The dust swirls on a lonely plain as two figures stumble into view. A man, wrapped in nothing but a tattered dressing gown and sporting an unkempt bush of blonde Stalin-like facial hair, pauses, mid-stride, and gazes out toward the horizon. "Music...", he declares, scratching his wiry moustache. His companion, a little shorter in stature and seemingly preoccupied by a pair of bright yellow flip-flops that appear to be causing him no small amount of trouble, turns to face the direction of the noise. He cocks an ear sideways and utters, in the same vaguely Australasian drawl as the first man: "Music?" The pair pause for a moment to confirm. In the silence that follows, a slight tinkling can be heard off in the distance. The sound of enthusiastic horns is carried to them faintly on the breeze, and then is just as quickly lost to the whipping wind. The second man adjusts a pair of chunky spectacles and sporadically hikes an overlarge backpack higher on his shoulders, in search of an elusive comfort. Both men are wearing backpacks, sagging with the weight of their respective recommendations. The first man consults his wristwatch in a studious manner before setting off, briskly, in the direction of the sound. "We must deliver these recommendations before sundown", he says, unsympathetically, as if this reminder will inject another dose of purpose into their ailing limbs.
Some time later, the pair crest the brow of a grassless hill and come, all of a sudden, across that which they have been searching for so laboriously. A faded circus-style marquee is pitched, rather amateurishly, a good two hundred yards away across a stretch of murky brown water. The structure, if one could even call it that, has an oddly royal air, though, as both onlookers note almost immediately, has clearly seen better days. As the two men turn to each other with impish grins, still panting from the steep climb that preceded this particularly homoerotic moment, a tinny tannoy can be heard clearly across the water: "Welcome, one and all...", a booming and rather handsome voice declares, "... to the first annual World Championship of Film." The pair exchange another glance. "My name is JediMoonShyne, and you have been invited here today to participate in something monumental. A grand total of 32 posters have been chosen from around the world, each of which has in turn chosen a country to champion. The countries, each represented by a squad of 5 different films, will now be made to face-off against one another. Please, give me a hand in welcoming our brave contestants..." Both men on the hill suddenly start, as if woken from a similar reverie, and utter a muffled string of curse words before galloping down the hill towards the water and tent beyond.