Film lovers have a tendency to be very devisive. Terms like 'film buff,' or 'film geek' - what do they mean? What positive things do we attribute to those terms and what negative ones?
Pretentiousness is everywhere - you can hardly get into a conversation about movies without one person oppressing the other with righteousness and condescension. Does someone who loves Truffaut love films more than someone who loves 'Big Mommas House 2' or do they just love Truffaut more? Why does it matter?
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
A SHORT STORY - "Learning From Experience" - By The Kid In The Front Row
LEARNING FROM EXPERIENCE
A Short Story
By The Kid In The Front Row
Tom Hooper arrived at Leonard & Stone Publishing four minutes before his appointment. Any later wouldn’t qualify as early, and any earlier would mean sitting awkwardly in the waiting room at one of the biggest publishing houses in the country. Although Tom was an expert at sitting awkwardly, he did his best to avoid it. This time, he was comforted by the fact that four minutes from now Richard Leonard would be giving the go ahead to publish Hooper’s masterpiece.
Fifty six minutes later, Tom was invited into Leonard’s office, which was almost as big as Grand Central Station. ‘I like your writing,’ said Leonard, with about as much enthusiasm as someone with very little enthusiasm, ‘but the violent mugging scene isn’t believable, and the rest of the book depends on it.’ Tom knew he was right. His only experience of a mugging was when his sister’s best friend, Paula, stole his Hanson CD twelve years ago and only gave it back after a steep ransom.
‘It needs energy, it needs realism. It needs pain. This is a moment that changes his life,’ said Leonard.
‘That’s why I used the words torment and agony,’ offered Tom.
‘I don’t buy it. You need to fix it.’
‘I agree.’
‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Seeing friends.’
‘You don’t have any friends.’
‘I’ll start tonight.’
‘You’ll finish tonight. I’m showing it to Stone tomorrow afternoon.’
Tom knew instantly that this was impossible, which is precisely why he agreed to do it and promised to have a new draft with him by the morning. Richard Leonard was famous for pulling shit like this, and Tom was famous for nothing, which is why he decided to do as he was told.
He sat in front of his typewriter for two hours without doing a thing. Probably because the typewriter was broken and had been for eight years. Tom liked sitting in front of it because it made him feel like a writer whereas his laptop made him feel like an underachiever, as did most things. How the hell was he going to write a realistic mugging?
Braggard lurched awkwardly against the wall, as the mugger swiped the documents from under Braggard’s nose. The mugger turned back towards him and smashed him in the face with a hefty punch, which was painful.
A book published by Leonard & Stone was the key to all his dreams, but it could disappear in a matter of hours. Maybe the mugger could be carrying a gun and shoot Braggard, he thought. Tom went with this idea for a while, before realizing it would compromise the next chapter, where Braggard wins an Olympic gold medal. It’s time to give up, he figured; everything I write is pathetic. Maybe the kids who live on the Fretton Estate should write the story, they’re great at robbing people of their belongings.
Tom was suddenly inspired. He closed his laptop and immediately reached for his coat. Four minutes later he was entering Fretton Estate and flashing his expensive wristwatch which was a gift from his ex-girlfriend, Sally Wiseberg. He turned and headed immediately down Fretton Lane, better known as Death Lane to the locals. He looked around, determined to be robbed at knifepoint. This was the key to getting his creative juices flowing. He looked around – nobody was there. A good sign, he figured, something is definitely going to go down.
He heard footsteps behind him. YES! This is it. A young guy who can’t have been older than fifteen stopped him in his tracks and said, ‘do you realize you’re walking down Death Lane at eleven at night?’
‘Yes. I fancied a walk,’ said Tom.
‘Give me your money.’
Tom thought about it. To just hand over the money would be the end of the ordeal, which wouldn’t exactly bring out his inner-Shakespeare. ‘I need the money to buy my girlfriend a present,’ said Tom.
