Were you expecting something else?: 2009

Monday, 28 September 2009

All Done. Bye Bye

Yes, this post bids the end of the Musings from my Black Hole.

...

You don't care, do you? I'm not surprised. I've barely blogged in months. BUT... this is the start of something else, something new...

Let's just say, my blogging exploits are moving on to pastures new. Can't give detailage yet as they're still being worked out but expect The Black to be blogging again soon at a new home, a redirect of which will be posted here.

Until then... adieu. Adieu. To you and you and you and you.

See you on the other side.

Twitter? Or shall I just fuck off?

Have you ever really hated the premise of something but found yourself unable to not enjoy it, in some twisted variance of cosmic malarkey? Of course you have. It's the only way to explain why Gossip Girl is still on the air.

It also explains the appeal of Twitter.

I'm on it every day now and have you any idea how much that annoys me? Do you? Well, jiggle my testes, you're about to find out. Because I seriously struggle to fathom the point of this new phase of social networking, unless you're keen to find out what train Stephen Fry is about to get on in Lowestoft or what Barack Obama had for breakfast. WMD on the cob? Who gives a flying fuck?

BUT... I can hear you saying. BUT... it's a good way of getting updates on various events/things etc.., an interesting quick way of communicating thoughts and ideas over the medium of blah blah blah blah bollocky jugs! MSN has been doing this for years and the only advantage of Twitter is that you don't get annoying idiots constantly assaulting your desktop every two seconds wanting to 'chat' whenever you log on. Or webcams - which are a recipe for compromising disaster, but that's another story.

I'm a hypocrit though, surely? I hate what Twitter is but I love posting on it. Oh, absolutely. I'm a massive hypocrit. I hate people for doing things I do every day. Which probably invalidates this entire post. Is that the sound of me caring you hear? No.

Turns out it's actually a damn good vehicle for conversatzione with my chums in the VS world and for that, I like it. But I shall forever despise the concept of being limited to saying something in less than 150 words so by the time you're just getting interesting, you're cut--

Saturday, 11 July 2009

WHAT IS THE POINT OF?... Last of the Summer Wine

A new bit of bloggage in which I regularly question the point of... something.

LOADS of things in this spacial orbit with us make absolutely no fucking sense so it's about time someone pointed that out, with words, pointy diagrams and fancy graphics. Well... words, at least.

Item #no 1 on the agenda - Last of the Summer Wine.

If you're British, there's no doubt you'll be familiar with this. It's been on our TV screens since, roughly, 740 BC, and the remarkable part is with largely the same cast. Sure, a few have died or fossilised themselves on screen and are now actually part of the set, but most are still involved and likely will be until the machines take over the Earth - what date does SkyNet go online again? Anyway, what is it? That's what anyone not British will be asking. Well... how best to explain it?

Larry David once described the greatest American sitcom, Seinfeld (pay attention), as a 'show about nothing'. Clearly, he'd never seen Last of the Summer Wine. Basically, the premise concerns a trio of doddery old men wandering around a Yorkshire village trying to recapture their youth, while escaping their harridan female wives/neighbours/tea shop owners/brothel madames. Ok, maybe not the last one. Anyway, the plot is thus: they walk about, they bump into people, they get into some kind of madcap scheme (unusually involving a bike or tin bath) and at the end, the same old man ends up crashing said thing after falling down a hill in it. AND THAT'S IT. Every. Single. Week.

It's actually got to the point now where the cast are literally, I suspect, in the middle of decomposition on screen. Infact, I no longer think they WILL die. I think that they will undergo some kind of skin-shedding process and be reborn young with the bodies of, maybe, German bodybuilders. At which point the show will re-invent itself and become about a group of ex-Chippendales trying to actually make their living in a small northern village. Given I'm literally background watching one on G.O.L.D right now that involves them trying to make contact with aliens at a mini-Stonehenge, I don't think as a twisty-plot device it would actually be all that far fetched.

Plenty of people would make the point that it's aimed squarely at the elderly given it's all ABOUT the elderly. Fair enough. But I'm sorry, when I'm old I really think I'll be wanting to watch something better than this. Granted, I'll probably be blind in both eyes and only be able to hear the vibrations of mice against the skirting board, but even so - I'd still expect a programme on TV that doesn't patronise and insult the intelligence like this twaddle. Not all old people have to be written as cuddly buffoons or harpies - look at Dad's Army. 40 years ago they were writing largely about the elderly in a much sharper, much more accomplished way than this. How a show which basically has repeated the same plotline for 300 episodes has survived beggars absolute belief.

Watch it, obviously, judge for yourself. In case you're not quite sure, it's apparently a comedy.

Where the fuck have YOU been?

It's a good question, in fairness.

Not one directed at you, of course. I'm sure you've spent the last three months frolicking in the sporadic Sun, eating the fruits of nature and bathing in the milk of human kindness. Or avoiding swine flu. That's probably more likely.

No, that question is purely aimed at myself because I've neglected this blog since the end of April. I've sometimes thought about posting... but meh, I've been too knackered. Or I've gone out. Or played Guitar Hero. Or fellated an elephant. Any excuse but to put finger to keyboard and say sum fin.

Is that about to change? Welll... maybe. I can't guarantee there won't be another three month lull but I'll at least try to do one a week. The next question is: do you care? Probably not but just like no-one cares about Big Brother contestants once they leave the house, I shall carry on regardless. Like the film. Only not.

Ta ta.

Sunday, 26 April 2009

Nothing lasting forever

I lost a friend yesterday.

Well, I didn't lose him. He didn't die. We didn't fall out. But he did move, and I'm not just talking about up the road, I'm talking about 70 miles down south. Which in fairness is quite a bloody long way, not exactly somewhere you can just pop in between nipping to the shops for a paper, a bag of Skittles and some poppers.

So yeah, by Monday he'll be gone.

And it's just got me thinking about the passage of time, how life changes, all that philosophical stuff most folks don't ponder day by day because of how quickly life travels by. Adam is one of those mates I thought would always be around, you know? We've been buds now for nearly 6 years and (though I dislike the term), I'd count him as one of my three best male friends. 9/10 we were going out, it's assumed he'd be there. For ages we were 'cinema buddies' and saw copious films. Sometimes I'd just pop over to Wolves in the day to have a pint and play some pool. I can't do that anymore now because he's not there. To me, that feels like a loss because despite the fact we'll always be mates, it's never going to be the same.

This sounds awfully selfish of me, to be fair. I'm actually supporting his decision to go south (sexual pun intended!) because it'll really benefit his future. It's the right choice for him. For those he leaves behind, it just highlights the old adage that nothing lasts forever. I always used to hear that from my mother growing up - how friends change, people move on. I never really believed it until the last few years. Now, I've started seeing people travel or get engaged or uproot and move away and I realise the journey of life is all about adapting, isn't it? About enjoying the moment, the now, because good times and good people aren't going to be there forever.

