So, I knew the Globe wasn't really the Globe, but I thought it was at least on the original site. It turns out that the real Globe was down the road somewhere but they decided to build the replica by the water because, as our tour guide explained, "we quite like being by the Thames actually".
That was the tour guide's biggest insight of the thirty minutes we were graced with her presence.
See, it wasn't actually a tour at all. Rehearsals were going on inside, so the chirpy guide told us we were not allowed to talk or take pictures when inside the theatre.
So most of it happened outside of the replica Globe. We all gathered in front of a coffee stand while she explained a little --- and by a little I mean, very little, about the theatre and its history.
Then we went into the Globe and watched rehearsals for five minutes, after which we were shuffled out; silenced and pictureless.
She explained a few more things, like where to find the gift shop.
Then, sensing we were all disgruntled, she allowed us to trundle back inside to sit and watch for five more minutes. The actors were gone, but a drummer was testing his kit as a another guy drilled something into the side of the stage.
Then we were bundled out into the cold. Tour over.
When you pay for a tour, you have a level of expectation, like maybe you'll get shown around. Everything she told us about the site happened outside, afterwards. Sure, it's interesting to hear about the origins of the pillars and the thatched roof-- but not when you're cornered off by the gift shop without even a photograph to refer to.
Maybe the tour is always this bad. Or maybe their freedom of movement is severely limited during rehearsals but they still want to make a buck.
I can deal with the fact that there is no evidence of Shakespeare's writing or authorship. I can handle the fact that this incarnation of the Globe is a fake, in a random spot, based on a mere guess as to what the Globe was like. I would be able to deal with all of that stuff, if they would at least give us a decent tour. If we could at least ask questions inside the theatre.
Apparently, back in the Shakespeare's heyday, entrance to see a play cost one penny. In this day and age, of course, you can't expect to see a performance for that price. But for the Globe tour? It's probably about right.
I used to be known for being prolific. When that happens, you want to keep up appearances, you want to keep showing how great you are at churning out content. Not that quantity equals quality, but I'm happy with most of what I've written on this site. I haven't lost interest, I've changed changed my approach to it.
I used to want to be the best blogger out there. I wanted to get the best interviews, write the best content, and be some kind of authority on creativity and the world of independent film. There's nothing wrong with goals like that, except that they become extremely pressurising.
For all my adult life, people have asked me, "has watching films been ruined for you because you also work in film?" The answer was always no. Until more recently, when it became true. I wasn't loving movies. In fact, often I actively didn't want to sit through them.
We love films because we get to escape. We get to be entertained. We get to make new best friends and enemies for two hours. We get to be a part of something. But I wasn't part of it. I guess you could say; I was distracted from it.
Distracted because; I'd always want to write, always want to have something to say. Always want to put my 'kid in the front row' spin on what the film was about, or what was going on in the industry. These thoughts would be rampaging through my brain during every film I watched.
Creativity is fragile. About 2% of artists I know are actively creating. The rest are trapped. It's like a wrestler has them in a headlock and won't let go. I was getting like that. It's not just because of the blog, but it's a good example of it. It was the same in all my creative endeavours. Passion is good. But sometimes it leads to obsessiveness. It leads to habitually trying to write even when there's nothing to say, even when it's time to sleep, even when it's time to turn up somewhere for a friend or do something with a loved one. Your brain is elsewhere, on your work, on your ideas.
But your ideas aren't even there. The ones you force out suck. You get too obsessed with trying to be productive. You end up bashing your head against a wall a million times over.
So I stopped. For a while, I totally stopped watching films. Now, I'm loving them again, and I don't feel the pressure to blog about them, to have something unique or witty or interesting to say.
The greatest thing about watching a movie is watching a movie.
I no longer want to be the best blogger or any such thing. Turns out there are hundreds of great film bloggers on the internet. The pie is not so small that I need to be near the top, I'm just one slice that you get to sample when I'm in the mood to write and you're in the mood to read. That's enough for me, that's why I'm here.
I've watched tons of films recently and I feel no need to write about them, which is refreshing. I'm watching films just to watch films, the way it's meant to be.
I've lost my obsessive need to be productive, to be competitive. Now I'm just loving what I love; which is movies.
It is SO EASY to be dismissive and condescending. It's the easiest thing in the world to be a critic, an angry tweeter, an armchair blogger.
