Son of the Return to the Curse of the Revenge has Risen from the Grave: The Final Chapter: A New Beginning. Pt. II

The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things but mainly films, TV and writing stuff. And my circumlocutious aquatic friend is right. Or maybe it’s a quote. Or a dream. I’m still on a lot of medication. Him’s still right though.

It’s been a very long time: where to begin? Possibly the beginning. Then again, starting at the end might be more fun. Or confusing. Be warned there will be excessive use of the perpendicular pronoun.

I have been somewhat unwell for the last couple of years – this was annoying. I am better than I was but nowhere near as good as I’d like to be – this is also annoying. The biggest irritation is the continuing effects of the paralysis down my right hand side. The other biggest irritation (apart from having forgotten how superlatives work) is that the nerves in my spine have failed to re-grow properly: this was their sole task and they have failed miserably. Very naughty of them. This, unsurprisingly, is also rather annoying. So, I’m swallowing a lot of tablets, rather tired and incredibly bored...

Which is why I’ve come back to this blog-thing: I also need the practice with the hand. I’ve not a clue what I’m going to put here: I suspect I’ll mainly just talk narcissistically about myself – isn’t that what the internet exists for? If you’ve come here for screenwriting advice, I’d say you’re out of luck, here’s my only piece of advice – stop reading this and go write stuff.

So, to the more recent past: over the last few months or so, I’ve started jotting down thoughts, plot points, snatches of dialogue, character-snippets – the usual writery-stuff – started compiling those notes - sorting, sifting, arranging, re-arranging, crossing out, uncrossing... it’s a start.

There’s rather a lot of things I want to write: maybe they’ll be terrible, maybe clichéd, maybe terribly clichéd; may probably never get made or bought or even read; I might just tuck them away in a drawer somewhere to moulder. But I won’t know until I’ve scratched them down. There’s so many things I want to say: I think it’s time to get on and say them.

I’ve already made a small start by putting in a sample script to 4Talent’s Screenwriting Course. I’m under no illusions that there’ll be an acceptance. However, there is nothing to lose. What’s the worst they can say? No?

Well... actually, the worst they can do is inform me they’ve referred my case to the ultra-secretive League Against Bad Writing for imminent elimination so as to cleanse the ink-pool. But they probably wouldn’t warn me in advance. I’d just be found with a sharpened quill pierced through my jugular. We shall see.

So, here I am, back from the dead, nearly literally, I just wish it was slightly less...

And slightly more...

...the right night to rise from the Grave!

Ain't It Dead Yet?

Every Breath You Take....

With the news that sinister corporation (and Blogger owner) Google doing deeply sinister corporate things while the the Leveson Inquiry into Media Ethics (or lack thereof) continues in its quest to unveil other sinister corporations doing other deeply sinister corporate things I thought it might be apposite to draw attention to a short piece that superior media theorist and documentary essayist Adam Curtis produced for Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe 2011.



Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

(Pretentious, moi? ;)

Er, Happy New Year.... and WTF?!?!?

I was going to make the first post of the year glib, ironic, shallow and, you know, whatever. I was going to wish everyone a belated happy new year....and I still do.... happy belated new year.....

But things changed a bit.....

I had thought things were looking up: the ribs I cracked turned out to be broken but had healed; a generally annoying long-term recurring illness had subsided a touch and was starting to consider generally buggering off a bit which was good and then..... well, if I believed in curses, I’d start to think I’d taken a pump-action for a fun-day to a hall of mirrors, having first waltzed through a colonnade of ladders and kicked a cornucopia of black cats. But I don’t. And I haven’t.

On 5th April I watched episode one of Candy Cabs (that’s how I remember the date) this was not a good idea. And I’m sure it could be evidence at the Hague as cruel and unusual punishment. I’m certain what happened next had precisely nothing to do with bad television but given how terribly bad that television was it’s fun to make the link. And isn’t it good to have a reason for the unreasonable no matter how completely ludicrous, erroneous and unreasonable it might be?

So, programme ends. Watch news. Watch Newsnight. Start to realise my whole right-hand side has stopped working: face slumped, speech problems, arm numb and barely mobile... Alarm bells start to ring – I think we’ve all seen the advert. I was in A&E within the hour and admitted that night. Cue tests: lots of tests. The most painful part of which came after I got home – lumber punctures are uncomfortable but the headache I had for the following two weeks was like someone drilling straight into my brain through my eyes. Then pouring in liquid nitrogen. I’ve broken my ribs, my knees and sliced a thumb to the bone.... they had nothing on this. And the Doctor (likely qualified in ‘30’s Germany) said there would be no pain. Would hate to see his definition of pain. But, hey, no pain no gain; do I get a tin cup or something?