‘Shut the fuck up and give me your money.’
Tom was only fractionally frightened, but it was an improvement. Things were bound to get worse when a giant-of-a-man stepped out suddenly from behind a van.
The man looked at the little teenager and then looked at Tom. He was holding a knife. ‘Allow him,’ said the giant-of-a-man, ‘He didn’t mean to come down here and he needs the money for his girlfriend,’
‘Wow, that’s very kind of you,’ said Tom.
‘If we ever see you down here again, this knife here is going right through your fucking body.’
Tom was petrified, which in turn made him absolutely delighted, which confused the two men as Tom had a beaming smile on his face.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ asked the not so friendly giant, which snapped Tom back into reality.
‘I did. Thank you.’
‘Get the fuck out of here,’ said the little one. And Tom was gone.
Braggard came to the sudden realization that his life was at risk. Two masked gunmen held their weapons to his face. His head began to sweat, his hands began to shake, and it dawned on him that he may never see his children again.
Braggard took his wallet out of his pocket and handed it to the men, and then made his way to Olympic archery training.
It was an improvement. But the second paragraph was pathetic. Tom glanced at his bookshelf, wondering if there was anything he could steal. Nothing came to mind. The writing was still not good enough and there was no way Richard Leonard would publish something with such a weak middle section. Tom stared out of the window, bitterly disappointed with his limitations as a writer. He could only nail it perfectly when it was something he had been through – which is why his short stories had been published seventeen times on guyswhocantgetgirls.com. He sat down with a small coffee and came to the sad but true realization: he would not be able to write something he did not have any experience of.
Tom stepped out into the night again and strode valiantly into Death Lane. He had a confident posture and a gleam in his eyes that said I am going to write the best book you’ve ever seen! He gasped for air desperately as a blade suddenly ripped through his clothes and plummeted into his back. His life hurtled through his mind as he found himself spinning and falling and suffocating. His head smacked down on the ground as the giant-man and little teenager sprinted off into the distance.
Some time later, his eyes gradually opened – he made out the blurry figure of a streetlight. A pain ripped through his entire body. He could barely move, but barely was enough to move his left leg and push himself up onto the curb. For the first time in his life, he was conscious of his breathing, probably because it wasn’t happening. He desperately swerved his breath around the painful parts of his body; it was like a magical dance that allowed breath by only using four percent of his lungs. A crazy thought popped into his head: I can make my way home. I can use this in my novel.
He gulped down a glass of water the second he got home. An insight, true or not, had come to his awareness; I am not going to die. He knew that if a writer is not dead, then they must continue their work. He sat down by his laptop and took a large, and painful breath.
The masked gunman stepped towards Braggard, who turned around, startled. The gunman smacked him in the chest with the corner of his gun. Braggard thumped down on the floor and felt a jolt of death ripple painfully through his body. He thought of Mandy, his High School sweetheart, with her golden blonde hair and mild disdain for his personality. The gunman continued to beat him, leaving Braggard for dead, but still with an outside chance of making the Olympics.
Tom was delighted with the paragraph. It had pain, it had truth, it even had emotion and a glint of the character’s romantic past. Tom smiled to himself, and continued writing.
The gunman then reached into Braggard’s pocket and took his phone, wallet, and documents. This was bad news for Braggard, who needed the documents for the Olympic committee.
Tom sat there despondently. Partly because of the awful writing, and partly because the right side of his body was numb and the left side of his body was leaking blood quicker than Usain Bolt can run the hundred metres. Tom had two options. One was to phone an ambulance and save his life, the other was to keep typing away at the keyboard in the hopes of finishing what could end up being his one-book-legacy, given how quickly his body was giving up on him. Should he call for an ambulance? Or should he remain in the warmth of his own home and finish his work?
He stood at the end of Death Lane – staring down the street. He’d always been a believer in positive thinking and visualization. He felt a sense of calmness, ease, and joy due to his inner belief that the giant man and teen would definitely steal his belongings this time. That was all he needed to finish his story.
