.com "Spoken and Heard" National Poetry Competition. To be or not to be?

That is the question.

Go to dollarland.com and advertise your American movie scripts.

I hope is not all this slang that you use in writing your script sh'a.

What I can do for you is advise you to get yourself a copy of a genuine script of a hollywood movie and see how real scripts look.

By the way, just wanting to know if you're any good, what do the following mean in a script:

(P.O.V)
(V.O)
(O.O.V)


maybe I should give you a little bit of a sample script from something you know. You do not want to write your script the way the Wachowski brothers wrote the Matrix except you're the one directing the movie yourself.


THE MATRIX



Written by

Larry and Andy Wachowski





























April 8, 1996







FADE IN ON:

COMPUTER SCREEN

So close it has no boundaries.

A blinking cursor pulses in the electric darkness like a
heart coursing with phosphorous light, burning beneath
the derma of black-neon glass.

A PHONE begins to RING, we hear it as though we were
making the call. The cursor continues to throb,
relentlessly patient, until --

MAN (V.O.)
Hello?

Data now slashes across the screen, information flashing
faster than we read.

SCREEN
Call trans opt: received.
2-19-96 13:24:18 REC:Log>

WOMAN (V.O.)
I'm inside. Anything to report?

We listen to the phone conversation as though we were on
a third line. The man's name is CYPHER. The woman,
TRINITY.

CYPHER (V.O.)
Let's see. Target left work at
5:01 PM.

SCREEN
Trace program: running.

The entire screen fills with racing columns of numbers.
Shimmering like green-electric rivets, they rush at a 10-
digit phone number in the top corner.

CYPHER (V.O.)
He caught the northbound Howard
line. Got off at Sheridan.
Stopped at 7-11. Purchased six-
pack of beer and a box of Captain
Crunch. Returned home.

The area code is identified. The first three numbers
suddenly fixed, leaving only seven flowing columns.

We begin MOVING TOWARD the screen, CLOSING IN as each
digit is matched, one by one, snapping into place like
the wheels of a slot machine.

TRINITY (V.O.)
All right, you're relieved. Use
the usual exit.

CYPHER (V.O.)
Do you know when we're going to
make contact?

TRINITY
Soon.

Only two thin digits left.

CYPHER (V.O.)
Just between you and me, you don't
believe it, do you? You don't
believe this guy is the one?

TRINITY (V.O.)
I think Morpheus believes he is.

CYPHER (V.O.)
I know. But what about you?

TRINITY (V.O.)
I think Morpheus knows things that
I don't.

CYPHER (V.O.)
Yeah, but if he's wrong --

The final number pops into place --

TRINITY (V.O.)
Did you hear that?

CYPHER (V.O.)
Hear what?

SCREEN
Trace complete. Call origin:
#312-555-0690

TRINITY (V.O.)
Are you sure this line is clean?

CYPHER (V.O.)
Yeah, course I'm sure.

We MOVE STILL CLOSER, the ELECTRIC HUM of the green
numbers GROWING INTO an OMINOUS ROAR.

TRINITY (V.O.)
I better go.

CYPHER (V.O.)
Yeah. Right. See you on the other side.

She hangs up as we PASS THROUGH the numbers, entering the
netherworld of the computer screen.

Where gradually the sound of a police radio grows around
us.

RADIO (V.O.)
Attention all units. Attention
all units.

Suddenly, a flashlight cuts open the darkness and we find
ourselves in --


INT. CHASE HOTEL - NIGHT

The hotel was abandoned after a fire licked its way
across the polyester carpeting, destroying several rooms
as it spooled soot up the walls and ceiling leaving
patterns of permanent shadow.

We FOLLOW four armed POLICE officers using flashlights as
they creep down the blackened hall and ready themselves
on either side of room 303.

The biggest of them violently kicks in the door --

The other cops pour in behind him, guns thrust before
them.

BIG COP
Police! Freeze!

The room is almost devoid of furniture. There is a fold-
up table and chair with a phone, a modern, and a powerbook
computer. The only light in the room is the glow of the
computer.

Sitting there, her hands still on the keyboard, is
TRINITY; a woman in black leather.

BIG COP
Get your hands behind your head!

Trinity rises.

BIG COP
Hands behind your head! Now! Do
it!

She slowly puts her hands behind her head.