I'm very happy with my circle of friends right now. Last night - in a big night out seeing Adam off - a good 20 of us were out and they're all great people. So in Adam going, I'm reminded to make the most of them as much as I can because the day is going to come when they move to Wycombe or Manchester or the moons of Saturn and I won't be able to. It's a lesson maybe we should all learn.

Wednesday, 15 April 2009

Is it safe?

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DOCTOR WHO: Planet of the desert that looks suspiciously like Dubai

I used to hate Doctor Who.

No, really. There would be re-runs on UK Gold as a kid of probably episodes from the 70's and by Christ they bored the arse off me. They seemed to be endless and go precisely NOWHERE, plus they looked shit. And not in an ironic, Red Dwarf-y kind of way.

In fairness, I think I'd like them a lot more 15 years on if I tried them again. I do like so-called 'NuWho' - the reimagining by Russell. T. Davies which since 2005 hasn't so much dominated and changed the TV landscape as raped it's entire family in one go and sired lots of mutant, giant-sized children. My clumsy metaphor basically means it's EVERYWHERE now and given it's actually pretty damn good, that's by no means a bad thing.

Unless you get an episode like this Easter's 'Planet of the Dead aka desert that looks suspiciously like Dubai'.

Now, I didn't hate it. NuWho has done worse episodes, definitely. 'Father's Day' for example, or perhaps 'Rise of the Cybermen' - both of which couldn't have stank less if a gigantic fat man with incontinence shat on the Earth for 7006 days none stop. In some ways, it wasn't half bad and was diverting fun - a London bus in the desert, the superb HD visuals, Lee Evans remarkably being funny and not annoying the living crap out of me as usual, David Tennant just being possible one of the most likeable people ever on TV and to top it all, 60 minutes of staring at the so-gorgeous-I-want-to-rip-out-my-eyes, Michelle Ryan.

Who, to be fair, is the main reason this special was mostly a big letdown.

Yes, she's stunning. Yes, I'd happily spend an age dancing for ha'pennies in her shadow just for a glimpse of her regions nether. But sweet O'Quinn... she cannot act to save her life. It's no wonder Bionic Woman tanked (though it was hardly The Wire, in fairness to her). Our Michelle is a talentless, charisma vacuum that should be seen (preferably naked) and not heard. Putting her alongside a charisma machine like Tennant makes it all the more apparent - nor does saddling her with a character in Lady Christina that aims for a young Lara Croft but infact gives us a woman so annoyingly smug I'd like to strap her into a led-lined missile tied to ten thousand anvils and fire her into the Bering Sea. She was my biggest problem with this and my biggest source of torment. My eyes want them to write her a spin-off show. My brain wants, therefore, to burn my eyes in their sockets.

The trailer for the next one in most likely November, 'The Waters of Mars', looks better. Here's hoping. I'm now off to try and erase several years of EastEnders the lovely Ms Ryan starred in from my memory before my brain and eyes declare mutual-assured destruction.

LOST 5x12 - consider the bald guy now in charge

Previously on Looooooooooast...

Last week (given tonight is a BRAND NEW EPISODE!) wasn't all about timey-wimey, DHARMARAMA-stuff but instead shifted le focus onto the present day Island shenaninanigans. And it was about bloody time!

I think we'd all been dying to see what came next for John 'I'm the Daddy now' Locke and Ben 'the man with a plan that never works' Linus for weeks. Enough of all this love-triangle nonsense, I heard you cry. Stop showing us those dull DHARMA hippies, we all shouted. Give us the bald guy and the fella with the bug eyes!

So they did with 'Dead is Dead unless of course your name starts with L and finishes with E'.
It's fair to say it was rollicking stuff from start to finish. Terry O'God aka Quinn and Michael Emerson Lake & Palmer are the grand statesmen of the show and they simply outclass the rest of the cast on every level - even Jeff Fahey, who's awesome in one of those hard to pinpoint ways. He just is. It's fact. The whole thing continues the power struggle between Locke & Ben, one which has now wonderfully flipped on it's axis - Locke is very much the custodian of secrets, of where to go and what to do and Ben HATES it. So would I, if I were him: 'who's this slaphead who's only been here five minutes to tell ME what to do?'. Shame the inexplicably alive Island very much considers the bald guy now in charge, innit?

Yes, because this all concludes with Ben atoning for his sins after falling through a conveniently weak Temple floor. Thinking about it, the writers have a wonderful 'get outta jail' card whenever something credulity-testing happens (and it does every week). They can simply say 'the Island works in mysterious ways...'. Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse should sell Bibles, they'd make gazillions! Anyway, this floor fall gives us a reappearance by Smokey once again - you know, the totally normal cloud of smoke that sounds like a New York taxi cab, lives underground, can't get past sonic fences, scans peoples memories then judges whether or not they should live and if they don't, squishes them violently like a bug. Like I say... totally normal. And seemingly ancient if the Egyptian mural showing Smokes chumming up with Anubis, the GOD OF DEATH, is owt to go by.

Luckily for Ben, Smokey gives him a renewed subscription to the Island and all it's attractions, but with a warning: try and kill the slaphead, I'll kill YOU - or at least, the creepy yet still sexy visage of your dead not-daughter will. How long exactly Ben will obey ze orderz remains to be seen, but I'd bet... err, not very long!

Tonight, the Adventures of DHARMAVILLE continue with the gloriously named 'Some Like it Hoth'. If you don't know the meaning of the title (and it's associating bit of punnery), you are clearly neither a geek or appreciate classic cinema. There may be hope for you yet.

Friday, 10 April 2009

Fashion and adamantium-encrused shit

There are a great many things in this world I hate doing but shopping for clothes has to be number one on my list. It's even edged past eating carrots or watching Heroes.

I was looking through my wardrobe today and realised the two pairs of jeans I regularly use were almost coming apart at the seams I'd had them for so long. They were almost threadbare, stretched beyond proportion. Used within an inch of their creation, like a book you love and read again and again until the binder creases and the pages become stained. Or back in the VCR days, a video you loved and wore out by constantly hitting that damned infernal rewind button. DVD's spoil us.

So... I knew I had to go out and buy a new pair, is the long and short. Not out of choice, rather necessity. Much as I despise 'fashion', I don't however wish to look like a hobo who's just let a stray dog piss all over him. I'm sure you don't either.

I therefore head into town with a creeping sense of dread at the task ahead, much like a man on Death Row walking towards the room for his last meal. I determinedly will go into one shop and one shop only - Burton's menswear. It's near the bus stop. It's reasonably priced. And you don't have to move through a gaudy women's sectioned with a floor stained with countless knickers to reach it. The thought of going to numerous shops to do this sickens me - I'd rather fellate a cucumber dipped in arsenic. I'm in Burton's, I'm looking at numerous jeans. All respectable, all fairly 'trendy', all not too expensive. I'm never 100% on my size/length so I take a few in the changing rooms, try them on. Average. They don't stand out. I sigh. Do I accept anything or do I keep on looking? I don't WANT to keep on looking. I want to go into HMV and dive into a big pile of 4 for 20 movies, but I can't. I did that last week and the police were called, it was a messy old business...

