“They weren’t rich. They weren’t famous. They were just… us.”
The phone rings. Linda answers. Her face changes.
She touches a ceramic angel on the windowsill — a gift from her late mother. The camera holds on it for three seconds too long.
“This is the story of a family who never thought they had one.”
Here’s a short text written in the style of a — the kind of modest, heartfelt, VHS-ready drama that would star Tom Hanks or Rita Wilson, score by James Horner, and open with a shot of a station wagon pulling into a driveway with a basketball hoop over the garage. EXT. SUBURBAN STREET, 1992 – MORNING
The camera pans across manicured lawns, a newspaper lying on a wet driveway. A kid in oversized jeans rides a Huffy bike with a squeaky wheel. The smell of Folgers coffee drifts from an open window.
Want me to write the whole imaginary Oscar acceptance speech that would follow this movie?