They couldn’t believe their eyes. ‘Is that really him, back for more?’ asked the unusually large one.
‘Let’s finish him off,’ said the nervous teen.
‘You’re so violent.’
‘He might call the police,’
‘Let’s talk to him,’ said the giant.
Tom stumbled forward, gripping on to a nearby lamppost – it was the only thing that was going to keep him standing.
“Why are you back?” asked the giant-man.
“Am I meant to be afraid of you?” said Tom,
“You’re not looking very good. You should go home.”
“I think you’re scared of me.”
“Scared of you? We nearly killed you.”
“For no reason. You didn’t take my wallet or anything.”
The giant brutally hit Tom in the skull faster than a wine cork flying into the kitchen ceiling. Tom was out cold.
He came around, eventually. He was surprised to be alive, but more than anything; he was concerned that he didn’t have enough material for his novel. He reached with his right arm to feel for his wallet. Actually, his arm didn’t move, it was broken. Instead he began screaming, due to the dull pang of horror that shuddered through the underside of his arm. The pain was too much to bear – but he fought on, and managed to figure out where his left arm was and how to use it. The wallet was gone. The watch was gone.
As the documents were ripped from Braggard’s hands – the sensation of scorching pain screamed through his body and soul. The last thing he expected to feel at this moment was loneliness, but that’s what he felt. Laying there in the middle of the dark alleyway, he felt the same loneliness as when Mandy left for University, and the same loneliness as when his Father disowned him all those years ago. When someone takes your possessions in the dark of night --- you are one thing, alone. But you are comforted by the fact that it’s something you know extremely well.
Richard Leonard stepped out into the foyer and looked at the pretty receptionist. “Have you seen Hooper?” he asked. She pointed to the sofa, where a man, somewhat similar to Tom Hooper, was sitting there in a daze; looking like he’d just escaped a large explosion.
“Everything okay, Tom?” asked Leonard.
“I’ve written the pages.”
“Are you OK?”
“I’ve done the fucking pages,” whispered Tom.
They were in his office. Tom didn’t even remember walking in there. Maybe he’d blanked out for a bit. “I have good news Tom,” said Leonard, “we’re going to publish this baby. We love it.”
“We really do,” said a woman who appeared from nowhere and looked exactly like Catherine Zeta-Jones, “it’s a masterpiece.”
Somehow, from somewhere, Tom managed a smile. He’d made it. This was his moment.
“One thing though,” explained Leonard, “We’re going to go with the original version after-all. Thanks for trying, but the new draft is a little too realistic for our liking.”
Tom sat there in silence. There was a buzzing in his ears and the vague chance that he hadn’t heard what Richard Leonard had just said. Either way – he was now a published author.
Monday, 20 December 2010
The Home Alone Conversation
KID
Did you watch it?
CARL
Yeah.
KID
Are you going to watch the second one?
CARL
Yeah, probably, but it's longer.
KID
And it has the bird woman.
CARL
I hate the bird woman.
Did you watch it?
CARL
Yeah.
KID
Are you going to watch the second one?
CARL
Yeah, probably, but it's longer.
KID
And it has the bird woman.
CARL
I hate the bird woman.
KID
Everyone hates the bird woman. Shall I edit her out?
CARL
What do you mean?
KID
I'll do an edit of the film and cut out
Will it make any sense?
KID
Do you care?
CARL
Cut out the bird woman.
KID
Anything else?
CARL
Can you add stuff in?
KID
I'm not shooting a sequel, I'm just cutting out
the boring bits.
CARL
Could you add in the Fuller Pepsi bit from the first
movie and the scene when he's running away
from the van full of teenagers?
KID
What van full of teenagers?
CARL
When he's wearing leg braces.
KID
That isn't Home Alone.
CARL
I didnt say it was.