EXT. CHASE HOTEL - NIGHT

A black sedan with tinted windows glides in through the
police cruisers.

AGENT SMITH and AGENT BROWN get out of the car.

They wear dark suits and sunglasses even at night. They
are also always hardwired; small Secret Service earphones
in one ear, its cord coiling back into their shirt
collars.

AGENT SMITH
Lieutenant?

LIEUTENANT
Oh shit.

AGENT SMITH
Lieutenant, you were given
specific orders --

LIEUTENANT
I'm just doing my job. You gimme
that Juris-my dick-tion and you
can cran it up your ass.

AGENT SMITH
The orders were for your protection.

The Lieutenant laughs.

LIEUTENANT
I think we can handle one little
girl.

Agent Smith nods to Agent Brown as they start toward the
hotel.

LIEUTENANT
I sent two units. They're
bringing her down now.

AGENT SMITH
No, Lieutenant, your men are dead,





"AMERICAN BEAUTY"

by

Alan Ball

Final Draft



INT. FITTS HOUSE - RICKY'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

On VIDEO: JANE BURNHAM lays in bed, wearing a tank top. She's
sixteen, with dark, intense eyes.

JANE
I need a father who's a role model,
not some Hot geek-boy who's gonna
spray his shorts whenever I bring a
girlfriend home from school.
(snorts)
What a lame-o. Somebody really should
put him out of his misery.

Her mind wanders for a beat.

RICKY (O.S.)
Want me to kill him for you?

Jane looks at us and sits up.

JANE
(deadpan)
Yeah, would you?

FADE TO BLACK:

FADE IN:

EXT. ROBIN HOOD TRAIL - EARLY MORNING

We're FLYING above suburban America, DESCENDING SLOWLY toward
a tree-lined street.

LESTER (V.O.)
My name is Lester Burnham. This is
my neighborhood. This is my street.
This, is my life. I'm forty-two
years old. In less than a year, I'll
be dead.

INT. BURNHAM HOUSE - MASTER BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

We're looking down at a king-sized BED from OVERHEAD:

LESTER BURNHAM lies sleeping amidst expensive bed linens,
face down, wearing PAJAMAS. An irritating ALARM CLOCK RINGS.
Lester gropes blindly to shut it off.

LESTER (V.O.)
Of course, I don't know that yet.

He rolls over, looks up at us and sighs. He doesn't seem too
thrilled at the prospect of a new day.

LESTER (V.O.)
And in a way, I'm dead already.

He sits up and puts on his slippers.

INT. BURNHAM HOUSE - MASTER BATH - MOMENTS LATER

Lester thrusts his face directly into a steaming hot shower.

ANGLE from outside the shower: Lester's naked body is
silhouetted through the fogged-up glass door. It becomes
apparent he is masturbating.

LESTER (V.O.)
(amused)
Look at me, jerking off in the shower.
(then)
This will be the high point of my
day. It's all downhill from here.

EXT. BURNHAM HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER

CLOSE on a single, dewy AMERICAN BEAUTY ROSE. A gloved hand
with CLIPPERS appears and SNIPS the flower off.

CAROLYN BURNHAM tends her rose bushes in front of the Burnham
house. A very well-put together woman of forty, she wears
color-coordinated gardening togs and has lots of useful and
expensive tools.

Lester watches her through a WINDOW on the first floor,
peeping out through the drapes.

LESTER (V.O.)
That's my wife Carolyn. See the way
the handle on those pruning shears
matches her gardening clogs? That's
not an accident,




"DONNIE BRASCO"

by

Paul Attanasio

Based on the book, "Donnie Brasco"

by

Joseph D. Pistone with Richard Woodley

REVISED DRAFT

July 27, 1992



EXT. DAY. WASHINGTON, D.C.

An AERIAL VIEW of the nation's capital, MOVING IN on the
stolid limestone box of FBI HEADQUARTERS. Supered below:

FBI HEADQUARTERS. WASHINGTON, D.C. 1981.

CUT TO:

INT. DAY. FBI HEADQUARTERS

A spacious corner OFFICE. American flag, FBI seal, and a
plush carpet -- Federal blue.

CLENDON HOGUE, 40s, barrel chest, shrewd eyes over half-moon
glasses, PRESIDES behind a vast desk. The impressive mien of
earned authority. Before him:

JULES BONOVOLONTA, late 40s, Green Beret veteran, SUPERVISOR,
140 pounds of pugnacity and gristle. Ex-street agent cramped
by headquarters.

