It’s been a long and slow road, but its now a year since we filmed ‘Melbourne: A Guide to Living’, the sequel to ‘London: A Guide for the Naive‘, and hopefully only part two in a trilogy. The film is finished and will soon be submitted to different festivals.
Creative control is a beautiful thing. It’s been said that a film is written 3 times. Once by the writer, once by the director and finally by the editor. To be in control of each of those stages is fantastic and allows me to carry a project through from conception to completion in exactly the way I want it. It’s always still the case that the product you finish with is different to how you intended it, complete with added flourishes and unexpected shortcomings, but overall you’re left with an appreciation of the whole process and leave with lessons of how you’d do things next time. In a multi-collaborative project artists often complain that creative control was wrestled away from them and what’s left is a disheartening imitation of what they had first set out for.
However, it still has to be said that film is essentially a collaborative medium, and while maintaining such control of the whole process is great if you want things done exactly how you envisage them, it’s just too much work for one person to take on board and denies the possibility of something magical and entirely unimagined taking your film in a new direction.
Learning how to direct and produce films has been a great lesson and given expression to different aspects of my creativity, but one thing I’ve come to realise is that I’m essentially driven by the writing and ideas, and no sooner have I finished filming than my interest turns to getting on with the next script and pursuing the next idea. To get mired down in editing and promotion divides my attention and stunts the development of the craft I’m actually interested in focusing on.
I learnt not too long ago about the idea of the 80/20 or Pareto principle, a theory originally developed in relation to economics but soon taken on in many different fields and expanded into a general, if slightly rough, principle. The idea is that roughly speaking 80% of something’s effects, comes from just 20% of it’s causes. More can be read about it here on Wikipedia but it’s enough to say that for my purposes 80% of the time I spend, or it might be more fitting to say waste, in relation to a project comes from just 20% of the things I do for that project. Or to put it another way, editing and promoting a film takes 80% of my effort and time when it might take someone who actually knows how to do those things a fraction of that.
If you’re able to collaborate with the right people and combine your skills you’re able to increase your productivity exponentially. Just stick to the 80% of tasks you excel at and outsource the rest to someone else.
Besides, as Woody Allen says, if 80% of success is showing up, you just need to find someone else to do that other 20% and the job is done.
Melbourne: A Guide to Living will hopefully be going to a few festivals later in the year. If you’re interested in seeing a preview enter your email address in the bar at the top of the page.
I bought a Kindle. Another purchase that ought to be questioned since its function could in theory be performed by a number of other things already in my possession – not least of all a book. But I’m thinking that while travelling across the world it doesn’t quite seem feasible to cart around a few heavily-laden bookshelves, what with baggage weight allowances being as restrictive as they are nowadays.
It is however a fairly pleasing purchase that thanks to its novelty has encouraged me to read more regularly. You look forward to picking it up. It’s almost the equivalent of turning Shakespeare or Dickens into a computer game.
But it has occurred to me that I no longer read in paragraphs, or pages, or chapters. We have moved, or some might appear to think ‘progressed’, into an age of percentages. We have witnessed the decimalisation of literature. My books are now read in uniform blocks of 10%, irrespective of their actual length or previous demarcation. The previous structuring of the work is ignored.
No longer do I peek forward to see how many pages are left before the next chapter, the point at which I am legitimately allowed to stop. I no longer inspect the front cover each time I pick up to read. There’s no longer the unravelling narrative of it’s illustration which only begins to make sense the further you progress through the story; symbols becoming relevant, characters becoming identifiable, in that epiphanous moment when you realise, “oh, that’s who that is”, or “oh, that’s what the title means”.
Apparently there’s no longer any need to care how many chapters are held within, what they have been titled, and what movements of the narrative they denote. Half the time I can’t even remember the title of the book I’m reading.
As I hit the point of 50% the moment has lost some of it’s previous joy; its sense of achievement. I can no longer hold the book up between my fingers, comparing the portion I have on the left with the portion I have on the right, trying to estimate when I have reached the all important and infinitely more profound point of ‘half-way’.
There is now just the percentage sign at the bottom of the page which changes with irritating irregularity – this page a point, that page nothing – so that almost compulsively at the end of every turn (especially if the book isn’t holding my attention) I peer down to see if it has affected my overall progress. If the marker doesn’t increase then it’s almost as if that page counted for nothing.
I now have to read to nice round numbers, in the same way one might patiently lie in bed until the clock reads exactly 08:10 and not a second less. Putting the book down at 17% would seem unholy. Putting the book down at 20% seems logical and just. If I finish the current chapter prematurely it becomes still necessary to read a further 5 pages in order to round the experience off. Or for that matter disrupt the building tension of a piece by abruptly cutting it off at 30% just a few pages before its dramatic denouement – for that is surely the correct thing to do. I mean who reads to 31%? Come on!