KID
You want me to do an edit of Hone Alone 2 with
a scene from Forrest Gump?
CARL
It'd be fun.
KID
This is quite a lot of work and it'll make no sense.
CARL
Then keep the version with the bird lady.
KID
I'll put in Forrest with the leg braces.
KID
Do you care?
CARL
Cut out the bird woman.
KID
Anything else?
CARL
Can you add stuff in?
KID
I'm not shooting a sequel, I'm just cutting out
the boring bits.
CARL
Could you add in the Fuller Pepsi bit from the first
movie and the scene when he's running away
from the van full of teenagers?
KID
What van full of teenagers?
CARL
When he's wearing leg braces.
KID
That isn't Home Alone.
CARL
I didnt say it was.
KID
You want me to do an edit of Hone Alone 2 with
a scene from Forrest Gump?
CARL
It'd be fun.
KID
This is quite a lot of work and it'll make no sense.
CARL
Then keep the version with the bird lady.
KID
I'll put in Forrest with the leg braces.
Previously, On THE WEST WING
Because of Chandler Bing, we're all a bit better at delivering a funny line. Because of Frasier, we're able to say "that's your subconscious feelings" and have people believe we know what we're talking about, and because of Ally Mcbeal we're able to feel a bit more comfortable with the crazy inner-lives we lead. That's what our favorite shows do, they show us the way, they give us permission to be our deepest selves.
THE WEST WING represented an idea. It's about 5.30am wake-up calls. It's about dedicating who you are to something bigger than yourself. It's about loyalty and doing something that matters. It's about working weekends and having dinner at 11pm on a Thursday night in the office because you have to get things done, because if you don't the world isn't going to operate properly come the morning.
We're inspired and in awe of who they are; not because they're the fictionalized leaders of the American government, but because they're us. They're all of us on January 1st when we make resolutions to get up earlier, to update our Resumes, to work so hard on our projects that we're almost going to explode. The West Wing is about people who had one rule: to stand up for the very best. They represent this incredible part of us that we're often too shy or conflicted or embarrassed to be.
The Presidency of George W. Bush scared the hell out of all of us. Hundreds of thousands of people were dying in Iraq, New Orleans was under water --- but in The West Wing's President Bartlet; we had someone who kept us sane. It's not just escapism-- it's reminding ourselves that we're still human, that we still care, that there are still people in the world who offer hope. We were reminded of the hope within each of us, again and again and again.
I recently finished watching the entire show, again; and found myself loving the final two seasons. Many people criticised everything that came after season four, because Aaron Sorkin had jumped ship. At first, I agreed with that; but now, I don't feel the same way. Don't get me wrong, Aaron Sorkin is my favorite television writer, but I still love what came after. The final years of The West Wing had a real weight to them. We had been together for seven years. That's a long time. Some of my friends I've hardly looked at in the eye for years, some of my family I haven't spoke to in months; but for many hours every week I am present in the moment with Josh Lyman, CJ Cregg and co. That's what happens when you love a show; you're there with them. You clock in more hours with them than you do with almost everyone else in your life.
It's not just a DVD you switch on and off. It becomes more. We watch characters mature over seven years (in the show's timeline). It's not just about the people running about on screen, and you sitting there in your pyjamas. It's about the space in between. You can't say that Friends was just a TV show. We all drink coffee differently now. We all find New York cooler than we did. We all do the Ross Geller hand movements. That's what happens. It's a big deal.
The West Wing gave us Josh Lyman - the master strategist and campaigner. He'd do anything for you. It gave us Sam Seaborn; who at first glance was just a pretty-boy with some talent, but on closer inspection he was someone who would give you a verbal ass kicking if you dared betray him, his friends, or his country. Toby Ziegler was that cold, horrible old man that you hate to work for; but pretty soon you realize he's as dedicated and as ethical as they come and there are no barriers that will stand in the way of him doing what he perceives to be right. And then there's Leo McGarry, the one with the experience and the know-how and the mind and the heart to steer the ship exactly where it needs to go. These are all processes that we see and feel within ourselves, but sometimes it's hard to believe in them. But they showed us the way.