But those people who create art; be it good or bad, you have no idea how hard it is, to put yourself out there.
It's why most people create nothing. The fear of ridicule and rejection is too high.
And guess what, when you create your script or film or whatever it is, you will be criticised, heavily. In obvious ways, "you suck", and in clever condescending ways "aww your little project is really nice, it's so good you are dabbling in film".
Being the critical type, the belittler, the one-who-thinks-they-know-why-it's-bad, it's the easiest thing in the world. I think it's part of human nature, to try keep people down. To jump to the negative first.
I've been that critic myself, despite how much I hate it. I think we all have at some point. We're always battling jealousy, insecurity, I-know-bestness. We've all been that guy because of how easy it is. You watch someone's work and your brain is given a ton of easy answers - but so many of them are negative.
And I get what your excuse is, that people need to be criticised so that they'll learn and improve. I get that.
But criticism comes from all corners, every day. Being the one who says "hey, I really like what you're doing" makes you a rare kind. And that stuff makes people feel good, it makes them believe in themselves.
Artists want to connect. They want to inspire, they want to be loved through their work. It's important to know that; how deeply personal it is. It's life and death for the artist.
I'm not saying you need to feed egos or prop up the talentless.
I'm just saying maybe you could occasionally focus on the good dialogue rather than the bad lighting. Comment on the great bit of acting in the first scene rather than the fuck up in the sixth scene.
Every great writer, director, actor; they have a story of someone who supported them, believed in them, understood the context of their mistakes.
Nobody in the industry has more than a handful of these people, because everyone is too busy being the judgemental friend, the cynical co-worker, the sarcastic blogger.
People are capable of SO MUCH when they're believed in. When they're praised. When they're not pressured to immediately justify their right to be artists.
Go tell someone what they're doing right. I guarantee they need to hear it.
Full Disclosure: A few months back Raindance offered me the chance to sit in on some courses, for free, in the hope that I'd write about them. And now, that's exactly what I'm going to do. I tell you this to be honest, because I'm not into writing puff pieces. Although, if Olivia Munn got in touch and said she wanted me to write a favourable review of one of her movies I probably would. But Elliot Grove, the founder of Raindance, is grey-haired and a lot older than Olivia Munn, so I'm not going to go out of my way to say nice things.
But honestly, I do have a lot of nice things to say about Elliot Grove and the organisation he founded. Where else can you pay thirty quid to spend an evening learning the basics of lighting, or the ins and outs of contracts with an entertainment lawyer. Where else can you go for a weekend and come out the other side determined to make a feature film. And not just determined, but CONVINCED you can do it.
Most Raindance course start in exactly the same way. You awkwardly shuffle into a room full of twenty or so other people. There's the film-geek-guy with his Coppola t-shirt, there's the pretty girl who used to act but now wants to produce, there's the guy in a suit and baseball cap, and there's the quiet but intelligent looking guy in the middle row. And then there's you, finding a harmless place in the corner where you can sip on your still-too-hot Starbucks cup.
And then Elliot, or a Raindance intern, stands up and says something so painstakingly obvious that you feel immediately stupid. "The film industry is about who you know. Turn to the person next to you and say hello."
You fill up with fear. But five minutes later you're chatting to someone with the same dreams as you. The same passions. You're not sitting next to someone who will say "when will you get a real job?" or "but what are you really going to do with your life?" You're sitting next to someone who takes sick days just so they can catch up on DVD watching. You're sitting next to someone who reads the same autobiographies as you. You're sitting next to a potential collaborator, employer, and even best friend.
So to begin with, Raindance scores points simply for being a place where creative people can exist. To feel understood. To meet like-minded people. And I know that's hard for those of you that are writers -- we're all too good at hiding away with our laptops, but you need to get out there and meet the people who are going to turn your projects into a reality.
I don't love every Raindance course. And you probably won't either. It's important to do a bit of research and see who will be delivering the course you're doing. Many years ago, I did a foundation course on directing for film, it was a five week thing. After two weeks, I wasn't happy, I didn't think the teacher was delivering what was promised. But to be fair to Raindance, they said no problem, and let me choose another course.
