An unofficial PIZZA: The Movie contest



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  • An unofficial PIZZA: The Movie contest

    most board members are more familiar with my local id (big d). Anyhow over the past three or so years I've learned alot from this board, so as a small way of giving back.

    Now that I'm about to have my self-produced movie released in a little over a month, I thought it would be fun to hold a writing contest, and give a copy of the dvd to the winner.

    So here's the deal, write a short script, standard format, max length five pages, that somehow involves pizza delivery. The deadline will be June 20.

    And a copy of the movie goes to the winner. HOWEVER, the free copy comes with the condition that the winner also must write a review on IMDB.

    I am kind of torn as to whether to judge myself, or have a peer judging. I'm not sure how fair peer judging would be, although the stakes aren't nearly as high as PGL. So please post your thoughts on what way to do the judging, and I'll make a decision shortly after.

    And any other thoughts or comments are welcome.

  • #2
    Donald, good luck with your movie.

    INT. TRACEY'S APARTMENT - dark out

    TRACEY, mid 30's (sitting at her computer) picks up her cell phone.

    Hi, I'd like to order a Pizza for delivery, please.
    Sure, 1055 South 15th.
    Yeah, South 15th. Sorry, I'm on my cell phone. Can you hear me now?
    Sure, I'd like a Roasted Veggie with Garlic and Sausage. Do you have Roasted Garlic?
    Sorry, what? You were cutting out.
    I'm sorry, it's my cell. Roasted Veggie with Garlic and Sausage.
    You don't have roasted garlic?
    Do you have garlic?
    Well, would you mind roasting some with those roasted vegetables?
    Um, extra for roasted garlic?
    ok. ok. just (pause) that's fine.
    Yeah, it's ok. So, you can make this Pie for me?
    Great! What do I owe ya?
    Sorry, I didn't get that. Can you hear me? It's this phone.
    Twenty-two Ninety-five? gotcha. Thanks.
    Sorry, did you say Forty Five minutes? You're cutting out.
    Thanks. And thanks for your patience with this @#%$ up reception.
    Yeah, cash. Did you say Forty Five minutes?
    Ok. Thanks again. Bye.

    TRACEY's eyes are fixed on the computer screen as she reads her daily horoscope.

    Remarkable! That's the kind of word to best describe you today, Tracey. So, don't be modest about it, be proud of yourself! You deserved some kind of recognition, and today you will get just that. Even if you tend to deny it, the people around you are very sensitive to your wonderful energy, to your dynamism and to the wonderful magnetism that you give off. After all these years, you deserve to bask in your own glory for once!

    ONE HOUR LATER- Basking in her Glory

    Candles are lit. Music is set.

    TRACEY (to self)
    He should be here by now.

    Her Cell Phone rings.

    Can you hear me?
    Yeah, it's 1055. Where are you?
    Did you say 'Wal-Mart'?
    You're WAY the hell away! Can you hear me?
    Yeah, continue South on 10th.

    She blows out the candles.

    TRACEY (cont.)
    Right, but take your first left after the railroad tracks.
    Yeah, I'm still here.
    What am I wearing?

    She giggles.

    TRACEY (con.t)
    I'm basking in my GLORY!
    What? You're cutting...Can you hear me now?
    I've waited THIS long. I suppose I can bask a few more minutes.
    ok,what are you wearing?

    She re-lights the candles.


    Beat it! I'm basking in my GLORY.


    • #3
      offers to judge short time is worth 1 pizza.

      offers to judge tracey's attire...what's she wearing?


      • #4
        Heh, Writer1, share the Pizza and I'll tell you.
        btw, I'm aware that I mocked (beat), so feel
        free to hold that against me, should you judge.


        • #5
          free to hold that against me

          Blonde, I'd love to hold anything against you!


          • #6
            Blonde, I'd love to hold anything against you!


            • #7
              Post it here or email it or both?


              • #8
                Posting it here is fine. Everyone should get the chance to read it, that's what's fun about contests like this. It can also be emailed to me at [email protected]


                • #9
                  EXT. QUEENS, NY, ROW HOUSE - NIGHT

                  Light blares in the uncurtained windows on the ground floor.

                  CLOSER, THROUGH THE WINDOW.

                  The living room is littered with open packing boxes. A WOMAN (late 20s), with a load of clothing in her arms, steps up to one of the taller boxes, stuffs it all in . . . pounds it down with her fist.

                  RUMBLE of an approaching CAR in need of a new muffler. It SQUEALS to the curb and jerks to a stop - - it needs new brakes, too. A sign rigged on its roof reads: IGOR'S PIZZA.

