I have an idea for a movie: Wit Tier 2010

Picture it: jungle, somewhere in Africa. A bunch of evil poachers are trying to threaten a peaceful village into revealing the whereabouts of the legendary Elephant graveyards of Quasi-Quasi. They are armed, vicious, barbaric and even cruel (yes, even that), but just when all hope is lost, when no-one can help, in their most dire moment of need, blah blah, help comes, in the form of a white man, dressed in leather and, I dunno, more leather. Bringing the village together he devises a cunning plan, involving a cunning deceit, cunningly convincing the poachers that they are surrounded by a whole platoon of heavily armed government soldiers intent on smokin’ them, or some such.

The poachers flee, vowing never to return, and eventually take up lawn bowling in New-Zealand where they get convicted of match-fixing years later. But this is not our concern.

Or concern is this “white man of the jungle” who moves like a tiger and thinks like a very, very smart tiger. The natives call him “The White Tiger” and there are rumours of him floating all over the jungles of Zaire (note to editor: verify jungles in Zaire, otherwise change to bush, veld, or savannah accordingly.)

We, as viewers of this cinematic work are convinced of some kind of mid-sixties Tarzan scenario: white man lost in bush, wearing leather bits, being all phantom and legend.

Until a BBC camera crew arrives and hunts down the man and reveals to him that it is now in fact 2010 (or 2020… movies take a long time to develop) and his South African army unit has been sent home for decades now, the Angolan bush war is over and he can go home to Pretoria to live in the new non-racial South Africa ruled by what was at the time of his disappearance an evil terrorist organization, etc. etc.

Hilarity ensues: Crocodile Dundee meets Goodbye Lenin, and if I’m directing a little Debbie does Dallas thrown in.

Modern life is a challenge for our White Tiger, who has, obviously, fallen in love with the BBC journalist (played by Megan Fox, or Judie Densch, I’m not sure yet). He tries to contact his family: his wife’s remarried a black guy called Sipho, and his son is gay and his sister is a drug addicted prostitute living in Saudi-Arabia.

Yet, he tries to fit into this world. Remember, he was living in the jungle, protecting a bunch of black villagers from evildoers, so he’s not racist at heart, just a little at kidney possibly. He tries his damndest, and finds, through many misadventures involving the interwebs, microwave ovens, DVDs and other relatively new things, that his biggest problem is with the whites, the Afrikaners, the Volk he has literally dedicated his life to defending, who have all turned into nansypansy pinko liberal commies who sold out to the demons of money and that other demon whose name I forget.

He finds they were not worth defending: they rolled over and died, giving up their principles and their traditional humourous photo books without as much as a whimper.

But the point should be clear: he’s not pissed off because they accepted black governance. No. I mean, NO! He’s pissed because they’re not helping. They’re just bitter whenwes intent on undermining the immense goodwill shown to them by some 45 million people who should by rights hate their guts.

The plot gets sketchy around here: Hollywood demands romance, so for some chick related reason… I expect he (wrongly) comes to the conclusion he cannot fit into the BBC chick’s world, and decides to pack it up and disappear back to his jungle.

Oh. My. God. What does he find there?

You guessed it: lawn-bowling has lost its timeless allure for the poachers, and they’re back, meaner and murderouser than ever, wielding bigger guns, shorter skirts and possibly Afrikaans music with which to terrorise the locals once again.

Now, armed with a hairpin and a Sunday Times crossword puzzle our hero devises a heroic defence for the villagers, and in the process reveals himself to them as a human, not the supernatural mythical figure he used to be. They realise now he was one of them white South Africans, and it takes some expertly directed montages to have them accept his help again. Also, desperation plays a role.

At the height of the battle, in such a way as to possibly undo the whole effort, who should appear suddenly and dramatically? If you’re thinking “romantic love interest” you’re exactly right. That’s how formulaic I want this to be.

The girl pitches up, possibly parachuting out of a plane, leaping off a passing train or ... oh, oh! thrown off the back of a bad guy’s truck since he actually went and kidnapped her somewhere. Suddenly links are made: the bad guys are evil white property developers from South Africa (mayhap funded by a Hong Kong triad bankrolled by the Beijing government). They want to buy up the jungle to build a golf course/soccer stadium/presidential palace/mall/recording studio.

And the BBC crew being sent in was a ruse by the evildoers to capture and remove the White Tiger.

In a touching scene round about now the White Tiger learns that the villagers have never given a shit about his skin colour, and has accepted him as something fundamentally African. That’s because he’d become a story, and “a story can only be told by the drums”. I don’t know what that means either, but boy, is it profound.

So, the final, desperate showdown begins: Tiger, chick and villagers pitted against poachers with guns.

[Insert smart bit written by smart person to explain how they win, but it’s smart.]

They win: many, many stuntmen later.

The jungle is saved, the title deeds are secured in a Swiss Bank.

The country that rejected the White Tiger suddenly sees in him a hero, a cash cow. So he goes ahead and flips them off, deciding to stay in the jungle where he is now revered as a revered person.

Except, change that last bit not to be too much like Avatar. If there is a remote possibility to include half-naked blue alien girls, that’s okay, though.

Soundtrack by Christophe Beck and Yo La Tengo. Special effects by WETA.

Directed by Ridley Scott. Starring some guy who doesn’t have a mullet.

I only hope whoever writes the screenplay is a little wit tier than me.