Anyway, I am reattaching my original apparel as I listen to some tedious mother bleating onto her son in another cubicle, asking how he looks. I've almost got my trousers fully up when the curtain flies open and the mother enters! 'Oh, I'm sorry!' she protests. I yank the curtain across with one hand (the other cupping my fly), only hearing her repeating apologies between asking her son where she is. Sure, she apologised. Fair enough. No harm done. But the stupid bint should be able to tell the direction of her son's voice when he's down THE OTHER END OF THE FUCKING CHANGING AREA!! But no, she'll pull open any closed curtain willy-nilly. Who cares if it ain't my son? Fuck it, I'll just go anywhere I please. Why don't I just go through the staff restricted door and leave a crap on the carpet? Ignoring her, I hastily retreat with the several pairs of jeans I don't want and have a swift look around, grabbing a dearer pair that look better and buying them simply to make this ordeal end. £35 they cost. Thirty-five pounds. That's two box-sets of The Shield. And I just spent it on something designed simply to hold my tackle in. Madness.

I left the shop and quelled my torment by looking around Borders at all the lovely books. I saw some I wanted but didn't buy them, I have enough to keep me going. I passed numerous young people who've embraced 'fashion' - you know, the kind of men who spend six hours in places like Urban Outfitters trying to decide what kind of cardigan to buy. Will it be Lacoste? Or maybe Hilfiger? You know what? I don't give an adamantium-encrusted shite what you look like, you preening twat. If I had my way, the government would assign you clothing and that'd be it. We'd all wear boiler suits with a state logo and a barcode with a number designating who we were. George Orwell would be both proud and terrified.

I fully intend to go as long as possible without suffering this ordeal again. Fashion? You can keep it.

Wednesday, 8 April 2009

WATCH THESE FILMS! - The Mist / [REC] / There Will Be Blood

Most movies you watch, however dark or grisly or frightening the subject matter, the audience are left with some kind of hope by the end, something to reassure them the world isn't a Godless equation where nothing happens for a reason.

Not so The Mist. It'll leave you so depressed you might just want to place your head in a boiling deep fat fryer and end it all right there.

It's actually a very good film, in many places. Based on Stephen King's novella and directed by the supremely underrated Frank Darabont (he who, y'know, wrote a ten times better script for Indy 4 which George Lucas knicked EVERYTHING from - but that's another story). It's horror but not your usual stock type - less about the horrific creatures inside strange mist that covers a small American town trapping much of it's community inside the supermarket, more about how these trapped characters survive as they face up to seemingly inevitable death. There's little incidental music, plenty of character beats, but when the action takes off it's thrilling. A nice ensemble cast help too - Thomas Jane is pretty bland as the everyman lead, but Marcia Gay Harden is indomnitable as a religious zealot first denounced crazy for believing this the End of Days, but who's words gradually gather steam.

And the ending. Man, the ending. I won't ruin it but... suffice to say, it's one of the darkest - and bravest - conclusions to a Hollywood film I have ever in my life seen. Just make sure you have something funny, like a midget doing the Time Warp, on standby to cheer you up afterwards.

Onto now much more of a conventional horror with [REC] - possibly the best Spanish import since Fernando Torres.

It's a simple idea wonderfully executed - a film reporter recording a normal night on the job of a fire crew joins them on a routine rescue operation that goes VERY wrong. They become trapped in an old apartment building as the government seal off the inside and people start dying... horribly. There's something evil in the building... something that wants them all... imagine me saying this with gravelly movie guy voice for full effect.

Anyway, the key here is that it's shot, guerilla-style, through a solitary hand-held camera. You're thinking Blair Witch, right? Good, because it's in that vein. No stars, improvisation - there is a fair amount of blood and gore but it's not directly in your face for schlock value. When these guys see people ripping chunks out of each other, they do what we would do. They fucking run and leave the screams behind. It's a blisteringly short piece - 75 minutes - but it does as all good suspense tales do: starts calmly and steadily builds to a truly nerve-jangling climax and a final shot you really won't forget in a hurry. Along the way, I guarantee you will have jumped out of your seat/off your bed/through your protective plastic bubble more than once.

And don't be put off by the subtitles, either. Just because it's Spanish, doesn't mean it ain't good. Don't believe me? Look at this.

Finally in this odyssey of films wot I just wotched (misspelling intentional for the less mentally flexible out there), There Will Be Blood - which I can't help but say with a cackling accent it's so ominous.

Paul Thomas Anderson is one of those filmmakers you don't get anymore. He's Robert Altman by way of Martin Scorsese, yet has his own distinctive original voice and never seems to do the same thing twice. This is nothing like Boogie Nights. Or Magnolia. Or Punch-Drunk Love. Infact, it's nothing like I've really seen before. You might think it a western given the setting. It ain't. You might think it a drama about business given it's about oil prospecting. Not really. So what is it? Basically, it's about madness. About how a man gets rich from finding oil in arid land, makes his fortune, and goes totally and utterly bonkers as time passes.

Daniel Day-Lewis is probably the only man who could play Daniel Plainview, the lead who's on screen for 2 1/2 hours almost solidly. Let's face it, DL is a bit bonkers himself, ain't he? You have to be to undertake 'method' acting. At the same time, such devotion to a piece leads to a staggering performance of ego, power, strength, fear and even comedy (especially in the darkly funny climax - you'll be shouting 'DRAAAAAAAAAINAGE!' for a while afterward, trust me). Equally good is Paul Dano as Eli Sunday, a young preacher who's devotion to his church gets in the way of Plainview's plans, and their conflict charges through the spine of the film - as does Plainview's relationship with his young son HW. All the rest is incidental - Anderson shooting the whole thing with an epic yet eerie feel, backed up by Jonny Greenwood's marvellously offbeat score. It's a slow-burn piece yet moments such as an oil spill are shot with such tension, blockbuster actioners could learn a thing or two.

It's powerful stuff, won't be easy to grasp or digest on first viewing, but it's hard to deny this is a modern masterpiece. Movies like this don't happen often anymore. I'm not sure they ever really did.

Books, Blogs and Big Fat Outlines

I just finished reading Adventures in the Screen Trade by William Goldman - a book I highly recommend for anyone with any interest in screenwriting.

It's an old book now, approaching thirty years - it was finished the month/year of my birth, June '82 - but the content is no less relevant. The names, faces and technology may change but the science of writing a script doesn't and - given the classics he's written - Goldman is arguably one hell of a source of information.