                  INT. APARTMENT

                  The woman now has a cell phone crooked bewteen her ear and shoulder as she struggles to close the flaps on the over-stuffed box and tape it shut - - it's not going well at all.

                  Meet LUCY on one of the worst days of her life - - her eyes puffy, her features, strained - -

                  Jeeze, Mack. You're my brother.
                  You're supposed to drop everything
                  when there's a family crisis. . . .
                  No, Mom and Dad are fine.
                  . . . grandma's not dead.
                  . . . I'm leaving Wally, okay?
                  . . . I know he wasn't good for
                  me, that's why I'm leaving!
                  (rolls eyes)
                  Because it's his car, that's
                  why. . . . Tomorrow? No,
                  I want out, right now - -

                  The DING-DONG of a door bell draws her attention and the box flaps pop open, tape and all.

                  Forget it, okay? Forget
                  it - -


                  Someone's at the door.
                  . . . Yeah, yeah. Whatever.

                  DING-DONG. She slams the cell into the box, storms to the front door, swings it open - -

                  IN THE DOORWAY,

                  a MAN (40s) stands with a large pizza box in his hand like he's delivering the crown jewels. His tee-shirt reads: Igor's Pizza. With a broad grin, he says several sentences in fluent Russian.

                  Excuse me?

                  A BOY (10) steps into the light, he's wearing the same size Igor's Pizza tee-shirt, it hangs to the knees of his jeans- -

                  (Russian accent)
                  Please accept this compoly.
                  compliment-a-ry pizza
                  from Igor.

                  I don't believe this - -

                  Truth. It is free. We open
                  new store on Hillcrest today.

                  With an eyeroll she grabs the pizza, steps back to close the door - -

                  (in Russian)
                  Wait! - -

                  Wait! - -

                  She waits - -

                  I knew there was a catch.

                  The Man rambles on to the boy in Russian, his son translates as he goes.

                  My father wants to
                  witness . . .
                  (listens to the
                  longwinded speech)
                  Your big smile. . .
                  (listens to several
                  more sentences)
                  when you enjoy
                  this pizza.

                  The man continues in Russian with great passion, finally, he finishes, his arm raised. The Boy looks at Lucy - -

                  May we come in?

                  It sounded liked he said
                  a lot more.

                  He was poet in Russia.

                  She looks at Igor's pleading eyes, her own eyes soften.

                  (to boy)
                  So he's Igor and you're?


                  She steps aside, sweeps her arm wide, 'Come in.'

                  I'm Lucy.

                  INT. LIVING ROOM - MOMENT LATER

                  The pizza box sits on a carton, all three of them stare at it.
                  Igor and Gregor eye Lucy. She takes a deep breath - -

                  Here goes.

                  She opens the box - - it's a fine looking pizza, steam rises from it.

                  She takes a slice, slowly raises it to her mouth, out of no where, Igor whips out a linen napkin and holds it under her chin. She takes a small bite, chews, nods, 'Good.' Igor says something in Russian.

                  The eyes of a banished queen.

                  She looks at Igor, then to the boy, back to Igor . . . and breaks down in tears.

                  MOMENTS LATER,

                  on the couch, Lucy sits between Igor and Gregor and sobs into the linen napkin - -

                  And then he said . . .
                  he's bored. Bored!

                  Little Gregor translates for his father. Igor's mouth turns down in disgust, he says something in Russian.

                  Not yet a man. Life will
                  soon teach what one
                  must value.

                  She nods, blows her nose into the napkin.


                  Igor and Gregor offer a solemn nod.

                  EXT. ROW HOUSE, FRONT DOOR - LATER

                  Door opens, Lucy takes one last look behind her, reaches for the inside light switch, the apartment goes dark. She steps out, closes the door and looks toward,

                  THE STREET CURB.

                  Th car rumbles, puffs of smoke rise from its tailpipe. Her packing boxes, piled atop Igor's car, block the pizza sign. In the back seat, Gregor sits jammed in with more of her boxes, his arm hangs out the open window.

                  She approaches the car. Igor steps up to the passenger door, swings it open and says something in Russian.

                  It is an honor to carry
                  you to your new life.

                  I don't know how to
                  thank you - -

                  She chokes up, wipes a tear from her eye. Igor starts to speak in Russian, stops himself - -

                  You. Are. Welcome.

                  She slips into the car, Igor closes the door and trots to the driver's side but, before he gets in, he looks up at the sky and says two sentences in Russian - - a prayer? A poem, perhaps?

