The Original Movie.

Picture a windswept Salisbury Plain circa 10 000 B.C., where monoliths serve not for solstice worship but as the back-lot of Stonehenge Film Company, a thatch-and-flint studio older than celluloid itself. A jittery scribe—ink still wet on mammoth-hide parchment—lugs his magnum opus across volcanic ash only to watch the resident auteur, draped in wolf pelt and megalomania, shred the text into confetti that disappears down the maw of a bearded goat with an appetite for exposition. Auditions happen in torch-lit grottos: a sabre-toothed character actor snarls iambic pentameter while a dodo with leading-duck aspirations practices smoldering looks. Principal photography employs a docile diplodocus as a dolly, its neck craned skyward so the obsidian lens can glide from mastodon extras to starlets daubed in ochre blush. Censors—masked, feathered druids—excise anything remotely subversive, feeding yet more sheaves to the omnivorous goat until the final cut bears no resemblance to the author’s intent. Premiere night inside the sacred circle: the writer beholds a hallucinatory collage of jump-cuts, solar flares, and improvised grunts; recognition curdles into fury; he lunges at the director, both tumbling into a chalk pit where their shadows merge into the very first dissolve.