In hospital I was introduced to another new experience I could have done without: a visit from the Norovirus Fairy, courtesy of another patient’s visitor (who ‘thought it would be OK to visit while he had the symptoms’ but didn’t see the point of all those hygiene things that hospitals have taken quite a shine to – feel free to roll eyes and tut). B.P. went to 60 over 25 (which apparently is bad), required 6 litres of fluids, lost nearly a stone in 5 days, hallucinated a lot and knocked the drip out twice.... which was actually quite amusing and sort of, er, bloody.

I was released just before Easter and enjoyed two weeks of blinding headaches and lots of codeine. But at least it was sunny so I retreated into the garden with a CD player and dark glasses. I probably looked like Lermontov.



The return home was a problematic, weird experience crowned by the first couple of hours with the TV at which point I realised I couldn’t understand why anybody would ever want to watch TV or films as it’s just a bunch of inconsequential buffoons prancing like pointless puppets making empty burbling noises of no worth. Worse, I couldn’t work out why anybody in their right mind would dedicate any time to writing for such inanity. Thankfully, this seems to be wearing off.

So, where does this leave things: I’m still part paralyzed with no real idea when or if it will wear off. The list of things I can’t do seems much longer than those I can: can’t drive; can barely hold a pen or sign my name; can’t feel the laptop keys properly (so I’m using two fingers on my left-hand); have trouble holding fork, knife, toothbrush, etc. It’s a bit annoying.

Still, could be worse: I might have watched the rest of Candy Cabs.

And I doubt anyone’s reading this; so probably just pissing in the wind; I notice most Bloggers seem to have given up in the last 6-12 months.... guess everyone’s burbling away on Witter.... ‘cos, like, you know, what meathead's shagging what tart, is like, you know, so like, yeah, whatever, innit. LOL. OMG. LMAO.

Always end on a song..... one which has the chorus ‘life is unfair, kill yourself or get over it’ would be quite nice... what a coincidence...

Last Album listened to: Nine Inch Nails: Still
Last TV watched: Doctor Who: The Almost People

No Snow, No Show

Just one simple question....

Where - WHERE! - is my snow?

Everybody else got some why didn't I?

That's a bit of a lie - there was a half inch mid-week.

Then it rained.

And it evaporated (alright, technically melted).

I have a green lawn.

I don't want a green lawn. I'd rather like a pretty white one. You know, like what I've seen on the tele and all.

I still have flowers on the rose bushes - admittedly they got caught by the frost a while back and I'm too lazy to excise them but... they still bear the impression of being flowers, just sort of freeze-dried versions.

There's a lot of water about.

It sits on the road all frozen and treacherous (i.e. plotting to overthrow Her Madge, Gawd bless Her Royal Majestic Highnessness). The temperature outside shames my refridgerator. And the cold has got into all the joints I've generally broken, dislocated or otherwise misplaced over the years.

Guess what I'm saying here is: I've got all the bad bits of Winter without the one redeeming feature. Pretty white stuff coating everything. Pristine by day, glowing by night and muffling the world's infernal din for the duration.

Of course, I know why I don't get snow in quite the same way or at the same time as others: to the East, the Cotswolds; to the North, the Malverns; to the South, more Cotswolds; to the West, the Forest of Dean and Welsh Mountains. By the time the clouds pass over these they can be a bit spent.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I want the eight foot drifts and 'Traffic Chaos'. But three or four inches that sticks around long enough so as to say 'Winter has come and you do actually live in the same country as everybody else', well, that might be nice.

But before anyone thinks 'how dare you complain about having it easy', just remember when all that snow melts the water has to go somewhere... an' roun' 'ere we call tha' floodin'.

Boring Update

I had intended the next post to be about Red Planet but instead, a couple of weeks back, I went ass over tip in the bathroom (not the most forgivingly cushioned part of a house) and cracked a couple of ribs. Haven’t bothered taking them to the doctor because, firstly, it feels exactly the same as the last time I did it (so it’s a safe assumption it’s the exact same thing) and, secondly, there’s precisely nothing that can be done anyway: just have to sit it out for a couple of months. Anyway, leaning forward over a laptop is not the most excessively comfortable thing right now.

Apologies for being so boring. However, in recompense, here’s a clip of two cracking Welshmen performing a right good version of a Manics’ song...