                  With a satisfied nod he slips into the car, closes the door. The car rumbles down the street.

                  FADE OUT.


                  • #10
                    sc111, BRAVO! BRAVO! You R awesome! ROCK ON! I love this story. It's so sweet!


                    • #11
                      Thanks, Blonde. It's a fictional tribute to all my personal NYC stories when I've depended on the kindness of immigrant strangers.


                      • #12
                        INT. PIZZA JOINT -- NIGHT

                        GUIDO, 60, a fat, tough Italian that thinks he invented pizza, paces the kitchen floor -- he shoots an angry glare over his shoulder toward the sound of frantic tapping on a cutting board.

                        That's no good.

                        Faster cutting.

                        A son of mine, huh? This is your best?

                        ANTONIO (O.S)
                        But papa.


                        The sound of an odd sounding thump on the cutting board...then a "Gasp."

                        Mama mia, what now?

                        ANTONIO (O.S.)
                        I think I...oh God. I did.

                        ANTONIA, 24, wears a clean apron with a cute cow design, a neatly wrapped designer scarf around his neck and a Debby Reynolds hairdo. He holds his freshly painted fingernails over the cutting board and scattered pepperoni slices.

                        He stares in shock at a fingernail.

                        I just had these done.

                        He carefully touches his fingernail that is definitely broken...and he sobs.

                        A fingernail? No, no, no.

                        You don't even care.

                        Care? Your brother Joey, he cared. Huh? He could slice pepperoni.

                        Please papa.

                        He never lost.

                        Antonio dramatically throws himself over the cutting board and sobs.

                        Tomorrow. The only day of the year that matters to an old man with broken dreams. You tell me who doesn't care, huh?

                        Guido shakes his head and falls into a chair at a sauce splattered desk.

                        I care, but I'm not Joey.

                        He looks at his broken nail.

                        And Monte's gonna sh-t when he sees this.

                        Joey cared. We trained. We worked. We always won.

                        He looks at an old radio on the desk.

                        And we played music. Joey would sing. Frank Sinatra. But you, no, it's Madonna.

                        He glares at Antonio.

                        Go to your mother's grave, huh? Tell her Frank Sinatra's no good. Now it's a girl with kids from five fathers.

                        Hello. Excuse me, two kids and she's totally in love with Guy. And straight men love her too.

                        Yeah? Name one.

                        Antonio's face tightens with anger, he knows there isn't one.

                        Then he pulls his scarf off his shoulder and dramatically tosses it back over his shoulder.


                        He reaches for the knife by the pepperoni - but Guido jumps up and grabs it first.

                        No, go on. I'll do it.

                        But papa, you can't.

                        It's you that can't do it, cause I said so. I'll win the tomorrow. For Joey.

                        Antonio watches his father's fat, shaky hands struggle to cut a slice of pepperoni that's far too fat and jagged.

                        Papa, please.

                        Get the hell out of here.

                        Antonio pauses, then he scurries out the door as he sobs.

                        INT. ANTONIO'S APARTMENT -- NIGHT

                        MONTE, 30, rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he examines Antonio's broken nail.

                        I'll call Marci, but you know she's a bitch about weekends.

                        I know.

                        Monte stands with a blatant sigh and flips open his cell phone.

                        And your father's paying. Period. Don't start, don't care. Had it with him.

                        Antonio meekly nods.

                        MONTE (into cell phone)
                        Marci, hey girlfriend...

                        INT. ANTONIO'S BEDROOM -- NIGHT

                        Pitch black. Monte sleeps with a night mask...Antonio's side of the bed is empty.

                        IN THE KITCHEN

                        Antonio stares into a cup of Jasmine tea, then he sighs as he stands.

                        He puts his tea in the sink...but his eyes are drawn to a cutting board on the counter...then to a pair of gourmet, string tied pepperonis hanging from a copper hook on the wall.

                        He turns away and reaches for the light switch...but a look of determination slowly covers his face.

                        INT. ANTONIO'S LIVING ROOM -- MORNING

                        A blood curdling scream echoes throughout the apartment - Monte stomps from the kitchen and through the living room.

                        That bitch.

                        IN THE KITCHEN

                        The kitchen's a mess - the counter is covered with dozens of perfect slices of gourmet pepperoni.

                        EXT. SPEEDWAY -- DAY

                        Antonio's scarf waves in the breeze behind him as he passes several stainless steel tables lining the race track.

                        Each table is manned by rough looking Italians that sneer as Antonio passes.

