I wish X Factor was Awesomer

My relationship with The X Factor, is like a market stall trader's favourite tattoo, love and hate. It's a pretty good show but I really want it to be awesomer!

For at least five years, I’ve tuned in, every Saturday night from late August, loyally following the journey of thousands of wannabes desperate to be crowned that year’s soon-to-be-forgotten champ. In fairness, there’s a lot to love about the show as its league of fans will testify. The journeys, the stars that are born (or formed), the characters, the great judges such as Nicole ‘The Schertz’ Schertzinger and even the terrible one-offs like Alexandra “OK.com” Burke, the glamourous wardrobes, the pizazz of big Saturday night TV and of course the small matter of the competition, watching people compete to win the biggest amateur music competition in the country.

A couple of years ago, I started tweeting during the live shows which added another entertaining element, bantering with fellow viewers on the delight and disaster of these nervous contestants and their make-or-break Saturday night singing showdowns.

I realized, however, that my tweeting wasn’t just about making gags and entertaining myself and others, I was also bleeding off frustration that I was experiencing while watching the show.

You see, as much as there is a lot to love, there was also a lot that was starting to piss me off. Now, whenever you air these thoughts, invariably someone will always tell you, just stop watching it. Yes, good idea but it’s not that straight forward, because like I say, there’s a lot I love about it and once you buy into the journeys of the contestants, sometimes you don’t want to bail on them even though you have to sit through eight hours of saccharine Christmas adverts during every live show. I love the idea of X Factor it’s just that sometimes, it falls short of my expectations.

This year, something shifted for me. I was looking forward to this year’s competition. There was a new judging panel (apart from Louis who, at the time seemed to have the permanence of a tectonic plate) and there isn’t a lot of great event TV these days, programmes that it’s more fun to watch at the time of broadcast rather than on catch up or a DVD binge after the fact. (my God, imagine binge-watching X Factor like you watch Breaking Bad. You would most surely go insane).

So I tuned in to the first show. We met the new judges, there were some glossy VTs about what they’re looking for and everything was being teed up to pique our anticipation of this new crop of potential finalists then they wheeled in the first of the contestants… one of those ones that aren’t very good and all four judges start stifling laughter and unsubtly wiping away tears as said contestant pushes on trying to ignore this rotten display going on in front of them.

We’ve seen this time and time again on previous shows, in fact, there are so many left field contestants that the producers have managed to make whole spin-off shows based entirely on that. But it’s one thing to get people who are delusional about their ability or have been lazy in their preparation such as the adorable Bun and Cheese and people who are mentally unstable or worse unwell. This year, in these opening stages, I felt like X Factor crossed a major threshold on that front.

Because, let’s face it, we all know that logistically, not all auditionees can possibly perform in front of the panel. There simply wouldn’t be time. Instead, they’re vetted by a team of producers who decide who they’d like to send up to ‘the big room’, no doubt with show notes about who they are etc (so no need to pretend you recognise anyone from previous years, Judges, no one’s buying that any more OK).

So, given that the producers are sending up untalented singers, they are basically sending these people to the judges to be ridiculed. This process seemed at its most vulgar and transparent this year and for the first time, I really was at a loss as to what to tweet because it seemed apparent to me, if not the judges, that some of these people weren’t deserving of their ridicule but the phone number of a good health care professional.

Let’s face it, we’ve all had a bit of a giggle at the guy who thinks he’s Usher than

Commits homicide on Usher’s greatest hits but as I say, a line was crossed this year as we at home watched a panel of multimillionaires snicker behind their hands at people chasing their dreams not understanding what was really going on. Call it what you like but to me, that’s text book bullying – created for our entertainment.

Obviously not all performances were like that but there were enough for me to reconsider if I wanted to sit through 50,000 adverts occasionally broken up with this type of television.

I just wish X Factor was better… by which I guess I mean, more honourable. It’s a naïve and foolish desire but here’s what I would do with X Factor to make it more awesomer.

Be less greedy

I’m reliably informed there is now a show on Friday night.  We don’t need three shows. What the hell wasn’t being covered in the Saturday and Sunday shows that now requires the attention of a Friday night audience? This has got to be about either advertising revenue or generating more telephone voting. Either way, it smacks of greed and is wholly unnecessary. I don’t mean to be a Quaker about this but I really think the X Factor Loyal could survive on one weekly show.

Credentials

The show needs to up its relevance and that means, getting judges that have actual successful, recording careers or have managed artists who have. Thankfully, Louis is talking about stepping down because he has become an absolute parody of himself. If he does one more weird comparison in the “you remind me of a young so so” vein, I will ram my head through my flat screen. His claim to fame was making a cookie cutter boy band out of Irish yarn 100 years ago but this surely cannot qualifying him to comment on contemporary music, a man who put singing broom handle, Jonny Robinson through to the live shows, a man who, when he says “I like him” about act has effectively given them the kiss of death. It’s not a moment too soon for Louis to hang up his blue rinse kit and retire to the cheap seats.

Simon’s the boss and is the strange, high waist-banded Svengali holding the whole circus together but the other judges must be relevant recording artists or producers. Being married to a musician doesn’t qualify you to judge a music competition. Especially if said musician is better known for eating rodents, taking drugs and being the star of a reality show. Look at the US version of The Voice. Pharell, Levine, Stefani, all relevant current recording artists and producers.