Further boring updates as and when.

General Rejoicing!

Well, I really didn’t think I’d be in the reasonably happy position of seeing that screen. I’ll save the details for why ‘till later. But I’m just glad to see that screen. (And yes, I know I should be using Firefox!)

So, the 10 pages are in, they’ve got an all Sondheim programme with Bryn Terfel on the Proms right now, Misfits later, it’s a Grand Prix weekend, the cats have finally been fed (might even feed myself), sheep may safely graze and all is right with the world.... well, until tomorrow morning...

“We are on the brink of a new era if only...”

The Sequel

So.... it’s been a while, ain’t it?

Not dead yet.

It’ll take more than life to kill me.

Hope you missed me. To be honest I didn’t hear too much wailing or gnashing of teeth and where on earth was the rending of garments? Guess there’s a recession on....

Basically, I’ve been busy and, annoyingly, an old illness snuck up on me, jumped me in the car park and, let’s just say, a fracas ensued... all a bit like Philo Beddoe against Wilson in the end of that film.

Hope you enjoyed my shamelessly bumping my post count up but I noticed I was perilously close to the ton and, lo, this is “Post 101”: the worst post in the world? It’s Post Zero.... a new start. Hopefully, I’ll be posting a little more often but I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep. But I’ll try and get something up when I’ve got the spare energy; though it would be nice to have some energy to start with, spare or otherwise.

I haven’t been keeping up with what people have been splurging out their brainpans of late so if I cover anything already dealt with or tread on someone’s toes I can only apologize in advance.

“Sorry”

See.

You can cut and paste that into your eyes each time I screw up...

I still haven’t worked out what on earth this site’s for but it’s not stopped the other three billion internet-active people in the world from blathering away endlessly about nothing whatsoever (especially those who comment on YouTube). The only question that remains is shall I tell the truth or lie prolifically and tell you extraordinary and exciting tales from my amazingly exceptional and event-packed life.

I shall consult my monkey-butler once I get out this champagne-filled gilt-lined zero-gravity Jacuzzi-pool...

Depeche Mode - Wrong (2009, Patrick Dangers)

Depeche Mode - Wrong from Depeche Mode on Vimeo.

Unkle - Rabbit In Your Headlights (1998, Jonathan Glazer)

Fight Club - This Is Your Life

Fight Club : This Is Your Life
by Rockinde

There Will Be Blood

And All That Could Have Been

Hymnen

All Is Full Of Love

...and sheep may safely graze... or Cheltenham’s Ladies may safely go back to learning at any rate...

And now as SWF ’09 has already begun its pass into memory, I ought to put something down about it; just can’t think what. I managed, almost successfully, to control my crazy for nearly the whole four and a half days- the cracks did start to show on the last night- presumably due to a heady brew of zero-sleep and Strongbow. I still don’t understand or care much for networking... I find approaching anybody with my own agenda very hard.

There will now follow a couple of random opinions...

If I write nothing else about SWF there’s just one big thank you to all the good people who managed to put up with my diminishing levels of sane for the duration. The words ‘above’ and ‘beyond’ spring readily to mind. Thank you.

Here’s something you need to view, now, and throughout the next week, Girl Number 9, from the brains of Dan Turner and James Moran. It’s really rather good.

I’ve officially dumped the word ‘aspiring’ into a great big bin designed for holding ‘negative power words’*. (That should please Lord Arnopp.)

Thursday last became quite a good day- full of ups and downs, it was. Now, as I am supposed to be semi-literate I should be able to find some words to describe the feeling I’ve been left with post-Festival. Unfortunately I can’t think of any and, as I can’t share the appropriate mimes, I can only explain it with musical clips... it’s a combination of the following...

Beethoven: Symphony No. 5 Mvt. 4

(Buy this version by the way.)

Bjork: All Is Full Of Love

1998, Chris Cunningham

Final thing. Tonight is Hallowe’en. I had intended to watch some appropriate films; had decided to watch through as many Blind Dead films as possible before either a) my brain cell melts or b) I doze off. As it is, I’ve noticed they’ve got a Francis Bacon night on BBC4 instead... curse you scheduler people! Still, the documentaries finish at 11 so that gives me enough time for Tombs, Return and possibly the The Ghost Galleon

And the cat’s just got into the Hallowe’en spirit by walking past the window with a large bird obscuring his mouth. Mice, I don’t mind; birds, I do.**

*I just made that up but it’s sounds very guru-speak, don’t it?
**The cat’s started eating the bird... how can creatures so soppy be so vicious?***
***And now he’s sitting at the window looking very smug.
****!!!!