PAT MARSHALL, late 30s, a CASE AGENT, compulsively organized,
with haunted choirboy's eyes.

CLARENCE LEBOW, early 40s. Assistant SECTION CHIEF. Brooks
Brothers, heavy starch.

LEBOW
It's going down tonight.

JULES
Says who? A fucking wire.

LEBOW
A reliable wire.

JULES
A fiction writer.

Hogue peruses SURVEILLANCE PHOTOS of Sonny Red and Sonny
Black. Then reads the INFORMANT'S REPORT.

MARSHALL
Is that the 209, sir?

LEBOW
There's going to be a war between
Sonny Red and Sonny Black -- it's
all over the streets.

JULES
Clarence, you couldn't find the
streets with an asphalt detector.

MARSHALL
Sonny Black goes, everyone with him
goes.

JULES
That's doesn't mean it's tonight.

LEBOW
Even if it's not tonight -- and I'm
not saying it's not tonight -- it
could still be tonight because it
could be any night.

JULES
Bleep you, Clarence.

LEBOW
Hey! I'm a Mormon!

HOGUE
You have some objection to these
guys killing each other?

MARSHALL
It's just that -- one of them's one
of us.

HOGUE
An informant?

JULES
An agent. Undercover.

HOGUE
Then why are you depending on an
informant? What does the agent say?
(off awkward looks)
When's the last time you spoke to
him?

JULES
Three weeks.

MARSHALL
Three weeks and two days.

HOGUE
He checks in every three weeks?

MARSHALL
He checks in when he checks in, sir.

JULES
We had to make up the rules as we
went along --

HOGUE
My predecessor started this?

JULES
His predecessor.

LEBOW
It's been five years.

MARSHALL
Five years and three months.

JULES
I am not gonna blow a chance to
cripple the entire fucking Mafia
just because some fucking empty suit
in Blue Carpet Land --

LEBOW
I am so sick of your superior New
York attitude --

JULES
-- thinks there's gonna be a shootout
tonight after the fucking tarantella.

LEBOW
You're going to risk a man's life
just to make cases.

JULES
(right back)
Making those cases is his life.

HOGUE
And how many cases do we have?

MARSHALL
(guessing)
A hundred, two hundred,

HOGUE
Which one?

JULES
The truth is we don't know.

HOGUE
Let me get this straight. Nobody
knows where he is. Nobody's spoken
to him. He's been undercover five
years. He might very well get killed
tonight -- at a fucking wedding --
not because he's one of us, but
because he's one of them. I've been
on the job one fucking week. And
it's my fucking decision? How the
hell did this happen?

Awkward looks and foot shuffling all around.

MARSHALL
What time's the wedding?

LEBOW
Eight o'clock tonight.

THE CLOCK

on the wall reads "9:36."

HOGUE
Who is this fucking guy?

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. NIGHT. BAR WASHINGTON (1975)

CLOSE ON

JOE PISTONE, 30s, athlete's build, body languid with a
killer's confidence. Eyes dead as a shark's. He chafes at
his rep-striped tie and off-the-rack suit.

WIDER

LeBow, Marshall, and two other SUITS around the table. Jules
delivers a TOAST. Supered below:

BLACKIE'S. WASHINGTON, D.C.

JULES
, And so, Joe, we wish you bon voyage
with this farewell drink. We'd give
you a farewell dinner -- but why
spend all that money when you'll
just come crawling back to your old
desk?

Laughter around the table. The CLINK of glasses,

LEBOW
I would love to know how you sold
them on this.

DONNIE
I told them I wanted to get far away
from you, Clarence, They got it
instantly.

LEBOW
We've had our best guys on this since,
what, Valachi? Twenty years?

MARSHALL
Who knows? We never tried anything
like this.

LEBOW
What does that tell you?

MARSHALL
The Director thought it would be too
corrupting.

JULES
Then maybe I should do it. I'm in a
mood to be corrupted.

LEBOW
You know what these people are like.
They're all married to each other's
cousin.

JULES
(shrugs)
It's six months.

MARSHALL
I think it's great. Undercover's a
new area. Get in on the ground floor.

LEBOW
It's a wild goose chase. I'm saying
this as a friend.

JOE
What do I know? I'm just a dumb
guinea.