Which was the first time I took Elliot Grove's Lo-To-No Budget Filmmaking course. It is similar now to how it was then, and it's still my favourite of all the things on offer at Raindance. Grove is a masterful storyteller; weaving in tales of his personal history with anecdotes from his adventures in the screen trade. Sometimes you think they're not true, sometimes you think he's boasting -- but the end result is; you come out inspired. He demystifies the industry. He explains what a producer does. He breaks down what a budget is. He tells you why films get sold and why films don't get sold. He tells you why sometimes a big actor works for millions and why sometimes they'll work for £150 a day if it means they can pick their kids up from school.
There are some courses that I'd recommend at Raindance and some that I wouldn't. But that's more a reflection on me than anyone else. I get grumpy when someone says to me, "this is how you write," or "if you want to make a film, you need to do this". I'm more interested in people who can tell a story, who can share who they are, and inspire you to believe it's possible. That's why I'd definitely recommend the 99 minute film school. It costs less than a decent meal, and it only takes up a couple of hours of your life. You'll hear the founder of Raindance share his story, explain the ins and outs of producing a film, and you'll get to meet a heap of people who are just like you. You can find details about the Raindance 99 Minute Film School HERE.
The main thing about Raindance is that it's affordable. Sure, £200 for a weekend course might feel like money you don't have. But if you want to be a professional filmmaker, or even; a more knowledgeable amateur one, it's a small price to pay for all the information you'll be loaded with.
What has always impressed me about Raindance is their accessibility. The Raindance Film Festival is notorious for promoting and supporting independent film. Don't get me wrong, some of the films at their festival last year were shocking. Atrocious. But others I absolutely loved, like 'The Lottery of Birth' and 'Heavy Girls'. The toughest thing about building a career in the film industry is that it's easy to feel like you're on the outside. That there's a huge party and you can't get a ticket. Raindance breaks that theory down - it demystifies the process and it gives you access to industry insiders who have been there and done it. And if you're still unsure about their courses; go to one of the free networking nights.
The point, if you haven't noticed already, is that I'm a big fan of Raindance. They've done so much to support so many independent films over the past 20 years, it's the least I can do to write a kind blog about them. In fact; many of my most popular posts in recent years have been because Raindance have shared them on Twitter.
You can read up about Raindance and their courses by visiting their website, right here.
I want to quote huge chunks of this documentary at you. I want to explain all the reasons why you have to see it. But to fully explain, I'd need to watch it five more times after I can find it on DVD.
If it happens to be screening at a cinema near you, go see it. This documentary knocked my socks off.
Jiro Ono owns a 10-seat-only sushi restaurant, hidden away in an underground station in Tokyo, Japan. It has the much coveted three stars from Michelin. To put it simply, Jiro's sushi is the best there is. They take bookings a month in advance due to the demand. And Jiro is still innovating, even at 85 years old.
There's nothing fancy about his Sushi, but he's an expert. They get their rice from an expert rice dealer. This is a dealer who won't sell rice to someone if he doesn't think they'll cook it right.
Just like when Jiro buys tuna or salmon or an octopus, he only buys the best. He's got trusted contacts who will only sell him the best stuff.
He has apprentices at the restaurant. He trains them up---- for ten years. It's just like in the movies, they learn from their master. It starts with mundane stuff and eventually, years later, they're allowed near the rice. Then if they work hard, they can touch the eggs.
In our society, we're slaves to money. Not only do we need it to survive and thrive, but we want more than everyone else.
But Jiro just cares about making the best sushi. And if they lose profits because they keep chucking out tuna that doesn't make the grade, well that's just the way it goes.
No customer ever has a disappointing meal at his restaurant. The food is prepared individually for each visitor.
And if Jiro is away from work (which is almost never), his fifty year old son is there, and he's learned everything his father has to offer.
Jiro speaks eloquently at the beginning of the movie about how, once you've chosen a path of work, you have to dedicate everything to it. You have to constantly learn and improve your craft.
And of course I related it to filmmaking. I couldn't get over his simplicity. The sushi isn't a mystery, it's just done expertly. The most talented and experienced sushi maker, with the greatest kitchen staff, and the best rice and fish available.
And an endless dedication to getting it right.
Complacency is not an option where Jiro is concerned.
How often is the food we eat truly a labour of love? Even in the expensive restaurants, it's often just appearances, a nicer plate and a pretty looking salad.
Jiro has dedicated his life to his restaurant. To giving his ten customers an unforgettable experience.
Jiro shows us how to live, how to be a success, how to mean something.