It makes me wonder what other areas of life will soon fall victim to this principle, this new world order, imposed upon us by some dominant and hegemonic global power. Will the concept of time itself be ‘upgraded’ by Apple, new and improved and re-branded as ITime? They’ll deftly carve up the day into logical blocks of 10, abolishing seconds, minutes and hours in favour of the much more logical Chrono (named after an ancient Greek god as is the practise to lend gravitas and a sense of bridging old and new). It would weigh in at a hearty 2.4 hours or 144 minutes of old time, a far more logical and useful unit, allowing us to lie in bed until the alarm reads 30%, and not a percentile more or less.
This would no doubt be followed by a decline in civil liberties, free speech and the degeneration of society as we know it. That, my friends, is the way the future is heading. I have foreseen it…
Sorry. I’ve just read 1984. On my new kindle. It’s black by the way and has a nice blue cover.
Previously: My fight to the death – About to Snap
Or way back: This Train Will Be Temporarily Held At This Station
Got any thoughts?…
I think I’m going out of my mind. The heat is not dropping – inside or out – and warm air sits heavily on everything in the room. The bed sticks to me, I stick to the bed, and every time I turn over there’s a distinct feeling like I’ve been there before. The double doors of the bedroom are open wide, but not even the faintest hint of breeze whispers in. It’s 2am. Is that all? Did I fall asleep only an hour ago?
The low din of traffic in the distant outside; the frustrated rhythm of my own breathing; the persistent questioning thought of ‘why am I unable to sleep’ that inevitably keeps me awake. And then amidst it all the sudden, horrible, high-pitched sound of a mosquito, invisible in the darkness, circling around my ear.
A couple of nights of this has significantly compromised my mental state. Like tinnitus, the sound seems to reside in my psyche. It’s playing with my head. Paranoid, I’m perpetually convinced there’s a mosquito within inches of me –close enough that I think I can hear it – and I can’t sleep.
It’s reached the point that I actually don’t mind the thought of waking up with dead mosquitos squashed to various parts of my head, so have taken to slapping myself in the dark in a vain attempt at retaliation. So far they have evaded my manoeuvres. Just as soon as I’ve taken a swipe, another one goes whining past my ear – and my god I can’t sleep.
My girlfriend suddenly wakes up at 3am, startled by the blinding light that just filled the room from the bulb on the ceiling, and desperately trying to peer through half-closed eyes finds me stalking around the perimeter of the room with a magazine in my hand, telling her to ‘sshhh’ as if the slightest noise might frighten them away and alert them to my intent. Babbling something about the importance of training your eyes to move slowly when scanning the room if you’re to have any hope of spotting their erratic path through the air, and shaking items of clothing like some sort of rustler trying to scare them out of hiding.
I killed 5 that night. A night I am unlikely to forget. The way they looked back at me just in time to see a magazine descend upon them, and in that moment knew their folly. I left each one squashed against the wall – as a sign – a warning against others. I’m thinking of having a few of them stuffed.
The next day, with 5 scalps hanging from my belt, we headed into town, where I came across Arthur Daley’s tat emporium on Swanston Street, and followed the stairs that led down below street level into some sort of illicit den of cheap deals. And it was there that I found quite an amazing device. A device shaped in the likeness of a tennis racket, and with a button on the side which when pressed emitted its very own retaliatory high-pitched sound as a current of electricity shot through it’s interwoven lattice, zapping any bug, fly, spider, beetle or mosquito that happened to get in its path.
It was only $4. A price that invites you to buy several – spares – two at the very least so that you have a pair and can play with a friend.
On the back of the packet is a score sheet which suggests a point structure according to your ability – but spiders, flies, bugs – they’re all free to go about as they will. I have no beef with them. The only things that concern me are mosquitos – since it was they who chose this vendetta.
But one thing at the bottom of the score sheet caught my attention – a cockroach – worth, incidentally, just 5 points. So what they were saying was that this electric racket could kill a cockroach – quite a claim considering they’re supposed to be able to survive nuclear war. They say a cockroach will crawl out of the remains left by an atom bomb and go about like nothing had happened. So the thought strikes me that maybe these rackets ought to be monitored by the UN, since if they really are capable of that, then it makes events like the bombing of Nagasaki seem a little over the top – if perhaps the thought hadn’t occurred to you already.
In any case it saved me having to take such measures myself. I can now relax at night. Relax in a chair in the corner of the room, with the lights off, and wait for any sign of movement.