I have absolutely no reservations in saying, without doubt, that I believe The West Wing to be the greatest television show of all time. It raised the bar. It invented a new bar.
The final season was tough. We could see it was ending. President Josiah Bartlet, Leo McGarry and CJ Cregg were a lot older than when we began-- but they brought a gravitas; a weight, that you rarely see in television, or in life. We need them. They represent the type of leadership and eldership we all need, within our selves and from those around us. They're who we want to become. And people kept turning up who we hadn't seen in years, Amy Gardner, Sam Seaborn, Ainsley Hayes, Joey Lucas; they're people who we knew from earlier seasons. They felt like friends. We could feel life had changed and people had moved on, yet they still had such unique bonds between them. It makes you think about your own lives and how much things have changed, and leads you to question whether you've held on to those bonds as tightly as they did in the walls of the Bartlet White House.
The West Wing was deadly serious. The West Wing was silly and hilarious. The West Wing was all about the work. The West Wing was all about relationships. The West Wing was all about us.
THE WEST WING represented an idea. It's about 5.30am wake-up calls. It's about dedicating who you are to something bigger than yourself. It's about loyalty and doing something that matters. It's about working weekends and having dinner at 11pm on a Thursday night in the office because you have to get things done, because if you don't the world isn't going to operate properly come the morning.
We're inspired and in awe of who they are; not because they're the fictionalized leaders of the American government, but because they're us. They're all of us on January 1st when we make resolutions to get up earlier, to update our Resumes, to work so hard on our projects that we're almost going to explode. The West Wing is about people who had one rule: to stand up for the very best. They represent this incredible part of us that we're often too shy or conflicted or embarrassed to be.
The Presidency of George W. Bush scared the hell out of all of us. Hundreds of thousands of people were dying in Iraq, New Orleans was under water --- but in The West Wing's President Bartlet; we had someone who kept us sane. It's not just escapism-- it's reminding ourselves that we're still human, that we still care, that there are still people in the world who offer hope. We were reminded of the hope within each of us, again and again and again.
I recently finished watching the entire show, again; and found myself loving the final two seasons. Many people criticised everything that came after season four, because Aaron Sorkin had jumped ship. At first, I agreed with that; but now, I don't feel the same way. Don't get me wrong, Aaron Sorkin is my favorite television writer, but I still love what came after. The final years of The West Wing had a real weight to them. We had been together for seven years. That's a long time. Some of my friends I've hardly looked at in the eye for years, some of my family I haven't spoke to in months; but for many hours every week I am present in the moment with Josh Lyman, CJ Cregg and co. That's what happens when you love a show; you're there with them. You clock in more hours with them than you do with almost everyone else in your life.
The West Wing gave us Josh Lyman - the master strategist and campaigner. He'd do anything for you. It gave us Sam Seaborn; who at first glance was just a pretty-boy with some talent, but on closer inspection he was someone who would give you a verbal ass kicking if you dared betray him, his friends, or his country. Toby Ziegler was that cold, horrible old man that you hate to work for; but pretty soon you realize he's as dedicated and as ethical as they come and there are no barriers that will stand in the way of him doing what he perceives to be right. And then there's Leo McGarry, the one with the experience and the know-how and the mind and the heart to steer the ship exactly where it needs to go. These are all processes that we see and feel within ourselves, but sometimes it's hard to believe in them. But they showed us the way.
I have absolutely no reservations in saying, without doubt, that I believe The West Wing to be the greatest television show of all time. It raised the bar. It invented a new bar.