It's broken up into numerous sections. He starts by introducing us to the players in creating a movie - actors, studio bosses, directors etc... - before launching into some fascinating anecodes about working on films everyone has heard of (Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid; A Bridge Too Far; Marathon Man; All the President's Men to name a few) with actors who are now legend (Robert Redford, Paul Newman, Dustin Hoffman, Steve McQueen). Then he tops off, most valuably, by presenting a short prose story he once wrote, thoughts on how to adapt it into a screenplay, the ultimate screenplay he wrote, followed by notes from experienced cinematographers, editors, composers, directors on how they would handle the material. The actual story is rather dull (to me, anyway) but the process is very interesting and, as I say, no less relevant.

Check it out. I'll be seeking out the sequel, Which Lie Did I Tell? very soon.

I've also been reading quite a few online screenwriter blogs lately. It's taken me nearly a week to trawl through British writer James Moran's blog - which he's been writing for going on six years. It's an absolutely fascinating read, given Moran was blogging in the days when he was an aspiring hack trying to get a spec sold. Now he's writing for Doctor Who, Torchwood, Primaeval to name but a few and is an increasingly leading light in British genre TV writing. Not only coming across as a down-to-earth, self-deprecating bloke, Moran also doles out routinely incredibly useful nuggets in terms of writing and how to try and make it in the biz. He gives us hope such an incredible career can achieved - Hell, he almost makes me want to genuinely go for it! One day maybe, who knows...

In terms of my writing, I've been wrapped up last few days in the outline for 'Death Wish', a new pilot I intend to develop.

I've had this idea for ages stored away (along with many others) but I'm finally in a position where I've the time to churn it out. I can't say it's 100% original (there are definite shades of Quantum Leap all over it) but as an idea I think it has legs. The core concept is simple, it's got a small amount of central characters (unusual for me) and bags of longevity. It can be something new every week, which a lot of shows just can't do. And I think I've finally nailed the spine of the pilot story at last - again, one I've had in the cranium for a while but it's started to glue together now I've figured out a mythology behind the idea, loosely.

As anyone who knows my writing process will expect, the outline will be fat as a whale. Hopefully I can get started on knocking this out over Easter weekend.

Sunday, 5 April 2009

99% of you are morons

I really don't know why I do it anymore. Socialise, that is.

Last night, I went out for a friend's 25th birthday celebration. I say 'friend' - more really an acquaintance by way of her sleeping with one of my oldest mates, but a nice girl nonetheless. Her choice of venue was Reflex, the 80's bar - the best of a very bad bunch of clubs that make up Birmingham's Broad Street.

Or, as I now think of it, a place 99% of which is populated by morons.

You know the type. Loud, shaved headed numbskulls who go around in groups of males perving over every woman that passes before now and then breaking out, loudly, into a slurred football chant. Or ridiculously egotistical preening pricks who wear Lacoste cardigans, an ironic scarf and/or 'trendy' flat cap as well as a permanently smug expression considering himself to be the most attractive man IN THE WORLD. And don't even get me started on the 'I'm a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world' vacuous, bitchy, pink-loving, thick-headed women who fill the area. Do I find them attractive? Yes. Do I hate everything they stand for? Yes again.

If it's not these tosspots, it's people who work in these establishments. Yes, I'm looking at you 'toilet attendant'.

Are you English? Do you ever go to a club? If you answered yes to both, then you've seen these toilet attendants. Men (and so I hear women) who's job is to hang around in the Thomas Crapper with a selection of crappy aftershaves on the sink, as well as giving you tissue to wipe your hands with (while strategically placing their mop/bucket right next to a hand dryer two inches away) all in the hope you'll tip them for the trouble. Is there a more degrading job in the world? I'll be impressed if you can find one. I'm also vaguely troubled by the fact EVERY one of these workers are black. That's a statement of fact - I've never seen a white person do this job. I'd like to - because there's a dodgy whiff of colonialism about the fact they only manage to get black people to do this shitty paid, shitty conditioned (literally) job. We might as well just plonk them in a field, tip them to pick cotton and have done with it.

I'm not going to stop going to these places, mind. Within 10 short years, I'll start edging toward the age when it looks wrong to do so. I don't want to end up one of those creepy fiftysomething men who dress half their age and slither round clubs like Dirty Den holding a pint and leering over young girls. I do that now but I'm at the age I can get away with it - so I need to make use of those years before they vanish.

The whole thing is just an ordeal now, though, more than a pleasure. A bit like listening to The Killers. Or watching EastEnders.

Saturday, 4 April 2009

Random Updateage

Oh yeah, while I think about it:

1) I'm working on an outline for a new pilot. It's called 'Death Wish'. And it's got fuck all to do with Charles Bronson.

2) Went on a spree - bought some awesome new IPod earphones that block out so much exterior sound I might as well be bricked up in a Siberian well; two classics - The Terminator and Seven - one modern goodie, Pineapple Express; most excitingly, Season One of The Wire - a show everyone and his crippled grandma has been telling me is THE GREATEST SHOW EVER MADE. I hope it is. Can't wait to find out.

3) Oh, and I didn't go last night in the end. Not properly. Nor did I end up watching The Shield, either. So in other words, I did my usual party piece: wasted hours of fucking time looking at crap on the Net. What a wonderful life I lead.

Are you a Rhino? I bet you're a Cow

You're amazing. Yes, you. Ignore those people who all your life have told you you're average, that you'll achieve nothing. They're wrong. Anything you want to do, you CAN do. You decide. Nothing is impossible. You can do it. You can. You. YOU!!!

If I said that to you, would you believe me? Or would you think I'm ever so slightly in need of medical attention? Probably the latter. However, if the motivational speaker who I today saw tell that to forty 16-year olds did, believe me... it'd be the former.

His name was Dave and he, not me, was amazing.

Despite their (sometimes justified, mostly unfair) rep as a bunch of cocky, ignorant, r'n'b loving, ASBO-carrying little shits, the mid-teenager is a surprisingly sensitive beast. The big 'I am' is a front. They're all scared shitless deep down. So was I at that age. So were you, if you can remember that far back. Adults desensitised by the crap fed to them by the media quite often forget this fact. These kids need someone to tell them they can achieve because, unless parents are behind them, they don't hear it enough.

Dave's mission, anyway, was to do this. And he did it brilliantly. He introduced them to 'positive psychology' - which sounds bogus but is infact genius and beautifully simple. There are two types of people in the world: cows and rhinos. Cows are the followers, the ones who hold back, who are told they're average and accept it, who don't rock the boat, who don't take chances. Rhinos are the opposite - they're the leaders. They put themselves out there, believe they can achieve their goals, who aren't afraid to go out there and do it. They're the ones who end up rich, successful, powerful. They rule the world. They rule all the cows who sit around going 'moo' and doing fuck all with their lives.

