The patriarch of an undiscovered plantation, dismantled in the 1860's and reassembled on a forgotten plot of land on the NY/NJ border, fights to save the plantation, his sheltered grandchildren, and the (supposed) slave family from the outside world, only to discover, in the end... the only slave in sight is himself. Blazing Saddles meets South Park.

SYNOPSIS:

The year is 1862… or is it?

An antebellum mansion, a field full of cotton, slaves in the field, Bessie minding the big house, Beauregard Jefferson Whitey (“Mr. B” or “Mr. Whitey”) presiding over his estate and protecting his two grandchildren, Annabelle and Winston, left in his care after the death of their parents, protecting them from a dangerous world that lurks outside the ivy-covered walls.

And a slave family, last name of Beaux (from the Cajun), led by Big Sam, wife Scarlet, daughter Little Missy, sons Little Sam and Bo... and the old man, Grandpa Beaux, who shuffles back and forth between the slave quarters and the big house, a partner in some sort of odd, almost-friendship with Mr. Whitey.

It sure looks like a plantation – which it IS.

It’s the Le Deux Plantation, carved by hand from the Louisiana Bayou.

And, it sure looks like the 1800’s – but it ISN’T.

It’s TODAY. And, it’s definitely NOT Louisiana.

In a desperate move to avoid the scourge of carpetbaggers and scalawags that were invading the South, the whole plantation was taken apart, piece by piece, and smuggled to this site almost 150 years ago, by Mr. Whitey’s great-great grandfather. But, that’s a story for another time.

Le Deux is here now, lost on the maps of both New Jersey and New York—each state presuming the spot marked as a chemical waste dump is in the other state’s jurisdiction—undetected, unnoticed and, until now, safe and sound. Mr. Whitey is the patriarch of the family that built Le Deux in Louisiana in 1789. He knows that the world is dangerous, the world kills, and he has kept the secret of Le Deux all his life. As far as anybody else (supposedly) knows, it’s Louisiana, and it’s 1862.

Don’t know how he explains the snow.

Irreverent and outrageous, THE LAST PLANTATION is politically, socially and most every other version of incorrect. It is also fall-down hilarious. We might wonder if it’s okay to laugh, after the laugh is already out, but that’s partly the point. Bias, prejudice, stereotypes and bigotry in the same stew with heart and humor. South Park meets Blazing Saddles, but wilder, and possibly more provocative, than either.

Important Note: Though the "plantation" serves as the platform for this story, it is not merely a story about slavery. In the course of the hilarity, no stereotype is spared from being flipped on its head: "undocumented" immigrants, lawyers, agents, film directors and studio executives (not the nice ones, of course), bureaucrats, pampered athletes, gun nuts, corporate bigwigs, sideways politicians and even the misunderstood blonde stripper. The plantation is only the canvas for the madness.

Thus, is it a film not only for us, as Americans, who might gain some insight while cracking up at ourselves, but also for foreign markets where audiences can enjoy cracking up our follies while recognizing a prejudice or two of their own in the process. This is because The Last Plantation, while beginning as a cloistered, phony sanctuary, doesn't stay that way for long. The insanity begins when its perimeter is breached and the outside world comes rushing in.

After years of near-misses with the outside world and the inside pressures of planting and raising children who can’t help by eventually turn into teenagers, Le Deux is hit from both directions.

The Beaux family teens are tired of pretending to be slaves and singing spirituals in the fake cotton fields. They think their dad is an idiot and Grandpa Beaux is no better than Mr. Whitey for lying to them for all these years. Scarlett, their mother, is ready to blow up the whole charade.

And up at the big house, there is more trouble. The most serious, as Bessie tells it, is that young Annabelle “is a virgin, and she ain’t happy about it.” Annabelle has also never left the grounds of Le Deux and could care less if the Hapsburgs are raping and pillaging their way across the Franco-Prussian frontier, slaughtering Slavs, ravaging their women and family pets; she’s 17 and she wants to go to Paris, or at least across the county line.

More seriously, if there can be anything more serious than an overheated teenager, Mr. Whitey makes the one critical mistake that opens the crack in the damn that will lead to disaster.

On a routine clandestine trip to the 7-11 through one of several secret gates in the ivy wall, Mr. Whitey, half-blind and driving without his glasses, almost runs down Donald P. Donald, who's collecting aluminum cans in a grocery cart as part of his court-ordered community service from his End Run Corporation fraud conviction. Though this confrontation temporarily passes, there’s a problem. One of The Donald’s scattered soda cans blocks the motorized gate from closing, eventually snapping the chain on the motor control. Little does Mr. B know, as he motors on to the 7-11 in his big Lincoln, that the perimeter of Le Deux has been breached. This time by a man with a nose for real estate in a tight market.

Mr. Whitey returns to find a veritable convention of homeless people, portable back-rub stations, portrait sketch artists, squeegee men and Jehovah’s Witnesses outside a wide open gate. For some reason, they are stopping a few feet inside, afraid to enter. Flying through the gate, pulling it shut and chaining it, Mr. Whitey returns his Lincoln to the secret garage and heads to the big house to find the porch littered with take-out menus, copies of The Watchtower, and splotches of a dark red liquid. Bessie stands guard with the double-barrel shotgun, declaring, “The winds of change are a’comin’ Mr. B, coming for sure this time.”

Two things are soon crystal clear. First, nobody’s ventured inside again because of the two Hare Krishna’s Bessie shot and stuck in the smokehouse, mistaking them for Klansmen in pink sheets. Second, and more critically, “they” have pierced the perimeter of Le Deux and this time it’s different. This time, “They made it all the way to the house; they’ll be back.”

And thus the assault upon the Le Deux fantasy and its security begins, from both the inside and the outside. Shooting the random intruder, switching gates or using the tunnel, and changing out the signs on the property—Nuclear Waste Dump Site, Rapist Relocation Center, and the like—has always worked before. But not this time.

Can Mr. Whitey hold them all off with nothing more than a squirrel rifle and ancient double-barrel shotgun? If he pulls out the full arsenal of weapons he has stashed, it will be the end of the plantation myth. How does he know, blind in more ways than one, that there is no myth to protect.

What does the Beaux family do? Take pleasure in the disintegration of Le Deux? Or do some of them think they’ve got a pretty good gig going here. Particularly with the thriving marijuana crops in the back fields where the fool Mr. Whitey never looks. What do they do when the vultures show up to free them from slavery and make a big movie about their fictitious struggle?

The battle ensues, fought tooth and nail by people who are not always certain who they want to win. In the end, there are wins and losses of many varieties, and many lessons along the way.

No Synopsis or Log Line could adequately describe this piece of borderline maniacal work that may help us examine ourselves and our culture, while rolling on the floor with laughter.

An old black man with a thing for Britney Spears; a Mexican gardener on the brink of a PhD in Ancient Mesopotamian Languages; Donald P. Donald, former CEO of the End Run Corporation and Congressman holding the all-time record for total bribes... state or federal; Aunt Jemima’s actual niece; The New York Yankees and Knicks (who, despite recent reports, are still part of the NBA), Jehovah’s Witnesses, Hare Krishna’s, a wanna-be stripper moonlighting as a board-certified cardiologist, cotton puffs stuck on with adhesive tape, fake Indians wanted by SAG-AFTRA for working non-union, on and on, in a non-stop onslaught of outrageous—and largely true—insanity.

If there is a stereotype that isn’t ripped to shreds in this film, it’s because there wasn’t enough time or it was overlooked.

And, if looking for irony—the keystone of any good motion picture— in the end, Mr. Whitey will discover that the only real slave on this plantation is himself.

THE LAST PLANTATION