They shouldn't be in a hurry to replace Louis but instead should pay a premium to entice high-end guest judges such as Adele, Kylie, Elton, (Rule of thumb, anyone you know from one name i.e. Prince, McCartney, Jagger.... Chico doesn't count).

Also, no more judges' performances. It’s a 'hopping across the counter' that devalues the show. You don’t want your teacher taking your exams next to you. If you were running the 100 meters, you wouldn’t want the starter crouched down at the starting block with you. Either you judge or you perform, you can’t have both.

Care

Start caring about the contestants rather than treating them like fleshy props. Simply put, no more inviting mentally unwell people to audition simply for the “great TV” possibilities. There’s enough bad or delusional singers out there that you don’t have to pick on the unwell to satisfy your comedy quota for the show.

Sob Story ban

I’m susceptible to the odd sob story, I am but come on! As an audience we are actually capable of caring how someone does without seeing them blub their way through telling us that they’re doing all of this for their dead aunt who’s spirit watches over them whenever they sing in the shower or their dead/deaf/disabled/estranged mother/sister/daughter/son/ pet lama who would be so proud if only they weren't six feet under/ in Iraq/ London Zoo.

The contestants aren’t doing anything wrong, it’s just the show producers continually trying to manipulate our emotions so we give a shit. Well, if you just made it a competition, we would give a shit. We don't need sob stories to get behind Mo Farah. 

If everyone’s crying all the time, all I’m thinking is, she’s a bit snotty now. But perhaps, so that people competing keep their shit together, we may need a crying ban. If you cry more than three times you're out of the competition. Now that would make the elimination show interesting. As contestants discover they’re in the bottom two but they’ve already had two cries, they’d be pinching their arms, biting their top lip to make sure not one single tear drop or snot blob leaves their bodies.

And while we’re on it, I would ban the use of certain phrases. Things like, “This is my last chance”, “I've given 100%” and “Just give me a chance”. In fact any reference to efforts exceeding 100% would lead to automatic disqualification. If you’ve given 110% you’ll be doing it back at the local Tesco Metro you work at, my warbling friend. You’rrrrre out. Further more, this isn't your last chance unless ever single open mic and live music venue in the world has been closed down and you're relying on the "Fairy Dust and Lucky Breaks" business model of success?

And finally, let’s really make this a true competition instead of what it currently is, a TV show about a competition which is very different. How? Well, I’d like to see Simon Cowell offer the winner a straight up five year deal, a two year deal to two runners up, and a one year deal to a wild card.

This means the contestants know they’re competing for longevity not just a chance to release a Christmas track of someone else’s choosing and a dodgy debut album before they’re unceremoniously booted out into the unforgiving world of corporate entertainment and PA’s in regional night clubs.

This saves the dignity of the acts so that, when the time comes, the papers can simply report that the contract ended rather than they we’re dropped or dumped like they did with Leona Lewis and Joe what’s his name, Matt thingy and James Who’s it.

Truth is, at its core, X Factor is a great show in concept, it’s a lot of fun to watch  but I do so long for it to raise its integrity so that I can watch without feeling manipulated, cheated or deceive. Why can’t they trust that contestants competing for a great prize is enough to keep us engaged? I’m sure I’ll tune in as the competition progresses occasionally firing a snide remark into the Twittersphere but it’s all coming from love ;)

Brit.i.am at the Red Dirt International Film Festival

Last weekend, I went to my first film festival. Here's what happened. 

When I got the email saying my short film, Brit.i.am, had been accepted into a film festival, I was delighted but then sad that I wasn’t going to see it on the big screen. The festival was in Oklahoma and it seemed an awful long way to go to watch a five minute film. In fact, my journey there would have been 129 times longer than the actual film (yes, I just stopped to work that out. That’s how committed I am to delivering the facts, dear reader).

Entering film festivals is a lengthy and potentially expensive process which involves hours of admin. Some festivals are free but many charge a submission fee and so essentially you’re taking a punt on your film being good enough or what the festival curators are looking for. Festival entries are really an admin-heavy form of gambling and up until this point our gambling was not paying off as we’d received a heck of  a lot of no’s. 

They were all very polite but after a while you can sense a ‘no’ email from thirty paces. I would read three words and know which way the wind was going to blow.  'Dear filmmaker' and then I would scan the rest of the text for the word 'unfortunately'. I had no idea if Brit.i.am was suitable for festivals, if we’d entered into the right categories or even the right festivals. Many of them I’d never heard of and if it weren’t for guidance from my friend and director of the piece, Adam who'd already had work including in festival line ups, I wouldn’t have had a clue where to start. There are over 6000 film festivals worldwide from Cannes right down to Van D’or, a festival… in a van!

So when we got the nod from the Red Dirt International Film Festival, I was more than happy but for some reason decided it was frivolous to go all that way to watch a five minute film. Then I discovered we were nominated for an award. Well, of course that changed everything! Be it a 25 meters swimming badge or a film gong, who would turn down the chance to pick up an award?

I was more than a little anxious about going there alone. Where the hell was Stillwater, Oklahoma, how would I get there and would I need to watch Oklahoma! the musical as research? 

  

Even though I came to Los Angeles alone I've always been a bit scared of solo travel. It makes me nervous and I’m not even sure why. On previous holidays, boyfriends have always taken care of the details, navigation was never my department. I've only taken a few trips by myself since then (usually to places I already know) and whilst I have gotten better at enjoying the experience, for some reason this trip still made me anxious. 

