lin
August 20th, 2007, 12:52 AM
This is a section from a novel I'm working on. Bambina is a sort of feral teenager found on an isolated beach on a special preserve planet who has fallen into the care of Erin, the MC's girlfriend.
In the film script I am basing this book on, this was a montage under a music number, a "girl bonding" thing and for fun, mostly.
My posting it here is in response to a post in another thread about cinematic writing and conversions and my main concern is how it works in the format.
Thanks for any input.
The first invasion of Connecticut Post Mall by an extra-planetary lifeform ended in a standoff with collateral casualties on both sides.
Bambina, energetic though unfocused in the role of Alien Horde, was agog for the first hour of buzzing through the shops in Erin’s wake. The past few weeks had been rough on a nervous system honed by seventeen years of featureless beach and stormless ocean, but here the overload was like a relentless machine gun drilling her full of input and jaggedly mixed signals. But Erin was a seasoned mall campaigner and conscientious guide. The shiny toys, outré clothes, clamoring jewelry, insistent food odors, dazzled men, intimidated women, and otherworld design washed over her in a jumbling, jangling, intoxicating montage of stimuli, soundtracked by constantly shifting music.
When it looked like her head might explode, Erin schlepped them into Brookstone and plunked them down in futuristic massage chairs. Bambina lounged and gurgled, rapt in pleasure. She grinned at Erin, undulating slightly as the robot shiatsu wheels traversed her spine. She smiled fetchingly at the two male clerks who happened to be around that section of the store a lot, nothing loath to have the chairs in their front window occupied by a smashing redhead and this Polynesian movie star in the killer new halter top.
It only took about three times for Erin to convince her new mascot to use dressing rooms, not just strip down anytime she saw clothes she wanted. The worst one had been the jersey in the SportsLocker franchise, where the stripshow had an audience of a dozen male jocks. She was learning a few things, herself. Like not to try to get Bambina into shoes. She would tolerate sandals, but would also walk right out of them at any moment.
A pause to re-energize at a coffee chain so soul-less and blandly evil it might as well have been a Starbucks hit a snag when Bambina held her Americano up and lapped from it with her tongue. Shortly before throwing the cup across the room and wailing while holding her tongue and staring at Erin in hurt betrayal. Erin chilled that one out with an iced cappuccino and a tip to the kid with the mop.
In Victoria’s Secret an arch, elegant saleswoman practically purred to have such model-class customers. When she showed them a pair of lowcut, snaky black lace panties Bambina took them to examine, then sniffed them and licked them. The saleswoman shot Erin a knowing look that brought an instant flush, not all that becoming on a freckled redhead.
In the food court, Erin managed to control Bambina’s predictable impulse to graze the intriguing stalls of tantalizing odors, grabbing something tasty from each. She was not to prove popular with the sub-hourly employees of the burger and salad stations, but made a huge hit with two little girls at the next table when she sniffed at a bagel with cream cheese, stuck her finger through the hole and started nibbling around the edge, streaking her face with globs of Philadelphia’s finest. The little girls laughed uproariously at her technique, taking it as adult permission to smear their own faces with ice cream and donut filling.
Erin stalked the upper deck in sultry new finery, giving lethal looks to passing men. At the escalator landing she stopped to lean on the rail, peering over her sunglasses to scan the veldt for prey. She nodded to Bambina, who stepped off an imitation of her slinky glide that cracked up not only Erin, but twenty onlookers. When she reached the rail and did her take on the slouch and Vuarnet flourish the laughter mingled with applause. Erin mined a bow, so Bambina gave one, too, sweeping her hair to the floor.
Unwinding after a grueling day in the fashion trenches, Erin lolled in a stylish booth among their bags of new purchases, nibbling at a Long Island Iced Tea in an environment of ferns, beveled glass and big photos of people you’d be embarrassed to admit you didn’t recognize. She’d tipped the waiter extravagantly and dropped a few names, so Bambina also enjoyed a non-Tea, though in a paper takeout cup. Erin was marveling at the degree of bonding she’d achieved with this big, bouncy, dangerous puppychild: Bambina was having trouble sipping.
“I can’t feel my lips,” she said in a way that made it clear she was telling the truth. “Are they broken?”
“They’re just fine,” Erin told her. “Believe me.”
Bambina threw back her head and poured a finger of cocktail down her throat without any need for lip seal. She blinked around the room and fingered her lips wonderingly. “Can you kiss with numb lips?”
