picking pepper out of horseshit.
EXT: Chopper shot as we fly over Themescara. The audience takes in the island as we guide them to the Training Grounds. Cut to camera flying low over two mounds, cresting their peaks to reveal two warriors in a field on the other side.
DIANA is hard at work, under the guidance of a statuesque ANTIOPE. We see the two figures silhouetted against the afternoon sun.
Close-up of DIANA in profile as she bends at the waist, legs slightly splayed in a classic A stance, knees locked, ass pushing backwards as her torso lowers. The camera pans up from her naked feet, toes wet from the dewy grass (note: perhaps Themescaran dew is a little viscous), capturing the raw athletic strength of each muscle as we glide over her firm, feminist calves, to her tight, chiseled quads, shining with oil; and linger at her firm, round, juicy, edible ass; barely concealed under her empowered Amazonian armour (note: cue Gal to relax her anus. We won't see it, but we'll sense her detached control). DIANA is focused, but not nervous. She's precise, like a cat. We're emphasising that strong women
can also be sexy, since most of the unenlightened audience won't have imagined this concept before.
Pull in tighter as we slide down the curve of her back to her glistening deltoid, her bouncy hair spilling like well-conditioned syrup over her shoulder; and follow a bead of sweat as it races over her bicep and tricep to the crease of her elbow.
Cut to her face: full, moist, clitsucking lips slightly parted to give us a glimpse of her pearlescent teeth as her exquisitely sculpted eyebrows furrow in concentration. Her nostrils twitch absently as if she can smell sun-kissed quim on the island winds.
Don't let the camera spend time at her cleavage as we pan to her forearms. This isn't your average superhero movie for 30 year old man-children; were doing this for women everywhere, no matter how big, small, pendulous, or perky their titties nay be. Stay mindful.
Her forearms throb as she works, and we see her pinky raised in defiance of the patriarchy as her long, elegant, manicured fingers dexterously manipulate a pair of golden Themescaran tweezers. She lets out the most delicate exhalation (a subtle "ah" released from her throat with an emphasised non-phonetic glottle stop) as she drops another peppercorn into a ceramic dish before symbolically thrusting her tool back into the pile of horseshit. Synchronise this with an orchestra hit as the WW theme kicks in, and the title card explodes onto the screen in a shower of wet gold.
Get this right, and everyone in the theatre cums in their pants - men
and women - and once again I, Joss Whedon, will have elevated The Discourse through mindful depictions of powerful women in mainstream cinema.