I kept putting off booking and started wondering if I would ever really go but then I thought, I'm already in the States, it seems nuts not to. So I let my fingers do the talking, went online and booked a flight, hotel and car. Right then, I thought. Oklahoma City here I come... Please don’t be racist. 

Fast forward six weeks and I'm on the smallest plane I've ever seen heading east like a back-tracking pioneer. The plane had two seats either side of the aisle and the rows were so closely packed that anyone over six foot would have to be a yoga master to get in them. I now understand why Americans complain about people reclining their seats. On these planes you practically have the head of the person in front of you in your lap.   

The guy next to me chugged a coffee then promptly fell asleep. Hmm, I thought. I think I've been doing coffee wrong because that is not the effect it has on me. 

I had a restless doze until we landed. I picked up my hire car and before long was on the open highway, the wind in my hair and the air conditioning blasting an icy breeze into my face. Luckily my phone had GPS because, like I say, map reading is not my strong suit. If I'd been on Christopher Columbus’ boat, Guernsey would now be known as the South Indies.

I tapped in Oklahoma State University where the festival was taking place and about an hour later, after long stretches of practically empty freeway, I turned into a narrow road.

The road got narrower as I approached my destination. On either side of me were vast open fields but no buildings save for a few farm shacks. I was a bit worried but trusted my GPS.  If she says OSU is on Coyle Road then that’s where it must be…even if all I'd passed in the last ten minutes were prairies. I was more likely to see Laura Ingles than a sorority girl.

Besides, I was reluctant to ask for directions in case I was told to turn left at the boy with the banjo. Finally GPS chimed, "you have reached your destination!". I pulled over and looked around. Bloody hell. I hope not, I thought. Aside from the odd barn, there was nothing. It looked like I’d been airlifted onto the set of True Detective. Uh oh. I was praying that Mrs GPS had misheard me, thinking I’d asked for Oklahoma State Farming and Occult Murder Academy. I googled OSC and fortunately found a new address, praying this wouldn’t take me into some Deliverance-type situation but the place I actually needed to get to. Before long, I was back on the main roads heading into Stillwater. Not, of course, before I'd passed a pile of snake on the side of the road. Oklahoma clearly has a classier type of roadkill, one that you can make a nice handbag out of.

In hindsight, I’m glad I got that detour because I saw that Oklahoma is very beautiful and much more luscious than Los Angeles, which isn't hard considering its essential a city dropped in the middle of a desert. I also saw where the festival got its name. The earth is a hearty, browny, red colour. It looks so fertile and full of goodness that if you ate food grown here, you’d immediately acquire super powers.

Finally, I arrived. The university was stunning. The college I’d gone to was tiny so to be on the grounds of such a vast intuition was impressive. OSU has several sites and a lot more facilities than the place I went to. They had a huge library, a student union the size of some council offices and their own stadium. The closest my college came to having a stadium was a ping pong table at the SU bar.

 

I immediately got stuck into the festival and went to watch some short films (I also wanted to check out the competition, of course).

After, I headed out to a local restaurant for dinner. It was a largely uneventful meal although I was tickled by the fact that when I asked for the wine list I was told “We’ve run out of our wine”. “No worries”, I said. “I’ll have a beer”. When in Rome.

The following day, in the back of my mind, I knew the awards ceremony was at nine that evening. It was wonderful to be nominated but you can’t help entertaining the idea of winning. Just in case, I did a trial run of my ‘I’m happy for you’ face in case another film won. Broad smile, gritted teeth, big clapping. Perfect.

Brit.i.am screened in the morning and after there was a Q and A. I was very proud to be talking about the film and so pleased people were interested in asking questions. The only downside was, the air-conditioning in the room was set to artic so I was shivering throughout the whole thing. I looked like a proud Chihuahua. 

Eventually the evening came around and everyone filed into the main room. It was well-attended and there was an air of excitement in the room. This was to be the close of this small film festival and it was exciting.

The room was getting packed with only a few empty seats dotted around. An older gentleman politely asked if the seat by me was taken. Not at all, I said. Unbeknownst to him I had been practically willing him to sit there because he was Grey Frederickson, producer of the Godfather and Apocalypse Now. 'No it's empty. Please sit!' I said, in an overly-friendly way. What I should have said was, “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse”.

The experimental film category which Brit.i.am was in was third to be announced.

"And the winner is..." said the host and just as she was about to name the film, a film maker who'd been in the bathroom when his category was announced, walked in.  The room erupted because they knew he'd won an award and he didn't. Rightly so, the host playful did a repeat performance of the category’s announcement and needless to say, the filmmaker was delighted. The room erupting once again with laughter and applause.

And so back to best experimental film and the winner was Brit.i.am. 

I was beyond delighted. 

The organisers of the festival had been so supportive of the film not only in selecting it for their festival but in encouraging people to come and see it.

After picking up the award and posing for photos I sat back down as Grey leaned in. 'Congratulations', he whispered. 'Thank you!' I whispered back. Unreal, I thought. 

I had such a great time and even if we hadn’t picked up our award, it was still very much worth the journey in so many ways. I met great people, I attended my first film festival, I saw a beautiful part of the country and the award was the additional, shiny icing on the cake that made it even more worthwhile.

This post is dedicated to the wonderful contributors and crew that made Brit.i.am possible and to my good friend Adam who directed and edited Brit.i.am and created this little gem of a film. 