Jigsaw Falling Into Place

Seen Saw... and II and III... so that’s thrice I, twice II and once III...

One simple question: is Jigsaw the most annoying psycho-killer in cinema history?

The evidence...

• he’s pointlessly loquacious, he just goes on and on and on- blah, blah, blah, blah, blah- talking endlessly, you’d have thought a guy with so little time left would be more succinct but no... has he never heard that brevity is the soul of wit?
• ...and if he thinks his message so serious why does he treat it as a game?
• ...and to what end is he jabbering, it wouldn’t matter if what he was saying was interesting, but it’s so repetitive- ‘value life’, ‘this is a test’- he could be replaced by a roadie, ‘one, two, one two, testing, testing’,
• ...and what does he say, well, it’s a sort of half-baked philosophical nonsense that’s a bit too much like it was jotted down in the back of a 15-year old’s school exercise book,
• ...and in turn this moralizing seems to have very limited internal logic; the traps tests don’t seem to have properly defined moral choices or a proper way out and, more bizarrely, to get one person to value life he will happily cut great swathes through the innocent members of their close family, friends and people they just happened to meet in the pub some time... and he claims he’s not a murderer!
• ...and his traps don’t seem to fulfil the parameters he apparently envisages,
• ...and his puzzles are needlessly contrived- they have so many variables that he must be either very lucky or there are several thousand un-triggered back-up plans sitting round like so much UXO and cluster bombs, in fact, he’s like some speed-freak Bond villain-cum-Satanic Mary. Whitehouse,
• ...or maybe he’s just watched Se7en a few too many times and completely misunderstood the simplicity of John Doe’s master-plan... and they say movies don’t make you violent!

...the case for the prosecution rests.

The big surprises about Saws II and III are that they don’t suck- a technical term- (II was in fact quite enjoyable) and aren’t especially violent.

The big minus... each sequel detracts from the excellent original Saw.

The big plus... at least they’re well-made (and watchable) unlike Hostel.

PS: I loved this TV guide description of Saw II, “Think Se7en meets The Crystal Maze”. So, now you know, Jigsaw is in fact Richard O’Brien... prepare to beam back to the Planet Transsexual.

Cartrouble

Recent developments....

Been a bit busy of late, gathering my thoughts for the Screenwriters’ Festival which is now looming large in something I like to call next week...

Have also managed to have another car written off- the fourth- none have been adjudged my fault. So, another write off... or is it? An air of mystery hangs over this- it initially looked as if I’d just broken a front headlight in what was a very low speed impact. I took it to my regular garage for a replacement and, having got it up on the ramps, they rang to say they spotted a chassis leg had been cracked and that this was not viably repairable. So, I had to take the thing to the insurance approved engineer and their initial assessment was it just needs a new headlight... all very odd. Now, they’ve looked at it more and concluded... it just needs a new headlight. Not sure what the outcome of this will be; would rather like it to be a straight headlight repair but fear, with my luck, it will not. But keeping my fingers crossed. I really dislike dealing with insurance claims.

Now another random conundrum. The other night I did me a pizza and settled down in front of TV (and I can’t recall whether this was during Emma [good- far lighter adaptation than most period things], the South Bank Show [interesting- about the writer of Billy Elliot] or Saw II [reasonably alright but still seems like a reductivist version of Se7en], but it was definitely Sunday night). The cat came in with a dead mouse in his mouth... he promptly proceeded to eat it in front of me.

Now, the pizza was hot, the mouse was dead... I let the cat get on with it... does that automatically make me a bad person? Or just pragmatic? The strange part was that the crunching noises from the munched mouse were rather similar to the cracking noises of the crunched crust of the pizza... makes you wonder what they put in the topping!

Anyway, I’ve had it confirmed that at SWF I have these speed-dating sessions with both agents and producers. This means I have to meet people- this is perturbing: I’m nervous enough meeting people I know; a gibbering wreck round people I don’t.

I feel comfortable enough with my anxiety to admit I’m moderately terrified.

No Fun

A small, possibly erroneous, observation about comedy writing...