Have you ever noticed how self-important this city’s inhabitants are. Their worldview is so London-centric that for many people London = England. There is nothing else to it.
When the man on the telly talks about the House of Commons, he’s only talking about that building just across the river. When he talks about A-list celebrities gracing our shores from half-way across the world, it’s just there – in Leicester Square – not an obscure and abstract location somewhere else in the country. When he talks about protests and riots you can hear them from your office window – not on the radio. There’s such an air of self-importance that if someone were to point out that last year’s riots actually occurred right across the country, you probably wouldn’t be surprised to hear a city-type remark “yeah, well we started it”.
With all that going on on their doorstep it’s not surprising that they feel like the rest of the country follows their lead.
But sometimes, alright a lot of the time, some of this city’s inhabitants need a serious whack around the face. Stop feeling so self-important, and unique, and trendy – you pretentious gaggle of arse-trumpets.
When I read this in, wait a minute, what shitty glossy free magazine was it – well I can’t find it now, and anyway I’m digressing – when I saw this, it made me so bloody annoyed I… well I… went on about it to everyone around me for the rest of the day.
A slashie?!! What a load of crap.
There are people all over the country working two, three or even more jobs, just to bring in some extra money. There are single mums, husbands, brothers, and teenagers all across the country, walking through shit weather to get from one job to another; cleaning offices, toilets, working in shops, picking up rubbish – all to raise that extra bit of money because they don’t earn enough from the first.
It’s not a new and interesting social trend which highlights something about our changing social habits. A perspicacious epiphany giving insight into modern patterns of work and behaviour. It’s self-aggrandising pat-on-the-back crap, that’s peddled by this magazine and others like it to construct an image of themselves and their readers as young, and trendy, and thrusting – dynamic and daring – living modern lives filled with high-octane nights out, crazy sleeping patterns, paninis, flat whites and wasabi peas. It’s the epitome of the modern boast of being “busy”.
Sheila in Barnsley – you know Sheila – the one who works at Gregg’s in the day but moonlights as a cleaner/barmaid/factory worker in the evening – she’s not dynamic. She’s not trendy. She’s a bloody single mum with a penchant for pasties. Offer Sheila a panini and some wasabi peas and she’ll tell you to go fuck yourself.
The realisation that some people have two jobs is not an astounding new find published by esteemed sociologists – but a vacuous and meaningless load of pap that’s made the front page because this keen editor is proud at having coined a new term.
Piss off London. Piss off ES magazine.
There’s idiots everywhere I look. We’re surrounded! The morons are taking over. It’s their society now.
Loudmouth swaggering arsewipes pouring out of pubs with heads denser than the earth’s core.
A host of simpletons, hooked on consumerism and superficial culture, detached from reality, following the latest trends in their constant quest for what is ‘cool’. Unable to restrain themselves, or defer sensory gratification for even one second.
Have you seen one? They don’t always look the same. You may have seen someone wearing a little yellow bowler hat trotting down the street with an affected limp. Or someone wearing shades on the underground with a hands-free in both ears. Don’t be fooled, you were right the first time. This person is an arsehole.
You may have seen them as you were driving in your car. They were the ones that started to cross really slowly in front of you, staring through the reflective glass to catch your eye, full of hubris, as if to say “yeah, I dare you to try and run me over”.
They may be dressed tightly in superdry gear playing with their straightened hair while they queue up for entry into vintage clothes shops that have a policy of one in one out. As if it’s an exclusive bar. It’s almost more important to be seen queuing than to actually shop there.
They drink in places called Dolce or Impresario.
They invent language to suit the moment. You may catch one of them exclaiming “Check out this new tune. It’s well functional!”. But it’s not. And things are ‘sikk’, because it’s cooler to spell it like that.
They will most likely address you as ‘Ace’ or ‘Boss’, or maybe ‘Geezer’. Or if you’re of the female persuasion perhaps ‘Girly’ or ‘Blondy’.
Life is a series of ‘good times’, ‘bad times’, ‘mediocre times’.
They think that Bond is ‘Ragga’ and that Transformers is ‘Bad!’ – but I’m sure we can all surely agree that “Bumblebee is a G”.
They ‘lol’ and make statements like ‘win’ or ‘epic fail’.
Their actions and behaviour are carefully tailored to impress the wider group.
Where’s the individuality people? That stupid little hat doesn’t make you unique. That clothing label called Chump isn’t supposed to be ironic. It’s you!
If you see one of these people, stay clear. It will only diminish your estimation of society and leave you forlornly searching for validation in the crowd.