Sydney Lumet has led his army of ten thousand samurai to the foot of Shredder’s tower.
“My people,” the great director bellows, “men, women and celluloid eidolons! We have crossed the plains of a thousand nights! We have faced dangers untold and uncinematic, and we have persevered! We have comported ourselves with grace and dignity, where appropriate, and with tastelessness and glitz, when necessary. In short, we have been the greatest spectacle ever assembled on this green earth, and you have been the greatest troupe of actors, animal wranglers and stuntpeople I have ever had the pleasure of directing.”
He seats himself on his massive papier-mâché throne. “You’re goddamn beautiful, is what you are. Total pros. We’ve got one final push before we put this in the can, and it’s the worst damn shot of the whole spectacle. We’ve got to climb all the way to the top of this bitch of a tower, fighting snakes and demons and effin’ robot ninjas the whole way. Some of us will die! But we won’t die in vain, because, dammit, this! is! cinema!”
The army cheers lustily, ten thousand voices raised to shake the sky. In his too-big armor of a thousand spikes, Alex waits at the top of the tower and quails.