Original Premise: Saving Private Ryan (1998) – The D-Day Landing
The brutally realistic Omaha Beach invasion sequence places viewers directly into the chaos and terror of war, setting a new standard for battle scenes in cinema.
Opening Scene
Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944. The landing craft surges forward through the choppy waves. Soldiers brace themselves, faces grim, hands trembling. Bullets rip through the air. Explosions turn the surf into a frothing nightmare. A lone seagull flies overhead, blissfully shitting on the carnage below—until it is struck by a stray bullet and plummets into the ocean. An officer takes out a small notebook and takes credit for the kill.
A Private clutches his “Super Soaker 50”, muttering under his breath. Beside him, a Sergeant removes his helmet, revealing another, smaller helmet underneath. Another soldier tightens his belt, then his suspenders, then his life vest, then a random extension cord wrapped around his waist to keep his pants up. He nods, satisfied.
A loudspeaker crackles inside the landing craft.
Loudspeaker: Welcome to Omaha Beach. The local time is approximately 0630. The temperature is a balmy 58 degrees, with a high chance of bullet showers. We hope you enjoy your stay.
Captain Miller (gripping the side of the craft): Gentlemen, when that ramp drops, move fast and stay low. Or, move low and stay fast. Whatever works for you. If you find yourself shot, just keep going and consider it a learning experience.
Private Henderson (nervously clutching his “Super Soaker 50”): Sir, permission to ask a question?
Captain Miller: Denied.
Private Henderson: Thank you, sir.
The ramp drops. Chaos. Bullets rip through the air. Soldiers charge forward, some immediately tripping over their own feet. One man dramatically throws himself onto a grenade—only to realize it’s a water-logged MRE (Meal Ready for Emesis). Another soldier attempts to return fire but finds that somehow, his rifle has been replaced with a Baguette aux Céréales. He hesitates, then throws it like a spear. It impales an enemy soldier, who dramatically collapses.
Sergeant Horvath (crawling through the sand): Captain Miller! We’re pinned down!
Captain Miller (surveying the scene): Really? I hadn’t noticed.
A soldier runs past holding a comically oversized map, flipping it in the wind.
Soldier: Does anyone know which part of France we’re in?
Sergeant Horvath: Omaha Beach!
Soldier: Omaha? What!? We’re in Nebraska?
A medic frantically tends to a soldier clutching his stomach.
Medic: What’s your injury, son?
Wounded Soldier: Paper cut.
Medic: Oooh… You’re lucky. My last guy had an existential crisis.
Bullets ping off a nearby tank, which is marked with a hand-painted sign: “This Side Towards the Enemy”. A private sprints past, yanking the pin out of a grenade—then casually tossing the pin while shoving the grenade into his pocket.
Sergeant Horvath: Captain, we need to move forward!
Captain Miller: We can’t. We’re stuck behind this beach obstacle.
Sergeant Horvath: But, sir. It’s just a beach ball.
Captain Miller: Yes, and a very large one, at that.
A mortar explodes near them, sending sand flying. When the dust settles, Private Henderson is gone—except for his Mukluks, still standing upright. A moment later, returns, sheepishly climbing into them without telling anyone that he had to use the restroom.
Sergeant Horvath: What’s the plan, Captain?
Captain Miller: We find Private Ryan.
Private Jackson: And if we can’t?
Captain Miller: Then we find a Private Ryan.
Private Jackson: Any Private Ryan?
Captain Miller: Any Ryan. Any rank, eye color, hair type & texture, skin tone & complexion, facial features, body type, posture, hand size & shape, voice quality, walk/gait, tattoos, scars, piercing, birthmarks, personality type, memory strength, emotional sensitivity, IQ, problem-solving style, stress response, sense of humor, decision-making style, work ethic, social skills, imagination level. Statistics are on our side.
Just then, an enemy machine gun nest sprays bullets in their direction. Captain Miller pulls out a small notepad.
Captain Miller: I’m going to lodge a formal request with that man’s superior officer asking them to stop shooting at us.