Other posts you may enjoy: An interview with Gary Goldstein - I speak with the producer of Pretty Woman, Fight For Your Writes - a post on writing and Loving Lupita - posted following Lupita N'yongo's oscar win.

Britiam facebook page 

What Do People Mean When They Say They're Spiritual?

I’m calling time on spirituality bullshit and here’s why.

I went to the Mind, Body and Spirit Festival in London a few years ago. If you haven’t been, it’s like The Ideal Home Exhibition but with more pashminas. So instead of wine tasting and magi-blending-slicer-dicers, you get healing and massage tables and there’s enough crystals to give the average geologist a semi.

I used to go because, I guess, I was searching for something. I didn’t know what but for a few years the quest led me to this aircraft hangar-sized exhibition centre in West London filled with kaftan-wearing hippies.

People at events like this have a way of being that can weird you out if you’re not used to it. Everyone smiles – broadly. “Hellllloooooooooow” they melodiously say as you tentatively pick up a crystal from their display cabinet. “What’s a good crystal to get?” You might ask and they’d reply with something utterly unhelpful like, “oh, no. You have to let the crystal choose you” Really? It’s a good job I don’t do my food shopping like that or my cupboards would be chocker with sweet chilli kettle chips and Grey Goose vodka. “They chose me!”, I’d plead innocently the next time my mum inspected the contents of my cupboards.

 In fairness, they aren’t all like this. There are some normal people and I did get a lot of benefits from the things I bought, experienced and learned there. Surprisingly, I had a pretty good massage once. You’d think with the hubbub of people “finding themselves” and inquiring about inversion therapy, it’d be nigh on impossible to relax but, all credit to the therapist, I was, as it were, away with the fairies. I should add, for the record, it was a clothed massage. I mean, I’m a pretty liberal person but even I would draw the line at stripping off in the middle of an exhibition centre.

I’ve sampled healing, meditation and even tried aura photography. The resulting picture of you surrounded by a yellowy, greenish, reddish haze basically looks like a really rubbish Instagram photo. Having said that, the photographer who interpreted the image was pretty accurate in her description of me so perhaps I was a little hasty to judge?

I even tried to get a drawing of my “spirit guide”. I saw a guy in a leather waistcoat (that should have rung alarm bells) offering to identify and draw your guide. I walked past his stand a number of times but it seemed like the pretty blond he was helping was taking up a lot of his attention...

I was reflecting on that sometime after and how people conduct themselves at these events, in their long, flowing, white gowns, ethnic trinkets and jewellery, like there’s some social agreement that they must behave like they’ve teleported in from some other dimension even though were spitting distance of Victoria bus station.

They introduce themselves with some recently acquired foreign-sounding name like Shivasana-tantric-masala and you look at them thinking, come off it, your name’s Keith and you probably worked at some anonymous head office in Slough until you took a trip to Goa and accidentally found yourself.

I met someone the other day who came out with a phrase that made me have to suppress a little chuckle. “You see, I’m quite a spiritual person”, he said confidently. Ueerghhh. When someone says that, it removes all credibility from whatever follows. In fact, instead of declaring they’re spirituality, they should just say, “I’m full of shit but here’s what I want people to think about me”.

If you really are a spiritual person, you should feel no need to issue a statement to that end. It just is.

You don’t hear the Dalai Lama in one of his speaking engagements answer the audience’s questions with “Well, like, first of all, let me say, like, I’m a super spiritual person” in some Valley girl vocal fry drone. He just is spiritual, conducting himself with humility and importantly, a sense of humour.

It’s very easy for spirituality to become nothing more than a deep space exploration of your own rectum. In truth, it’s easily done. Any spiritual awakening can so quickly become hijacked by the ego and turned into something to polish the persona rather than be about being present.

That’s where all the stupid clothes, incense and trinkets come in. It’s not to say that the use of these things themselves is borne of the ego, but it’s very easy for something that once was authentic to become simply a way of attempted to present an idea of yourself to the world. Rather than being about the interior discovery that you are witness to, it all becomes a presentation.

Human beings are a work-in-progress, we are not a noun but a process. However the ego fights hard for us to become a fixed thing, a known which is why we spend so much time validating our idea of ourselves in the things we do and say, “Oh you know me, I’m always late” or “I’m Labour. My dad was labour and his dad before him” or “There’s something wrong with me”.  Whatever the story, it’s all about fixing (as it setting) our idea of ourselves and creating a noun. And this can happen in people’s spiritual exploration too when they start to believe it’s a destination to arrive at rather than a journey to be made, remaining ever the student. Setting something in stone is a kind of death for the very thing that true spirituality is offering.

When people let go of the idea of what spiritualty should look like, that’s when they really will have access to it.

For example what’s with all the inane grinning or feeling like you have to be kind to everyone? Yes, unconditional love for humanity will be the ultimate by-product of true spirituality but if you fake it, then you’re just lying! A more awakened thing to do is get present to where you’re really at and just be who you are, be authentic, be real and not get caught up in the self-concern of how you occur to other people.

Sometimes people have this idea that being spiritual means being nice all the time, being quiet, slowing down, not getting irritated or reactive and they try to manufacture this (and certainly I’ve been guilty of that, particularly after say, I’ve been on a retreat or something) but this is letting the ego dictate how we should be rather that just being (it’s one of man’s greatest insanities!).

There really is no blue print for what it should look like, because it is whatever is so at any given moment. The only goal is being present and being present doesn’t necessarily mean blissing out.