Quick story. A couple of months ago I submitted some bits and pieces for the ‘open submission’ satirical comedy Newsjack (on Radio 7). Each week, I did more than necessary and had them scrutinized by a writer friend who told me what worked, what didn’t and how to snazz up those that nearly worked... I then submitted the best. In total, over the 6 weeks, I submitted 15 sketches and 25 one-liners... and not a single solitary one made the grade! This was disappointing. I’d rather like to get on the score-board and radio is a ‘good thing’*. Personally, I prefer Radio 3 but they do very little sketch-based comedy... doesn’t work well between Stockhausen’s greatest hits and Mongolian nose-flute orchestras.

Anyway, this dismal failure got me thinking the simple question- why? Why?!?!?As in ‘why have I failed in such a pusillanimous way?’. I listened to the show each week; I have, contrary to popular rumour, a sense of humour, how could I fail? I think I have an answer- may be wrong, may be right- I think it has a ring of truth.

I listened to the show each week and, while I smirked, I didn’t find it laugh-out loud funny; certainly not as much as the studio audience. However, this is NOT the sour grapes thing of ‘they didn’t pick me therefore they and/or the programme are wrong’. I believe this is a case of I did not find it especially funny therefore I couldn’t write adequately in the idiom required. I love satire- Bremner, Bird & Fortune, Yes Minister, Brass-eye, The Day Today, etc. but Newsjack’s satire was not the type of satire to which I’m acclimatized.

There are two genres (technically three**) which are far more subjective than others presumably because they operate on a very deep primal level: comedy and horror. I find the Marx Brothers funny but can’t stand Laurel & Hardy or Chaplin (mawkish sentimental bilge); I find Mitchell & Webb, Blackadder, Black Books, The IT Crowd and Spaced hilarious while I find Little Britain, Russell Brand and The Catherine Tate Show about as funny as the average knee-capping. I love Blazing Saddles but the farting cowboy scene is the only bit I skip to the end; I know others with the complete opposite view. Could Eddie Braben write successfully for Lucas & Walliams? Could Chris Morris write successfully for Morecambe & Wise? And the same surely follows for horror: some find the supernatural terrifying and are bored by slashers; others think knife-wielding psychos scary while ghost stories leave them cold.

And so to the quite simple conclusion: if you don’t find the show funny, you probably won’t be able to do funny for the show; if you don’t find the monster scary, you probably won’t be able to do the monster scarily. It’s not the fault of the show or the poor beleaguered monster... it’s just that you’re not hard-wired that way. Find your ‘funny’ or ‘scary’ and do that instead.

Well, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it... it’s either that or I really am just a miserable old git.

*As they put it in 1066 and All That.
**The third would be Porn... the person who loves the plastic-clad dom' may not find the idea of 'plushies' too enticing... or the flying helmet and the wet celery...

Sweet Soul Sister

To be filed under ‘shameless nepotism’...

I’ve been busy and boringly quiet so I shall just go back to something nice that happened to the sister a while back. (I can still recognise nice! Hoorah!)

Anyway, as I think I’ve mentioned before, my sister is a professional classical cellist prone to playing in orchestras. However, early this year she was approached by a band to whom she had been recommended by a third party. This, I presume, is that networking thing in action- the networking thing I can’t get a handle on. Anyway this band, Inkubus Sukkubus, a a Goth Pagan rock outfit who are better known in Europe having played some of the big alternative festivals such as Germany's M’era Luna, wanted to try some acoustic reworking, hence the desire to augment with a cellist. The sister came on board and, after some delays due to the band getting caught up in the swine flu thing while on tour in Mexico, they finally did a very low key test concert, at Lammas, to see how the sound went down with an audience and whether it generally worked. Apparently, it went rather well... bigger things may follow!

There is a strange six degrees of separation footnote to this, an ouroboros if you will... back in (probably) 1989 the band, who started locally, advertised on the local radio’s sole hard rock/HM music show (Tim Oakes, I think) for a guitarist. Having been playing a whole 6 months or so, I rang them up to offer my not inconsiderable services only to be told politely but firmly that I was neither experienced nor aged enough... they were lucky... in the intervening 20 years I have got absolutely no better! That would have been back in the days when I bought Kerrang, before they went mad and started giving 5K reviews to absolutely anything! It's inccredibly strange to suddenly remember details like that from so long ago...

...and why am I telling you all this patently irrelevant nonsense now? Because some clips from that first acoustic concert have turned up on YouTube: all your typical camera phone footage with the expected sound mix... but just this once I won’t cast my malediction on those who clutter up gigs with camera phones!

Wytches

Come To Me

Gypsy Lament

Gypsy Lament (shorter but from a better angle)

...that’s all folks!