Sergeant Horvath: That’s not how war works!
Captain Miller: Not with that attitude, it isn’t!
The gunfire intensifies. A nearby soldier throws his rifle down in frustration.
Back on the beach, an explosion sends a helmet flying into the air. Another soldier absentmindedly catches it and swaps it with his own. He’s now sporting a German helmet.
Sergeant Horvath: Sir, I think Private Henderson’s been hit!
Cut to Private Henderson lying dramatically on the sand, clutching his private parts.
Private Henderson: It’s bad, sir.
Captain Miller: Where are you hit?
Private Henderson: The center of my self-esteem. But, we don’t have time to worry about it. I can get by without it.
Bullets continue to rain down. A frustrated Captain Miller stands up, dramatically facing the enemy fire while holding a microphone.
Sergeant Horvath: Miller, what in the Hades are you doing?!
Captain Miller: Distracting them!
Sergeant Horvath: How?
Captain Miller: By delivering one of my old Comedy Club routines!
Captain Miller takes a deep breath, then stands up on the hood of a bombed-out Jeep.
Captain Miller: Wow, what a crowd. What a crowd. Let’s talk about war—because nothing’s funnier than total annihilation, am I right? Heh-heh!
They say war never changes—except when it does! Heh-heh! But don’t tell that to the old guy pointing at a map, puffing a cigar, saying, “This one’s gonna be different.” Oh sure, buddy, just like my last diet! Ba-dum-tss!
Every war starts out with “We’ll be in and out in three days!” Uh-huh. That’s what I said the last time I went to Costco. Four hours later, I’m holding 20 pounds of Gorgonzola cheese and questioning my life choices. Heh-heh!
And military tech? Oh, it’s so advanced now! We went from swords to muskets to drones, and now some nerd is piloting an airstrike with a PlayStation controller in Las Vegas. At this point, the Pentagon’s hiring is based solely on high scores. Heh-heh!
But don’t worry, we’ve learned our lesson! Oh, absolutely. Just like last time. And the time before that. Heh-heh! History’s just standing there, sighing, “How many times do I have to tell you? We’ve been over this before..”
So if you ever run a country, don’t invade Russia in winter, and don’t trust anyone with a combover who says, “This war will pay for itself.” Launch him into space instead! Heh-heh!
Thank you everyone! You’ve been a great crowd! A great crowd!
The camera pans to an enemy sniper aiming through his scope at Captain Miller’s forehead. He hesitates, lowers his rifle, and shakes his head in frustration.
German Sniper: Even I don’t know what he was trying to do.
Suddenly a bugle sounds. The tide is shifting. More soldiers push forward. In the background, a man is field testing a new full medieval armor as he charges across the battlefield, sword raised. No one gives him a second look.
Sergeant Horvath: We’re making progress!
Captain Miller: Keep moving, men! And if anyone sees a Private Ryan, grab him!
Private Jackson: What’s a Private Ryan?
Captain Miller: A Private Ryan is any 18-year-old boy from Iowa, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Missouri, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, Indiana, Michigan, Kansas, or Ohio, fresh off his mom’s home-cooked casseroles, with absolutely no innate survival skills—unless you count binge-watching old action movies, speed-running video games, surviving solely on Mountain Dew and beef jerky during finals week. He’s never started a fire without lighter fluid, his only experience with combat is a Call of Duty kill streak, and the closest he’s ever been to roughing it was a Boy Scout camping trip that ended early because someone saw a raccoon, never having navigated anything more complicated than his local mall, never having carried anything heavier than his lunchbox, never having run for longer than the school gym required, who was dropped into a warzone but expected to operate like some kind of battle-hardened action hero. And if that sounds concerning, don’t worry—he had a two-week training course and an officer just handed him a rifle, patted him on the back, and said, “Good luck, private. You’ll figure it out.”
But we don’t have time to talk about that now
Denouement and Closing Scene
The soldiers charge forward, determined. A giant “EXIT” sign is briefly visible in the background, pointing inland.
Cut to black.
Next up: You’re Finished Judah Ben-Hur