If we can be present to whatever is occurring then we’ve won because that was all the game ever was. Rather than searching for some ecstatic state, just being OK with what’s so and not expecting it to be any other way, is it. That’s it, that’s all it is.

Sometimes it’s chaotic, sometimes it’s irritating, sometimes it’s peaceful, sometimes it feels like sadness, but being OK with it all and not feeling the need to chase something, to relieve ourselves of this experience, or, if it’s a good one, trying desperately to hold on to it long after it’s expired, is it. 

You’ve done it, you’re “spiritual” but you won’t feel the need to declare it because you’ll be busy simply being. You are it, there’s no look to attain, no name that needs to be adopted to convince people that you are the real deal. The best way to demonstrate spirituality is to be a living example of it and let others be the ones to label it, if they’re so inclined. Thankfully, you’ll be so Zen that you’ll realise it’s irrelevant.

And being spiritual isn’t necessarily about having a recognised practice, be it one of faith or of philosophy like yoga or Buddhism. I don’t need to point out that it doesn’t automatically follow that being in faith will make you spiritual. Humanity has been kind enough to give us several examples of this over the last two thousand years. Of the people I know, the most spiritual ones are not always the most religious or even religious at all. They’re simply able to see the world in a broader context than just “me, myself and mine” and what they want or can get. They’ve loosed the grip the ego has over their consciousness, they’re in the process of taking responsibility for their lives, they challenge themselves, they try to break free of the known or their comfort zones, they know themselves, they laugh at themselves and don’t take it, whatever ‘it’ is, too seriously, they get that they are a work-in-progress, they will never declare themselves complete but remain the constant student, remembering always, to continue beginning again. And deep down they know, there is no, done – OK I’m spiritual now. Ask me any question, I’ve got God on the other line.

And the ironic thing is that it’s available to us in an instant simply by being willing to live in the present and go beyond the story we perpetuate about ourselves. That’s all it is really, being present. Redeploying the energy that you burn up in keeping the story going and letting yourself be freely and readily here today and being with whatever that looks like, whatever that brings, however that feels.

If you’re really a spiritual person, all you’re saying is, “I’m here”.

Don't Be Late For The Movies

If you turn up more than six minutes late to the movies, I say, don’t bother going in. Here’s why

Aside from the painful social encounter of forcing everyone on your row to do the awkward knee shuffle so you can stumble in the dark to your seat with the obligatory, “sorry, sorry” which is invariably met with a passive aggressive “it’s fine” from the people already seated, there’s an even bigger price to pay, for turning up late.

In most (good) mainstream movies the opening sequence is top-loaded with a wealth of information that sets up the film in terms of themes, style, stars, content and story. Far from easing you into the movie, these first few minutes are the most important part of the film and missing them means you’re missing out on an vital part of the experiencing leaving you half a beat behind everyone else (that, you know, turned up on time). Some movies even go as far as to overture the whole story in those first five or six minutes.

Missing the beginning of a film is as significant as missing the end. Imagine walking out of The Usual Suspects just before Verbal finishes giving his evidence. You’d leave thinking, “that was a weird film”.

The beginning lays out the film's stall, let’s you know what’s in store, whetting the appetite for the two hours ahead. Not seeing the start of a film is like a waiter taking your order without first offering you a menu.

To show you what I mean, here’s a breakdown of the first six minutes of three of my favourite films, Ghostbusters, Terminator 2 and The Shawshank Redemption.

The Shawshank Redemption, directed by Frank Darabont (original show runner for The Walking Dead) opens with the 1939 rendition of The Ink Spots’ “If I Didn’t Care” which immediately places us in time – we assume the 30's or 40's, along with the Art Deco style credits which also let us know Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman are the stars. This, in itself indicates, this film's unlikely to be a National Lampoon-style comedy.

It is night. The camera pans to show Tim Robbins’ Andy Dufresne sitting in a car staring intently at a house. We don’t know whose. He takes an item from the glove compartment. It's wrapped in a cloth which he unfolds revealing a small revolver. The cloth is an important detail as it suggests that he is not a thug but an everyman who probably has this small handgun for security purposes only, tucked away at the back of his sock drawer. Dufresne takes a consoling swig of bourbon, so, something has upset him – a lot – judging by the gun.

We then cut to Dufresne sitting in the witness box at his trial which we learn is for the murder of his wife. Again, this short scene is loaded with detail. We learn the specifics of the case through Dufresne’s steely testimony and the prosecuting lawyer’s cross-questioning. We also discover more about the type of man Dufresne is. Cold but according to him, not a murderer. And smart too with a quiet defiance. He’s on trial for his life yet when the prosecutor suggests it’s a little convenient that the unused gun Dufesne claims to have thrown into the Royal River (placing the action in Maine) cannot be found, Dufresne snaps back that as he is innocent, it is decidedly inconvenient for him.

As well as setting up the pertinent details of Dufresne’s case this opening sequence also suggests his subsequent innocence with the song, If I didn’t Care, whose lyrics place a question mark over his apparently obvious guilt.

We then meet Morgan Freeman taking the first of four parole board interviews and with that we are introduced to two important characters, Red and Shawkshank itself. And that’s what you’d miss if you arrived just six minutes late.

The opening of Ghostbusters, directed by Ivor Reitman, is a masterclass in visual storytelling. There’s a wealth of character and story information crammed into this slick opening sequence beginning with a wide shot of a gothic-looking municipal building. The camera slides past a stone lion, a reference to the two lion-like monsters that will terrorise New York later in the film. The camera settles on the engraved words, New York Public Library.