Now think about it and be honest. Are you a rhino? Or are you a cow?

For the past 26 (nearly 27) years, I've been a cow. And I hate to admit it. I bet you are too. Most of us are. But Dave's point was we don't have to be - and he was trying to make these kids, on the verge of moulding their futures, see that fact. His technique was marvellous. He was funny, he was confident without ever being cocky, he gave free gifts - and he even squirted people with a water pistol. Yes, even teachers. He was like the motivational speaking version of John Locke from Lost - I swear he at one point said 'don't tell me what I can't do!'. Or at least words to that effect.

Ultimately, he left me as inspired as my bunch of little terrors. Here's to Day One of being a rhino!

Friday, 3 April 2009

The minutae of fraternisation

It's the end of another school term and the inevitability of yet ANOTHER staff night out beckons.

Great! You might think. An excuse to go out, meet up with mates, get drunk, dance, just party the night away! Well... yes, if it was with mates. Infact, however, it's with work colleagues and that means we're dealing with a very different animal.

I'm lucky in that 99% of the people at work I like and get on with. Friendly, polite, funny. I have the greatest boss too, she's just awesome. But do I really genuinely know any of these people? That's the rub. I don't.

Some I do. Those I work closest with I've got to know pretty well. There are some genuinely cool people there who I would - and have - socialise with outside of work-arranged nights out. But most, I can't really get beyond basic chit-chat with. Some are hard work, some I just don't see enough to have those conversations where you do find out more. And the more you get to know someone, the more you decide whether or not you want them in your company outside the work cage.

Tonight, none of those people I honestly do know are out.

I can still talk to the others, sure. But about what? There'll come that awful point in polite conversation where you just run out of things to say. We've all been there. Yes, even you. In this case, we'll have alcohol to divert to and the only chance we'll have of successfully bonding will be as we dance moronically to pap while dosed up on Bacardi Breezer, before formation-vomiting our way toward the kebab house at 3am.

So why the fuck am I going? Why put myself through this? Why don't I just stay in and watch The Shield on DVD which is screaming for my retinas? Why? Why?! WHY?!!!

When someone gives me the answer, I'll let you know.

Thursday, 2 April 2009

LOST 5x11 - closed loop, timey-wimey, Hurley-wurly

If you didn't already know, I'm a big fan of LOST (which you have to capitalise for EFFECT!).

Yep, I know it's bonkers. Yep, I know it's more baffling than the popularity of Russell Brand. Yep, I know it should be totally laughed off. But I defy you to find a more addictive show. Even 24 - with BAUER! - never gets as exciting as LOST at it's best.

Not that the latest episode - 'Whatever Happened, Happened Happened Happened Happened Happened' - was vintage, you understand? It was, however, a lot better than I expected. Because given the focus was on Kate - the biggest prick-tease this side of a German brothel owner - I expected so little I'm surprised I even watched.

No, the real fun here was the discussion of time between Hurley (always fun) and Miles (aka the New Sawyer).

If you've not been paying attention to LOST, recently this happened. That's the Island moving, by the way, through time. Or space. Or... well, maybe both. Anyway, since then we've had lots of flashy washy, timey wimey stuff - Others in the 50's! Nuclear warheads! French people! Statues that may or may not be Egyptian goddesses! Yes... nothing still makes sense. But finally, our bunch of HG Wells' finally landed with the hippy DHARMA folk to make peace, not war and are now busy listening to Geronimo Jackson and presumably braiding each other's long, 70's hair all day.

So it's nice when two 'comic-effect' characters like Miles and Hurley start talking about the 'rules' of how time-travel works. If it happened, IT HAPPENED. They were there before, but they're experiencing it now, after what came after... right, now I have a headache. In other words, they played a part in what HAPPENED but for them it's HAPPENING now, after what HAPPENED to them before, which hasn't technically HAPPENED yet. D'you see? No?

Oh, I give up. Watch it yourselves. Next week is all smokey-wokey, Benny-wenny, Locky-wocky by the sound of it so... get ready for some answers. Or not.

Whatever HAPPENS, HAPPENS.

WATCH THIS FILM! - The Damned United

Can you name one truly great film about football? Think about it. Go on. I bet you can't.

When Saturday Comes! Pfft. The Football Factory! Nope. Mike Bassett: England Manager! Hmmm... close. But that was a comedy. As was, arguably, Escape to Victory - only nobody told the cast. Or the crew. Or the studio.

Anyway, I digress. My point is that The Damned United is certainly the best movie about football I've ever seen. It's in a fallow field, but that doesn't mean it's not a damn (pun intended) good film in it's own right.

Based on the excellent novel by David Peace (which I highly recommend), this is the story of Brian Clough. Well, some of the story of Brian Clough. It measures him in a time of great success against a time of great failure - the past reflecting against the present, and the choices he made to get there. I find myself increasingly less interested in the poncey, logo-filled, Ronaldo-shaped beautiful game of 2009 and far more intrigued by what it used to be, which this film gloriously revels in. Players hard as nails, grungy matches, far less glamour and ten times the passion. And men like Clough, who they simply don't make anymore. Or if they do make them, they seal them in carbonite and sell them to a fat gangster.

Michael Sheen - fast becoming one of the greatest character actors of his generation - excels as the egotistical, driven and obsessive Clough. His mannerisms are superb and there are times, having acted myself, I'm weeping with sheer envy at his skills. Equally good is Timothy Spall as Peter Taylor, Cloughie's loyal second in command. I've never seen Spall less than excellent in anything, so I'm not surprised. Their chemistry is magnetic and binds the piece together. The heart of it is really about their 'bromance' anyway - how much, in very different ways, they both need each other.

If you're not into football, don't bother. While this is much more about obsession and envy than kicking leather round a field, if you don't know or care who Brian Clough was, you won't really be invested in it. As someone who grew up with football, I do. And I found it a fascinating story about, as the ending states, the best England manager we never had.

Sweating confectionary

The last few weeks, there's been a charity raffle gathering steam for Easter at work in which the prize is a MASSIVE chocolate Easter egg. Not quite as stupidly big as the one to your left, but not far off. Certainly big enough to house a baby. Or an Oompa Loompa.

I didn't win it.

I suppose I should be thankful. I have been wheening off the fatty foods lately, wheening onto the exercise in an attempt to shed a few blobs of adipose. But c'mon... who WOULDN'T want to win a chocolate egg the size of this guy? Exactly.

The winner - a teacher - ultimately gave the beast to the same charity who made a good wadge of money out of it. Better that than getting in the hands of some little oik who'll eat him or herself to chronic obsesity and end up waddling around the school like something from a crappy 50's B-movie, literally sweating confectionary.