The final season was tough. We could see it was ending. President Josiah Bartlet, Leo McGarry and CJ Cregg were a lot older than when we began-- but they brought a gravitas; a weight, that you rarely see in television, or in life. We need them. They represent the type of leadership and eldership we all need, within our selves and from those around us. They're who we want to become. And people kept turning up who we hadn't seen in years, Amy Gardner, Sam Seaborn, Ainsley Hayes, Joey Lucas; they're people who we knew from earlier seasons. They felt like friends. We could feel life had changed and people had moved on, yet they still had such unique bonds between them. It makes you think about your own lives and how much things have changed, and leads you to question whether you've held on to those bonds as tightly as they did in the walls of the Bartlet White House.
The West Wing was deadly serious. The West Wing was silly and hilarious. The West Wing was all about the work. The West Wing was all about relationships. The West Wing was all about us.
Still Searching
A Guest Blog By Simon Peters
There are certain moments in your life when you realise you’re empty. You have them. It’s not for me to say what they are. It could be looking on Facebook and seeing that your first girlfriend is married with two children. It could be looking at yourself objectively and realising that any task you have so far set yourself has been left unfulfilled. No matter what it is, it’s a mirage. You think you are empty because you think everyone else is fulfilled. You think you’ve failed because everyone else has succeeded (and they can spell succeeedddded). You think being married is a goal you’ve always had, but one that you haven’t managed. You think you’ve always wanted a child, because other people who have a child seem fulfilled. You have a nagging sense that you’ve failed at something, but you’re not entirely sure what at…
The simple fact is that, whenever you feel down, whenever you feel unfulfilled, whenever you feel EMPTY, you have to realise… It’s because you are still searching. Find what you want to do. What inspires you? What are you good at? What do you like? Ask these questions. Answer them. Act on them. Some people need a job/husband/baby/new console…What do you need?
The answer is… Well, that’s up to you. If you genuinely ask the question, you’ll know how you want to spend your life.
Ps: if you can’t answer these questions, it’s because you’re not really trying. Don’t answer ‘What inspires you?’ with ‘I know people are inspired by this…’. Don’t answer ‘What are you good at?’ with ‘People have said I’m good at this…’. Don’t answer ‘ What do you like?’ with ‘Everyone I know likes this’…
GENUINELY answer the questions for yourself, about yourself, using yourself as a barometer.
The strange thing is, that’s once you know the answers about yourself, they aren’t important.
You end up just wanting to help others ask the questions…
There are certain moments in your life when you realise you’re empty. You have them. It’s not for me to say what they are. It could be looking on Facebook and seeing that your first girlfriend is married with two children. It could be looking at yourself objectively and realising that any task you have so far set yourself has been left unfulfilled. No matter what it is, it’s a mirage. You think you are empty because you think everyone else is fulfilled. You think you’ve failed because everyone else has succeeded (and they can spell succeeedddded). You think being married is a goal you’ve always had, but one that you haven’t managed. You think you’ve always wanted a child, because other people who have a child seem fulfilled. You have a nagging sense that you’ve failed at something, but you’re not entirely sure what at…
The simple fact is that, whenever you feel down, whenever you feel unfulfilled, whenever you feel EMPTY, you have to realise… It’s because you are still searching. Find what you want to do. What inspires you? What are you good at? What do you like? Ask these questions. Answer them. Act on them. Some people need a job/husband/baby/new console…What do you need?
The answer is… Well, that’s up to you. If you genuinely ask the question, you’ll know how you want to spend your life.
Ps: if you can’t answer these questions, it’s because you’re not really trying. Don’t answer ‘What inspires you?’ with ‘I know people are inspired by this…’. Don’t answer ‘What are you good at?’ with ‘People have said I’m good at this…’. Don’t answer ‘ What do you like?’ with ‘Everyone I know likes this’…
GENUINELY answer the questions for yourself, about yourself, using yourself as a barometer.
The strange thing is, that’s once you know the answers about yourself, they aren’t important.
You end up just wanting to help others ask the questions…
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