We then see an atypical librarian complete with sensible bob and drab cardigan, wheeling a wooden trolley between tables collecting books. She descends the stairs to the basement as the eerie score creeps in. As she moves between the cramped shelving, behind her, a book slides unaided from one shelf to another. She is none-the-wiser but we, the audience know, something very bad is about to happen. This is a perfect example of dramatic irony, where the audience know more than the character they're watching. We want to scream “Lady, get the hell out of there!!” but by the time she turns, the books are already nestled in their new location. “Run lady!”

Interestingly, there hasn’t been a word of dialogue at this point and there hasn’t even been a funny moment. This confident filmmaker is letting us know that, yes, this film may have several powerhouse comedic talents among its number but it’s also gonna be scary too.

In blissful ignorance our intrepid bibliophile goes to the desk to complete her task but while she is occupied with her filing, the neat little drawers beside her (of which we see there are many) begin to slowly open, again, unaided, fluttering index cards into the air.

The librarian, now justifiably a little concerned, hightails it but in her panic gets lost in the cramped maze of shelves in the basement of this old, old building.

She turns a corner and is confronted by – something. We don’t know what. All we see is her terrified face and her hilarious scream. “Waaaaaaaauuugghhh!!!” OK, we know now, this movie might be scary but it’s also definitely a comedy. The iconic Ghostbusters sign comes into frame and the even more iconic theme tune strikes up.

It’s now time to meet the main characters. Again this is a skillful piece of visual storytelling. Repeating the gothic foreboding of the library, we’re now at the Weaver Hall – Department of Psychology – a sign tells us.

We cut to a door that reads “Paranormal Studies Laboratory” under which is daubed in red spray paint “Venkman – Burn in Hell”. At the bottom of the glass, are the sign-written names of all three doctors and indeed lead characters Igor Spengler, Ray Stanz, and last of all Pete Venkman.

A hotel ‘do not disturb sign’ hangs from the door knob, a nice additional detail indicating that whatever studies are taking place in these offices and whoever these doctors are, they are far from orthodox in their practices and they are royally pissing people off. This is verified when we meet Venkman conducting his “experiment” with the beautiful blond subject and her suffering colleague who has been electrocuted by Venkman several times, in the name of science.

We learn that Venkman is manipulating the results in favour of the pretty young test subject, leading her to believe she has psychic abilities. This whole charade tells us everything we need to know about Venkman. He himself doesn’t take paranormal studies seriously and is simply using it as a means to meet gorgeous women.

Having had enough of being electrocuted, the fuzzy-haired subject unplugs himself from the nodes telling Venkman to keep his five bucks. “What are you trying to prove here anyway?” He screams hysterically at Venkman. Even with this, Venkman is mocking him but offering a measly five dollars to be electrocuted!

Enter Dan Aykroyd as Ray Stanz, excitably telling Venkman that they finally have a real case to investigate and that Venkman is coming with them this time. This subtle dialogue suggests Venkman has managed to slither out of all the other encounters, implicitly setting him up as the skeptic who wants to stay and finalise the details of his date with the pretty blond non-psychic.

Ray tells us that Igor is already there, obviously an organized man, keen to get cracking and with that we get a snapshot of all three characters who will be our heroes for the next ninety minutes but you missed it coz you arrived seven minutes in!

James Cameron’s Terminator 2 opens with a shot of a busy metropolis, cars, heat haze, a dusty urban sprawl, more than likely American.

We cut to children playing on swings with a menacing droning score in the background. The image whites out and cuts to a night time scene. We see the shell of a burnt-out car with a skeleton in the driver’s seat. As the camera pans left to right it reveals an urban desert and we hear Linda Hamilton’s haunting voice over telling us that “three billion people’s lives ended on August 29^th 1997” in a war that would become known as Judgment Day. The survivors, she tells us, now face a new nightmare, the war against the machines. At which point a metallic foot slams into frame symbolically crushing a human skull. Ouch. The ground is littered with a sea of skulls, the unburied dead, as strong a statement about war as could ever be made.

You can have no doubt as to the style, content and tone of this film by now. This ain’t gonna be no comedy. This bold palate of images, voice over, the promise of a battle yet to be won, tell the audience to strap in for a cinematic thrill ride.  

In the background, missiles and explosions light up the night sky and we get a glimpse of this post-apocalyptic nightmare where man is waging an almost unbeatable war against the very machines he created.

We see the same swing park from earlier, buckled, broken, kids' bikes, a roundabout, all warped and damaged by war, by the apocalypse, or by both, who knows.

We pan up to see the terrifying skeletal frame of one of these machines Sarah Connor refers to in her voice over.

The humans are putting up a valiant resistance. We see they have fight but may be no match for the fire power of these ruthless machines as we see a soldier obliterated in one shot, by the enemy.

But seconds later a rebel shoots down an airborne machine – an indication that perhaps, they can be beaten, a small glimmer of hope?

We cut to an underground tunnel, following a man in military fatigues moving with purpose. He is saluted by every soldier he passes in this cramped passageway. He’s the head honcho then. No dialogue required. Everything about his status is informed by how he is treated.  

Sarah Connor tells us that two terminators were sent back through time to destroy the human Resistance, the first to strike at her unborn son. It failed, she says defiantly, the second to strike at her son John as a child. This lets us know, this is where the story will begin.