I don't see the big deal about Easter, anyway. Sure, to the 'JESUS ROCKS!!' squad it's a great couple of days, but to Joseph Public by and large it's just become a license to become greater fat fucks than we are already. I'm only looking forward to two things about Easter - 1) my upcoming three long-weekends off work and 2) the latest Doctor Who special, which has deserts, a London bus, bee-like aliens and Michelle Ryan.

Need I say more?

Wednesday, 1 April 2009

Old schoolfriends, new pains in the arse

With your kind permission, I want to make a plea to anyone I knew from the ages of 4-18 who might be reading this, not that they will be, to STOP FUCKING ADDING ME ON FACEBOOK!!

Thank you. Whew. I feel better now. Like I've just lanced a boil. Or turned over from Patrick Kielty.

If you hadn't guessed, my current pet annoyance - and I have many, you may or may not know, is the culture of old school 'friends' trying to add each other on social networking site/life-sucking parasite Facebook. When I say, each other, I of course mean me. Because every other day, some gimp I never liked ten years ago and sure as shit ain't gonna like today, tries their luck.

Facebook is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it's genuinely a good place to chat, arrange nights out, play poker (a real vice - thank God it's not involving money!) and chill out. I'm very fond of it and would miss it if it wasn't there. On the other, it's full to the brim of stupid people. The older I get, the more I realise how many of them there are. And, sadly, I knew most of them at school. When I first joined Facebook (or Arsebook as my sage mate Adam calls it), roughly two years ago, I added everyone I could find who I knew or did know. As time wore on, I realised:

a) I never really liked them back then anyway

and

b) I couldn't give a flying, stationary or forward-rolling fuck what they were doing now.

So I deleted them. Instituted my 'statue of limitation' policy (which only excludes family), ie if we don't see each other in real life or have a decent Facebook conversation within three months of being friends, I'm out of there. I'm gone. Into the cyber-ether away from your dull life and profile where your photo shows you bare-chested dancing with a glowstick, you profess to only reading the Daily Star 'for da pictures!' and say 'LOL!!!' a million times at ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I must have deleted 150 of these complete dickwads in one fell swoop and I never looked back.

Today an old school 'friend' tried to add me. I rejected him while imagining firing him out of a cannon into the heart of the Sun. Then I went and played poker with a smile on my face.

Moments of transition

In terms of writing, right now I feel I'm in a moment of transition (hence the extremely relevant title to this entry...).

Much as I still have Season Five of The DSR to write, concluding my (first) magnum opus, in many ways I feel as though it's finished already. It's outlined heavily. Not to my complete satisfaction yet. If you know me, you know I practically write a script in the outline before I genuinely write it. I need that attention to detail in advance in order to write well, or at least what I'd consider well. I'll take another pass at the storyboards in time, tightening them up - for my staff and myself to write.

But the ultimate series finale - a story that's been in my head for at least three years at various stages of development - is plotted. I know how The DSR ends with more clarity than ever before, which means the end is closer than ever. This time next year, The DSR will already be two months over. Over four years of work, 100+ episodes. Done. Dusted. The spin-off Schism will follow soon after.

So I'm left with an open diary, bar one or two freelance assignments in the VS world.

What will I do without The DSR? It feels like it's always been there, the next outline, the next script. I have plenty of ideas for what to do next - too many, arguably - but what DO I do? Another long-running series? Can I put the same time and effort into a project so soon after this one? Do I venture into writing movie scripts for a while? Mini-series'? Do I - shock and horror - even have a break from writing and simply review others work for a while? I don't feel my batteries need recharging, I simply feel... uncertain.

I feel like a child preparing to leave home for the first time and not knowing what to expect in the big, bad world.

Tuesday, 31 March 2009

End game

I just storyboarded the very final scene of The DSR.

It's actually gotten me a little emotional.

Monday, 30 March 2009

Unexpected variations on a Bond theme

You know what? I actually like this:

I know I shouldn't. I know it's bad for me. I know the conjoined warblings of Jack White and Aloseya Keys JUST DON'T FIT. But hells teeth, I just like it.

And I refuse to deny it anymore. Even to myself.

QUOTE OF THE DAY - Thornton Reed

"Cool it Sanchez or you'll get a knuckle supper! Look Dagless you're an excellent doctor, but you're also a livewire maverick, who when he's not bucking the system, is biting the hand that feeds, which in your case, is this hand. Now I'm not about to tell the immediate family of the deceased that we're going to have to burn what remains of his body in order to close the portals to another dimension. I just won't do it. This hospital's got a reputation, which I intend to keep. I've yet to see any demons on the ward, and I'm particularly observant. So go back to your lab and make a pill that can cure madness, or I'll kick your arse so hard you'll be able to build a pool in the footprint. Understood?"

-- Thornton Reed aka Dean Learner (Garth Marenghi's Darkplace - 1x01 'Once Upon a Beginning)

MAYBE WATCH THIS FILM! - The Fountain

There are some things in this world I just don't get.

The appeal of Russell Brand is one. Why people seem to like tomatoes is another. I'd also put 'art' on that list, which is a pretty broad claim. I don't get art. Well, to put it more succinctly, I'm perhaps not intelligent enough to get it. I was tempted to say pretentious, but that's unfair. Not everyone who appreciates Matisse or Turner wears a fashionable scarf, drinks pinot grigio and have a regular box at Wimbledon. No, I just don't think I have the smarts up top to actively want to trundle round the Tate rather than visit an arcade and play Time Crisis.

Which is probably one of the reasons why I didn't really 'get' The Fountain.

It's really quite a movie, in fairness. Beautiful doesn't come close to describing it. Darren Aronofsky has always been a talented guy and here he gives us his Solaris - a thoughtful meditation on life and death wrapped around a pretty epic timeframe and serious science-fiction leanings. I say this because one of the three threads that make up the narrative involve a bald Hugh Jackman travelling through space in a bubble with a massive tree. Either Aronofsky is a genius, or he was on some heavy-duty crystal meth when he was writing this. I'm sure most would say the former.

Point is, I found it much more a piece of 'art' than a movie itself, and this is where me and the interest level part company.

I was genuinely engaged by the performances. You can't not like Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weisz is never anything less than radiant (I once met a girl who was the spit of her, but that's a story for another day...). The scenes involving 15th century conquistadors wrapped up in Mayan mythology are also truly thrilling and mystical, to the point I was disappointed when we cut to the worryingly slow present day thread or Jackman and his Future Tree. There's a lot to recommend here - this is genuinely film-making. It's ideas. It's beauty. It's acting. It's something that should stand the test of time.

But it's not for everyone. It's not really for me, by and large. I just don't have the bus fayre. I can't be doing with 'art'. I never have, I doubt I ever will. Therefore, while leaving me deeply respectful of all involved, The Fountain also left me cold. I suggest you check it out and see what it does to you.

A Very Bad Idea

Business and pleasure do not mix.