                        DANNY, 20, chuckles and picks his teeth with a butcher knife.

                        Guido stands behind the last table with a knife in one hand and a pepperoni stick in the other. He looks away as Antonio arrives at the table.

                        I told you to get the hell out of here. Now get.

                        Give me the knife, papa.

                        No, maybe you might break a nail, huh?

                        He laughs as he grabs Antonio's hand to examine it...then a look of concern covers his face.

                        You're hurt.

                        All of Antonio's fingernails are broken.

                        I'll be fine. Marci said she'd squeeze me in.

                        But -

                        I'm winning. For you, papa. And for Joey.

                        Guido is stunned as Antonio embraces him tightly.

                        EXT. SPEEDWAY -- AFTERNOON

                        The grandstand is filled with cheering fans waving banners.

                        An idling Ford Escort in front of Antonio's table has a sign on the roof: "GUIDO'S PIZZERIA - CHICAGO'S FASTEST DELIVERY SINCE 1997."

                        Antonio grabs his knife, rolls his gloss covered lips, then sighs heavily as he looks at the speedway light-tree that holds steady on red.

                        Antonio's eyelash flutters from a drip of sweat in his eye.

                        Guido watches nervously from the grandstand. The FAN next him nudges an elbow.

                        So tell me, who'za gonna win for you, huh?

                        Nobody, okay?

                        And he quietly mumbles insults in Italian.

                        The light-tree -- lights zip down the tree to green.

                        Antonio slices pepperoni like it's butter, it's magic.

                        A tough guy at the next table glances over - Antonio's putting him to shame - he throws down his knife in disgust.

                        But Danny is keeping pace and he knows it. He smiles as he gathers a handful of pepperoni and deals them like cards on a pizza.

                        Antonio adjusts his scarf with his chin, then he and Danny slide their pizzas into portable ovens on wheels.

                        They check their watches...then take a peek in their ovens to see how the pizza's are coming along.

                        Guido bites his nails as he watches from the stands.

                        MOMENTS LATER

                        Antonio and Danny slide their pizzas into boxes and dash for their cars -- tires spin -- smoke fills the air.

                        Guido strains to watch as the cars zoom down the quarter mile track.

                        It's neck and neck...Danny edges ahead.

                        The fierce determination on Antonio's face gives way to a devilish grin as he clicks on the CD player -- "Vogue" blasts from the speakers and Antonio stomps on the gas.

                        At the finish's neck and neck... and it's Antonio! He wins!

                        Guido jumps for joy in the stands and hugs the fan next to him.

                        Antonio! He'za gonna win for me today. That'za my boy.


                        • #13
                          Roscoe, "That's Amore"!


                          • #14
                            First let me say, thanks for the challenge, Donald and best of luck to you. Good stuff, blondewritr. SC, very sweet. A unique take on the subject matter. Roscoe, the father/son thing was really well-done.