She also informs us that “as before, the Resistance sent a lone warrior to protect John.  “It was just a question of which would reach him first”.

This sets up our anticipation as the audience and is a great example of the first six minutes being the menu. In her brief monologue Connor is our morose Maitr’d offering “Race against time, anyone?” or "try our special, psychopathic killing machine from the future against a kid”

The appetite is well and truly whetted in this sequence and she’s brought anyone who didn’t see the original Terminator film up to date with as much information as they need for T2 to make sense.  But we’re not done.

Over a screen full of engulfing flames, Arnie’s credit is superimposed. Clever timing. Is he the killer or the lone warrior who will save John? The assumption is, he will reprise his role as the murderous machine but who knows.

A metals shutter clamps closed revealing the embossed words Terminator 2, Judgement Day, flames lapping around the edges once again overturing the end of the film when the Terminator is lowered into the molten metal, flames lapping up around him one last time.

The images dissolves into the children’s park once again, this time engulfed in flames. This is a reference to Sarah Connors’ waking nightmare, that she will not be in time to save her child – representative of future generations, from this dystopian nightmare that she alone can prevent. Following on from the biblical imagery connoted by Judgment Day, this flame-filled frame looks like hell.

And finally, from the flames, a menacing image emerges, the metallic skeletal face of the unmasked Terminator, it’s red eyes glowing amongst the flames. The camera zooms in then cuts to a steely blue night time scene at a truck park.

An electrical disturbance lets us know that something wicked this way comes. A naked, crouching Arnie appears in the midst of this truck park. Killer or warrior? We’re about to find out.

So, my friends, there you have it, that, in a (big) nut shell, is why it’s not worth going to the movies if you’re gonna be late.

I’m off to see Ghostbusters as it is its 30 year anniversary and its playing at m local cinema! Who ya gonna call?!

Other posts you might like: Really Love Film - a short blog about the movies, What's Happened To The Movies - a lament about some hit and miss blockbusters and To Be The Actor's Actor - about the late Philip Seymour Hoffman

A Great Read

I just finished a great book and it made me wonder, why don’t I read more? Here’s some recommendations and thoughts about this peaceful pastime.

I don’t make much time for reading books. I’ll make a bit of space for an interesting online article. Occasionally, I’ll pick up a broadsheet but even then, by the time I’m half way through an article, I’m already in scanning mode. It’s rare I ever make it to the end. I tell myself I don’t have the time (despite the fact that accumulatively I could have read several books or newspapers cover to cover in the time I spend scouring the net for bite-size snippets).

I used to read all the time, devouring book after book. I was a huge fan of the Discworld novels, the Red Dwarf series and even the John Grishham legal thrillers, that is until I realised it was essentially the same story over and over again.

On holiday I’d finish a book in a day, which was a strange experience, rather like staying awake all night. I even tried writing one a couple of times, usually getting as far as “page 1” before getting distracted by a messy sock drawer and then filing a tax return.

Even though I don’t read anything like I used to, I still have a romantic attachment to books. I love the tactile experience of reading, of turning pages, I tried reading a book on my iPad once. It was OK but there’s something timeless about turning a piece of paper, moving your eyes, rather than the page to read on. Once, while reading on the iPad I licked my finger to turn the page. Sign of the times. 

I want to see a bookshelf full of books, not an empty shelf with a lone Kindle.

I just spent a week in an old manor house where they have a library with floor to ceiling book shelves and it is one of the most beautiful rooms I’ve ever been in. The foreboding dark wood furniture with its ornate design both terrifies and intrigues me.

The battered leather couches are practically begging you to snuggle up on them with some old tome and start thumbing through its yellowing pages. I’d need a pipe and some slippers, of course, to do the room true justice.

I love seeing a collection of books, paper spines, different colours and sizes all nestled up against each other, brimming with stories, knowledge, jokes, pictures, life.

I stopped reading novels when I started acting. In drama school, they drum into you that as a budding actor, you should have a thirst for reading plays and literature on theatre. I took this as a challenge and decided I would attempt to read ever play ever written.

Clearly this was unsustainable financially but also my boredom threshold couldn’t handle it. As great as plays are, they’re kinda of boring to read. It’s like staring at a blue print for 3 hours as opposed to going to the actual house.

I used to love recipe books too and how the same page would get crumpled and oil-splattered as you returned faithfully to its instructions time and time again. I’d love just leafing through the pictures, seeing these delicious meals all waiting, potentially, for me to take them from the page to the stove.

I’m partial to the odd novelty book too. The type that seems to adorn ever display stand in Waterstone's come Christmas time. Books that tell you what to do if you’re chased by a bear or the origins of popular phrases or detailed cartoons of inventive ways a rabbit might, if it were predisposed toward suicide, take its own life. They’re the kind of book that sits around, ignored until a rainy afternoon when they silently whisper across the living room “Hey, you. Hey. Wanna know where the word POSH comes from? I know. Read me and I’ll tell you”

Over time, my book shelves became a collection of self-help, work manuals, black history, theatre plays and reference books. I guess the books you collect can become a reflection of who you are.  

Books have a power of their own and can change lives. I remember reading, Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway and realising that it is possible to do just that. The Power of Now gave me an insight into what a human being is really constituted of and how it shows up in my daily experience.

Of late, I’ve also started enjoying some great comedy autobiographies, among them Richard Pryor’s Pryor Convictions And Other Life Sentences which plots this great performer’s remarkable history and Frank Skinner’s first which is one of the funniest and most-touching books I think I’ve ever read. There was one section where he describes a particular event so brilliantly, I had to stop reading just to reflect on his utter genius.