I wonder who first came up with that expression. Maybe 'Gordon Bennett', the poor chap who spawned years of people shouting his name in shock at an occurrence, probably with lots of exclamation marks. Or the chap who once stood 'by George' and who's surprise at whatever was there triggered equal decades of random squeals of disbelief. Fuck knows. Whoever it was, anyway, they were bloody right.

I've recently suffered at the hand of this fickle beast, the work-based romance.

Suffered, as in the fact you could right now trigger a nuclear holocaust with Russia before leaving a freshly stoked turd on the doorstep of the Kremlin after you've just blown the shit out of St. Petersburg, and relations would be BETTER than they are right now between me and the woman I was involved with at work. Yep, it's that bad. So bad she has erased me from existence. Literally. Eye contact is never made, she talks to everyone but me, blanks me in the corridor when I walk by (even when I volunteer a hello).

She has her reasons. They're perfectly valid and I won't bore you with them here.

I just want to issue a public warning to anyone reading that nine times out of ten becoming more than friends with someone you see more, on average, than your friends or family is A Very Bad Idea. If things go well, I'm sure it's a big ball of joy covered in wonderful ice cream. If things don't, it's a big ball of shit covered in anger, resentment, shattered friendships and... more shit, basically. And because I'm ever so slightly masochistic in my approach to life, I know full well I shall traverse this road some day again with someone as equally suited to me as a cat is to a blender.

Just beware. For on this road lies madness, dysentry and lederhosen.

Or none of the above.

Sunday, 29 March 2009

DON'T WATCH THIS FILM! - The Butterfly Effect

Some people hate almost everything they watch. They could find fault in Citizen Kane - this didn't really do it for me, such and such wasn't very good in that scene, blah de blah de blah. I find those people a crushing bore, the kind of people who go through life with one eye scrunched in permanent disapproval. They probably write blogs critiquing the way their mother makes their Yorkshire pudding on Sundays.

I am not one of those people. I wasn't, anyway... until I watched The Butterfly Effect.

This is one of those movies that make you realise, sometimes, you can't simply go in and enjoy the ride. Sometimes you can't help but go through an entire viewing experience questioning almost everything. What hack wrote the terrible dialogue? Why does the whole film never once become interesting? Who thought it was a good idea to devote the first 25 minutes to child actors in one long flashback? And who in their right mind would cast Ashton Kutcher in anything except a cotton sack they were going to throw into the nearest ocean?

I asked myself all of these questions while watching this. And I still don't have the answers.

This could have been very good, that's what's annoying. A unique look at time travel and the idea of chaos theory - how a minute action could have repercussions that could forever alter the future - but on a small, personal scale revolving around childhood friends, rather than something like Ray Bradbury's A Sound of Thunder - which explores a similar idea. But no. This is a plodding, poorly written, poorly directed, poorly paced, poorly acted, just poorly conceived movie across the board, with little exception. And the least said about the unbelievably ridiculous ending, the better.

It has some interesting ideas and surprisingly dark moments, but all are clusterfucked by the utter talent vacuum that is Ashton Kutcher - who if someone ever decided to remake Waiting for Godot as a tale of two planks of wood in conversation, would be perfectly cast alongside Hayden Christiensen. Sadly, Amy Smart is not much better - pretty, yes, but without better actors to play off, she gives us nothing and horribly overacts in places. Presumably to counter Kutcher, who spends the whole film looking like a bewildered man attempting to crap an anvil.

It's just nowhere near worth your time and energy and will leave you wanting Kutcher's character's ability, so you can go back and saw off your hands to prevent putting this into your DVD player and pressing play.

Someone just informed me too that there are two sequels to this. I would rather, to quote Eddie Hitler in Bottom, "watch an entire episode of Telly Addicts with sellotape over my mouth so that I had to swallow my own vomit", than watch them. And on that note... good night.

My Virtual Reality

It just dawned on me that there may well be people out there reading this blog (ha! who am I kidding?) who actually don't know who the Hell I am and why I do what I do, so it's only fair I give a proper introduction.

*coughs*

Hello. I'm Tony. I live at home, I work in a school, I'm not married, I don't have kids and my passion is writing. I love a lot of things, but it's writing I love the most. Thanks, in no small part, to this place:

Monster Zero Productions is basically a source of online fiction in screenplay format, known to it’s fandom as ‘virtual series’. The idea is a place ran much like a US TV network, creating season-long episodes of shows written by teams of staff under the heel of one showrunner (sometimes two). It’s a great network of writers and readers that’s been going strong for five years now, with no sign of letting up.

Fact is, when I found this place in August 2005, I'd already been writing this kind of stuff for nearly 10 years as a hobby anyway. A solitary endeavour before I'd found the Interwebnet. Coming across the VS world was like a cancer-victim finding a cure and getting sucked-off by the sexy doctor who invented it, in the same day. I've never found a better place on the Net and I doubt I ever will. Not only have I written coming up to 100 scripts through it which have infinitely improved my writing skills, but I've read fantastic work by some hugely talented amateur scribes which truly wouldn't be amiss on our telly boxes - and the brick on top of the chimney? I've made four real-life friends out of it. That alone makes the whole thing a worthwhile waste of time.

So, if you're a writer reading this (be you a newb looking for a place to belong, or a rising star preparing to break into the biz), pop over to MZP - it's a damn good place to develop original work, get honest and fair critique on your abilities, and just to shoot the breeze with people who don't spk lke an idiot LOL!!! or won't take the piss if you want to spend the whole day discussing how awesome Battlestar Galactica is. In other words, it's a snapshot of what our depressingly inane real world should be like.

This promotion ends here. Have a nice day.

Spanish Eric Clapton

I must admit, I was a little surprised earlier when, as ITunes is shuffling through my pretty sizeable musical collection delivering nuggets of tunery into my lugging holes, on came a song from Eric Clapton with a decidedly Spanish twang to it. Observe:

El Clapton - Get Lost

Now despite being a fan of the Clapton - and this song, incidentally - I'm not about to spend a whole post talking about him. No, my point is about when music leaps up, grabs you by the jugular and surprises you.

Fact is, in the last year, my music taste has undergone a true Renaissance the Borgia's would have been proud of. I used to be one of these people who, when asked what music they were into, replied with 'I like a bit of everything - depends on my mood' which translated means they haven't yet found their sound. They haven't yet reached that point of realisation where you go 'YES! THAT'S what makes my ears orgasm' (or something like that). I spent a long time in that wildnerness, accepting the Lighthouse Family were a half-decent part of my musical collection, until roughly 12 months ago.

It's largely thanks to two of my mates - Lee and Paul - who bludgeoned me with literally THOUSANDS of songs from their respective oeuvres, once they knew I already had a penchant for rock - they just didn't know what. I was fed a lot of classic 70's/80's rock, bluesy southern rock, industrial rock, grunge, a touch of metal. And it was probably when I listened to this that my sound hit me - when I fell to my knees and just KNEW. Senses arrested, I was a changed man and I could never go back to the days where I could dance in Oceana without irony or like certain Eminem songs. I transcended.