LEBOW
Don't talk that way, Joe.
(beat)
Because, you know, you are just a
dumb guinea.

LAUGHTER from the group. Joe doesn't know whether to join in
or punch somebody. Jules hands him a large beribboned BOX.

JULES
Here you go, Joe.

Joe opens the box. A wide-brimmed Al Capone FEDORA. Uproarious
laughter from the group.

LEBOW
If you already have one, you can
return it.

JULES
Put it on!

Against his will, Joe puts on the hat. More laughter from
the group.

CUT TO:

EXT. DAY. SUBURBS

Three exuberant TOMBOYS play football on the front lawn of a
modest split-level home: TERRY, 13, rebel in a hurry; KERRY,
10, the good girl; and SHERRY, 8, the baby.

Terry hikes the ball, drops back to throw,

A PASS

spirals up into the air, where it's INTERCEPTED by Joe,
who appears out of nowhere.

SHERRY
Daddy, Daddy!

Joe feints, tries to dodge the girls, Then sidesteps,

JOE
I'm out of bounds. Stop! This --
look -- this is out of bounds!

They tackle him anyway. Grab his legs till he TOPPLES in a
laughing heap.

MAGGIE PISTONE, a pretty, strong-willed blonde in her 30s,
emerges at the front door. SMILES at the scene. Then FROWNS
as she realizes --

CUT TO:

INT. LATER. LAUNDRY ROOM

Joe stands in his suit jacket and boxer shorts while Maggie
tries to remove the GRASS STAINS on the pants knees.

MAGGIE
I swear to God, Joe, I have to spray
you with Scotchgard every morning.

Joe embraces her from behind.

JOE
What am I supposed to do? Terry
tackles like her mother.

He gropes at her. She moves his hands off,

MAGGIE
Illegal holding.

His hands go back to groping. She smacks them,

JOE
Roughing the passer.

MAGGIE
I suppose I should be grateful that
it's not blood stains, or powder
burns. Like the old days.

JOE
I got some good news today. We're
going back to Jersey.

MAGGIE
You're kidding! You got transferred?

JOE
The kids can see their grandparents.
Plus it's GS-13. That's two thousand
more.

MAGGIE
My God! When did this all happen?

JOE
Just today.

MAGGIE
What aren't you telling me?

JOE
Nothing.

MAGGIE
I know enough about the Bureau that
nothing happens this quickly, Joe.
Especially if it involves a raise.

JOE
Remember that guy I met at Quantico,
that supervisor? Berada? Be asked
for me. Safe and Hijackings, in New
York.

MAGGIE
But this is a desk job, right?
(beat)
I thought we agreed about you going
back on the street again.

JOE
This is different. It's undercover.

MAGGIE
What does that mean, undercover?

JOE
Undercover. You know, undercover.

MAGGIE
Will you come home at night?

JOE
It's a good opportunity.

MAGGIE
Undercover in what?

JOE
An FBI wife doesn't ask, Maggie.

MAGGIE
Will you be home on the weekends?

JOE
It's just six months.

MAGGIE
You waited till this was all decided.
You never asked me -- you knew what
I was going to say. What do you want
from me, Joe?

JOE
I want you to say, 'It's okay'. 'It's
great'.

MAGGIE
You finally got to headquarters and
now you're going back on the street.

JOE
Don't you understand? I buy a Brooks
Brothers suit but there's always a
button that comes off or a stain
that won't come out -- it's like the
suit knows I don't belong in it. I
sit in a room with Clarence and the
rest of them and the only way I know
something's funny is when everyone
else laughs. Everything, all day,
it's just
(gestures)
This much off.

MAGGIE
You're as smart as they are.

JOE
I could be a fucking Ph.D. from
Harvard and it wouldn't matter -- I
cannot win. To do something that's
never been done, that they say can't
be done, that they can't do -- don't
you see? That's the only way I'm
ever gonna fit in with them. On my
terms.

She looks at him. Smiles. She loves him for who he is, as
frustrating as that can be. She embraces, kisses him.

MAGGIE
Well, at least you warned me.
Remember? 'Maggie, if you marry me,

JOE
(unison)
, you're in for a big adventure.'

They kiss again. And kiss. Joe kicks the door to the laundry
room SHUT behind him,

@doyin13

bros, na book I say I wan read. No be crase I wan crase. Anyway, I'll try.