“Oh, it happens a lot.”
In the film script I am basing this book on, this was a montage under a music number, a "girl bonding" thing and for fun, mostly.
My posting it here is in response to a post in another thread about cinematic writing and conversions and my main concern is how it works in the format.
Thanks for any input.
The first invasion of Connecticut Post Mall by an extra-planetary lifeform ended in a standoff with collateral casualties on both sides.
Bambina, energetic though unfocused in the role of Alien Horde, was agog for the first hour of buzzing through the shops in Erin’s wake. The past few weeks had been rough on a nervous system honed by seventeen years of featureless beach and stormless ocean, but here the overload was like a relentless machine gun drilling her full of input and jaggedly mixed signals. But Erin was a seasoned mall campaigner and conscientious guide. The shiny toys, outré clothes, clamoring jewelry, insistent food odors, dazzled men, intimidated women, and otherworld design washed over her in a jumbling, jangling, intoxicating montage of stimuli, soundtracked by constantly shifting music.
When it looked like her head might explode, Erin schlepped them into Brookstone and plunked them down in futuristic massage chairs. Bambina lounged and gurgled, rapt in pleasure. She grinned at Erin, undulating slightly as the robot shiatsu wheels traversed her spine. She smiled fetchingly at the two male clerks who happened to be around that section of the store a lot, nothing loath to have the chairs in their front window occupied by a smashing redhead and this Polynesian movie star in the killer new halter top.
It only took about three times for Erin to convince her new mascot to use dressing rooms, not just strip down anytime she saw clothes she wanted. The worst one had been the jersey in the SportsLocker franchise, where the stripshow had an audience of a dozen male jocks. She was learning a few things, herself. Like not to try to get Bambina into shoes. She would tolerate sandals, but would also walk right out of them at any moment.
A pause to re-energize at a coffee chain so soul-less and blandly evil it might as well have been a Starbucks hit a snag when Bambina held her Americano up and lapped from it with her tongue. Shortly before throwing the cup across the room and wailing while holding her tongue and staring at Erin in hurt betrayal. Erin chilled that one out with an iced cappuccino and a tip to the kid with the mop.
In Victoria’s Secret an arch, elegant saleswoman practically purred to have such model-class customers. When she showed them a pair of lowcut, snaky black lace panties Bambina took them to examine, then sniffed them and licked them. The saleswoman shot Erin a knowing look that brought an instant flush, not all that becoming on a freckled redhead.
In the food court, Erin managed to control Bambina’s predictable impulse to graze the intriguing stalls of tantalizing odors, grabbing something tasty from each. She was not to prove popular with the sub-hourly employees of the burger and salad stations, but made a huge hit with two little girls at the next table when she sniffed at a bagel with cream cheese, stuck her finger through the hole and started nibbling around the edge, streaking her face with globs of Philadelphia’s finest. The little girls laughed uproariously at her technique, taking it as adult permission to smear their own faces with ice cream and donut filling.
Erin stalked the upper deck in sultry new finery, giving lethal looks to passing men. At the escalator landing she stopped to lean on the rail, peering over her sunglasses to scan the veldt for prey. She nodded to Bambina, who stepped off an imitation of her slinky glide that cracked up not only Erin, but twenty onlookers. When she reached the rail and did her take on the slouch and Vuarnet flourish the laughter mingled with applause. Erin mined a bow, so Bambina gave one, too, sweeping her hair to the floor.
Unwinding after a grueling day in the fashion trenches, Erin lolled in a stylish booth among their bags of new purchases, nibbling at a Long Island Iced Tea in an environment of ferns, beveled glass and big photos of people you’d be embarrassed to admit you didn’t recognize. She’d tipped the waiter extravagantly and dropped a few names, so Bambina also enjoyed a non-Tea, though in a paper takeout cup. Erin was marveling at the degree of bonding she’d achieved with this big, bouncy, dangerous puppychild: Bambina was having trouble sipping.
“I can’t feel my lips,” she said in a way that made it clear she was telling the truth. “Are they broken?”
“They’re just fine,” Erin told her. “Believe me.”
Bambina threw back her head and poured a finger of cocktail down her throat without any need for lip seal. She blinked around the room and fingered her lips wonderingly. “Can you kiss with numb lips?”
“Oh, it happens a lot.”