This probably sounds awfully pretentious but I can't overestimate the impact this discovery had on me. I now can't stomach certain bars/pubs/clubs I once could. I can't hold down a conversation fully with people who openly appreciate Britney Spears (not that I ever liked her music, mind). I now wear rock t-shirts and can't get enough of them. If a day goes by I don't listen to something like this, I begin to suffer symptoms of withdrawal. It's wonderful and I wouldn't change it for the world.

So when I hear Eric Clapton twanging that Spanish guitar, it reminds me again that I know where I belong musically. And forever shall.

READ THIS BOOK! - Dawn of the Dumb by Charlie Brooker

Charlie Brooker is a genius.

The greatest misanthrope of our time (at least in Britain), he writes a column in the Media Guardian called Screen Burn where he basically tears into a multitude of awful British TV shows every week, ripping them to shreds with an inventive razor-sharp wit and a talent for absurd, surreal wordplay that frankly makes me weep with envy.

This book, and it's predecessor the appropriately titled 'Screen Burn', is a collection of the Guardian columns going back to roughly 2005 through to late 2007. Now, you CAN find these columns on the Guardian website (at the above link) and thereby forgoe any need to purchase this or 'Screen Burn' but I urge you not to take that route for two very simple reasons.

1) I got both of them from HMV for £3 a piece - which isn't so much a bargain as an obscene giveaway given we're talking 300 pages of highly amusing commentary.

2) Well, I don't need a second because the first one was so great. Neh.

In getting this book, you'll find diatribes against the vacuousness of Big Brother (and any celebrity who wants to get me out of being a millionare on love island reality bollocks), how annoying David Cameron, the insanity yet addictiveness of 24. It's all there. He leaves very little untouched and much of it is all comedy gold.

I can't quite fellate Brooker on everything mind. His chronic hate for football and the World Cup is one I don't share and disagree with, nor do I feel 24 went quite as crap as he did (though many would agree). However, mostly he's spot on and the older I get, the more of a curmudgeon I get, and I find myself aligning increasingly with Brooker's view - however obviously exaserbated for the purposes of humour.

Buy it, basically. Or if you're a tight bastard, read the column archive. Either will do.

The joy of springing forward

I'm not a fan of winter.

I think it has something to do with the fact I was born slap-bang in June, apparently in the middle of a heatwave so intense the midwife's face was burned to a seared crisp before I forward-rolled out of my mother's womb. I was a summer child and have grown up to a summer man.

Hence - I never fail to get excited when we 'spring forward' end of March because, to me, it's a sign that summer isn't far away - despite the fact there might still be a shrill wind and it'll be pissing down. Not that it doesn't do that IN summer, but you get my general wandering potent guff of a drift.

This year, I was indoors when the clock tunneled forward and we lost an hour. Suddenly, I'm rolling happily along at 1am when BANG!, it's getting on for half 2! This is the one and only downside - I could have done so much in that hour! Wrote something, ate something, watched something, drafted another declaration of peace in the Middle East for Palestine - all kinds of things. But no, alas, it's gone.

On the flipside, we can look forward to increasingly drawn out nights, the meridian being at least half 7 now for darkness. Why this pleases me so much, I don't know. It's just more light. You can still do things in the dark. I suspect if I was a mugger or rapist, I'd infact be right browned off at all this Daylight Savings business.

I'm not, in case you were wondering. Right browned off OR a mugger/rapist, that is.

Saturday, 28 March 2009

Shut up and sit down, you big bald fuck

I'm listening to the soundtrack to Snatch and having far too much fun at this time of the morning, quite frankly.

Though I can't help feeling random non-sequitur posts like this are what Twitter is for. So I'll stop.

Preparing for the Final Time

I said I'd try and use this blog for scriptwriting updates so that said, let's talk a 'lil about what's currently on my plate:

Another milestone reached yesterday with Season Four officially in the can. I just finished editing the last two scripts needing my touch and, barring final polishes before airing week by week, the season is done and dusted. This pleases my muse. It was actually a remarkably easy season to write, the most painless 20 episodes of VS I've ever produced (in no small part to the guys helping me write it - who obstinately refuse to let me down, the brilliant bastards!). Eight more episodes left to air on MZP and it's out there, done, finito.

Though of course, that ain't the end of the story - Season Five is to come yet and I've spent much of the last month knee (or indeed balls) deep in storyboarding. One is written, one is nearly halfway written, one is a quarter written - all but two or three are now plotted in various stages. This includes the three-part series finale which - in a wee little Blog exclusive - will be called 'The Final Time' and bring the curtain down on arguably the biggest writing project I've ever undertaken, maybe ever will undertake given I genuinely can't see myself doing 100+ episodes of anything ever again.

Plotting this finale brings real mixed emotions. On the one hand, it's genuinely thrilling to be outlining a story I've had in my head for 4 years almost, throwing new ideas into the pot that (hopefully) serve to improve it, taking course-corrections based on those ideas (the demise of a significant character has changed from intended - no spoiler given you KNOW I'm gonna be killing people off in a big finish). On the other hand... it's sad. I've lived and breathed Jai, Mia, Kendall el al... since 2005, seen the show grow and change, made friendships with fellow scribes who helped me bring it to life, sweated torturously when a script or outline wasn't working and how to MAKE it work.

I'll miss that. It won't be quite the same again as the first time around.

I'm consoling myself by knowing the real joy is yet to come, actually WRITING Season Five. It's when I type that final moment of 'The Final Time pt 3' (which I can see in my head now) into Final Draft that I suspect a few tears may be shed. I'll have alcohol, food and ideally a cut-price hooker on hand to relieve me of my woe, but that's a few months away yet.

Season Five will, all going to plan, launch the start of October so then you can judge whether it'll have been worth all the effort and anguish then.

How to start a blog in a profound and meaningful way...

...I'll be fucked if I have any idea, so I'll start like this.

I've never fully clicked with this blogging lark, I must admit. I dabbled in the days when I wasted endless hours on MySpace - a place I'd now rather eat a razor wire sandwich than frequent - and got a fair whack out of it's blogging application. I remember little about those entries bar them all being, for some reason, named after Lost episodes. I might try that again someday.

Why am I doing this, then? My rational brain says it's to create a little place where I can talk about my virtual scriptwriting endeavours, updates and some such. My ACTUAL brain tells me it'll likely be a place I'll post utter garbage most of you reading won't be interested in and will probably despise me for. Though chances are if you're reading this, you know and despise me anyway, so what have I got to lose?

Will I even use this regularly? I've no idea. Does anyone care? Doubt it. Will I carry on anyway? You betcha. Catch you in British Summer Time...

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