                             INT. RENZONI'S PIZZERIA - NIGHT
                                           Garish. Gaudy. Green and red.
                                           Chunky candle jars glow on black walnette tables with red
                                           vinyl booths. A TEAM OF WAITERS in striped shirts and fake
                                           mustaches wield platters and order pads. It's a busy night.
                                           On the back wall, a cartoonish rendering of Italy presides
                                           over the Americanized homage. If murals could cry.
                                           "Turning Japanese" jangles over the jukebox speakers.
                                           VINNIE RENZONI and CHARLIE LECLAIR wait on a friend. In a
                                           silk button down and velour V-neck, the pair is either
                                           throwback or leftback. 
                                                     We been coming up tail-dry too many
                                                     nights, lately. Somethin's off.
                                                     I hold up my end.
                                                     Like a skunk, you do. You don't
                                                     even know what your end is.
                                                     Uhhh, don't we all have the same
                                                     end? Where's our waiter, eh?
                                                     We ain't here to eat. Listen, you,
                                                     me, Terry, we got a sinbionic
                                                     That's what I said. See, Terry,
                                                     pretty boy, gets their attention.
                                                     You are non-threatening guy.
                                                     Without you, we're unapproachable.
                                                     Me, I reel 'em in on a line of
                                                     diamond encrusted bullsh!t.  
                                           Charlie shakes his head. Not happy with that.
                                                     Whatever. What are we doing here?
                                                     A reading lesson. 
                                           Vinnie holds up a menu.
                                                     Pizza toppings, an elementary
                                                     people reading device I learned
                                                     when Papa owned this place. Master
                                                     it and move on to the next level.
                                                     Uhhh, pizza toppings.
                                                     Don't mock what you don't get. And,
                                                     lose the 'uhhh' thing. It don't
                                                     exactly say Einstein.
                                                     It 'don't'?
                                           He opens the menu to the topping list.
                                                     No, it don't. All right, let us
                                                     begin with the obvious. She orders
                                                     onions. Friends. Pepperoni and
                                                     sausage, self-explanatory.
                                                     Whoa, how are pepperoni and sausage
                                                     'Italian' sausage.
                                                     You just said--
                                                     To me, sausage. To you, Italian
                                                     sausage. To answer your question,
                                                     universal phallic symbols.
                                           Charlie leans in. This might actually go somewhere.
                                                     Now, if she wants pepperoni or
                                                     sausage and onions, she likes you,
                                                     she wants you, but you ain't
                                                     gettin' any tonight. If she asks
                                                     for extra cheese dump her.
                                                     Prude in urge denial. Extra cheese
                                                     is the turtleneck of pizza
                                                     toppings. Now, if she wants bacon--
                                           Charlie clears a tickle from his throat.
                                                     If she wants ba--
                                           Charlie clears a Harley.
                                                     If she wants Canadian bacon, which
                                                     is a little different, she might be
                                                     open to experimentation. Where the
                                                     hell is Terry?
                                           Loud teenaged giggles come from the across the dining room.
                                                     Okay, a test. Concentrate on those
                                                     hot little honeys.
                                           HOT LITTLE HONEY BOOTH
                                                               BLUE SWEATER HONEY
                                                     I know! He so would ask you out if
                                                     he didn't worship me.
                                                               RED SWEATER HONEY
                                                     I know! Ew, this piece has
                                                               SHY HONEY
                                                     Sorry, that's mine. I couldn't tell
                                                     under all the cheese you guys
                                                               BLUE SWEATER HONEY 
                                                     We're going to the chatroom. Watch
                                                     our stuff.
                                           They leave shy honey alone in the booth. She shifts in her
                                           seat, adjusts her blouse, searches for a focal point. 
                                                     Who do you go for?
                                                     They're like sixteen.
                                                     Hypo-- Never mind. The blonde in
                                                     the blue sweater is the cutest.
                                                     Wrong. The bitches in the can
                                                     ordered extra cheese. 
                                           The shy girl picks a mushroom and drops it in her mouth.
                                           Sauce drips on her blouse.
                                                     That coy little flower? A
                                                     disgusting, slimy fungus she
                                                     willingly puts in her mouth. She is
                                                     the one.
                                                     Huh, I see what you mean.
                                           Vinnie's fixated eyes reflect the girl dabbing her chest with
                                           a napkin. His jaw sags. The corners of his mouth glisten.
                                           SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
                                                     Jailbait alert, jailbait alert.
                                           Vinnie sucks up the excess saliva.
                                                     There ain't cops in my head. Shhhh,
                                                     quiet. Table behind us.
                                           They listen to a THIRTY-SOMETHING COUPLE order.
                                                               WAITER (O.S.)
                                                     Anything else?
                                                               HUSBAND (O.S.)
                                                     I really want anchovies.
                                                     Lucky lady.
                                           Charlie grins. 
                                                               WIFE (O.S.)
                                                     I tried them once in college, yick.
                                                               DAUGHTER (O.S.)
                                                     I want anchovies, too, daddy.
                                           Vinnie winces.
                                                               HUSBAND (O.S.)
                                                     We'll get it on half. It's an
                                                     acquired taste, hun.
                                           The guys nod. That it is. The waiter moves to their table.
                                                     Ready to order, Mr. Renzoni?
                                                     We're not eating.
                                                     Get us a large thin crust with
                                                     pepperoni and sausage.
                                           The waiter takes off. Charlie backs away from the table.
                                                     Funny. You amuse me. 
                                           TERRY, yup, pretty boy, slides in next to Vinnie.
                                                     Sorry, I'm late. Is that our
                                                     waiter? Hey, we'll take a medium
                                                     Veggie Delight.
                                           Charlie looks to Vinnie. What does that mean?
                                                     We already ordered a large--
                                           ANOTHER MAN slides in next to Charlie.
                                                     This is my friend, Phil. I met him
                                                     at a business seminar week before
                                                     last. Mind if he joins us?
                                                               VINNNIE AND CHARLIE


                            • #15
                              Any youse ladies like pepperoni, sausage and mushrooms? If so, drop me an email.

                              Funny stuff sarah.