I worked with Frank and took the book that I’d borrowed from a friend and got him to sign it. A small grimace flickered momentarily across his face but, as he’s a lovely bloke, he graciously autographed it to “James” even adding a quip about James’ beloved Liverpool. It was only after that I thought, perhaps he was a little peeved that I’d borrowed the book and hadn’t actually purchased a copy! Well, here I am doing the next best thing, strongly recommending it. Another great comedian’s autobiography is Michael McIntyre’s. Love him or loath him, the one thing you can’t deny after reading his book is that he put in the hours to get where he is.

I spent a lot of time reading up on African-American history. Something many people black people experience is a hunger for our history however it can be a self-righteousness minefield as it’s very easy (understandably) to get angry and militant. Certainly after finishing Alex Hailey’s stunning biography of Malcolm X, I felt exactly that. But after a while that subsides but I still wanted to know more and now have a healthy range of books on African American history. Weirdly, African history and African British history doesn’t interest me as much and so my books on Nigeria remain largely unread.

I find it very difficult to go into a book shop and not buy something. At the moment, I’m really into Malcolm Gladwell, the New York Times columnist and author of The Tipping Point which I read recently.

It’s a great read and another strong recommendation. It’s a detailed study on what causes epidemics. He looks at a number of social phenomena in his inquiry into how change “tips” and what are the criteria required to make this happen. He is evidently a very smart guy who’s able to assimilate a wide range of research into this fascinating study. From Sesame Street to smoking, he unpicks social phenomena to see what mechanics are in play to make them so popular and demonstrate why they “tipped”.

I’ve recommended The Tipping Point to so many people because not only is it fascinating but it’s genuinely changed the way I look at our world. Every change has a tipping point when you think about it and it’s a really useful concept, particularly, for those working in marketing and sales.

One day, if I try really hard and move all distractions to just outside of arm’s length, I hope to write my own book. I hope that by the time I get to that, people will still be buying physical copies rather than simply downloading them (though that would be lovely too. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that).

Until then, happy reading however you do it. 

Life as A Lone Wolf

I need to come out. Seems like everyone’s doing it so I might as well confess before I’m outed. So here it is, I am and probably always have been, a lone wolf. There, I said it. I feel so much better.

My first foray into lone wolfdom was when I still worked in post-production. I was exhausted (probably from the partying and late nights rather than any form of hard work) and decided to take myself off on holiday. I’d never travelled anywhere by myself and was utterly terrified but not of knowable threats like getting mugged, catching some flesh-dissolving disease or the hotel transfer bus plummeting off the side of a safety-free Spanish mountain road. No, my fears were much more mundane. Would people look at me funny when I came down for breakfast, I pondered as I sat in Thomas Cook with Keeley as she suggested a variety of “loveleeeey” hotels for me to choose from.

Her search was complicated by me inconveniently being a solo traveller. It seemed that not only could there be a high social embarrassment price to pay but a financial one too in the form of the oxymoronic single supplement which is not a multi-vitamin for staving off loneliness but a whopping charge hotels levy on single occupants for having the audacity to holiday alone.

Eventually, Keeley found me a sea view apartment with a large balcony that wouldn’t bankrupt me. “Loveleeey”.

Even though I told her I was delighted and smiled enthusiastically, inside I was screaming, people are going to stare the shit out of me at breakfast!! Children will point and run away. The hotel staff will probably put me on unofficial suicide watch.

“All booked for you”, Keeley beamed and in that moment I wondered if there wasn’t a simpler, less fraught way of dealing with my exhaustion or that maybe my randomly bursting into tears wasn’t fatigue but an avant garde expression of joy.

But it was booked now. There was no going back and in a way (a very small way – small like Robin Thicke’s latest album sales small) I was actually excited to go.

In fact, I’d already subconsciously initiated a kind of auto-didactic training program to get myself used to doing more on my own.

One evening, for example, I decided, I’m going to go out to dinner – by myself. There’s something very different about eating breakfast or lunch alone compared to eating in the evening. At breakfast, you can take a book or a bit of work (or art homework if you want to simply create the impression of working as I did when I used to join my older brothers at the table while they slaved over insanely difficult maths homework).

At lunch, you need a breather, to escape the barminess of your work environment. At this time, you don’t even need to pretend you’re doing anything other than regrouping for the afternoon slog. In this instance, the last thing you would want is to bring work with you (and anyway, doing work whilst sat in a Burger King will only work for certain occupations. I doubt many scaffolders try to squeeze in a quick erection over lunch – yes, all puns intended). At lunch time, sitting staring into infinity is perfectly acceptable. I saw a guy the other day who, after his meal, simply plonked his head on his folded arms on the table and stayed there for the rest of his lunch break. In fact he was still like that when I left. I hope he wasn’t dead. That’d be awkward and a terrible advert for that particular branch of Pret A Manger. “Try our ludicrously expensive mayo-slathered sandwiches. They’re killer”.

But dining alone is an entirely different proposition. I planned it with the meticulous attention of a military invasion. Subconsciously I’d recceed the restaurant beforehand, the Café Rouge that used to be on Frith Street in Soho. I knew that Friday and Saturday nights were out of the question as they were too busy. The gawp factor would be too high for my fragile ego. And I needed to go in the early evening so that it would feel more like the meal was a tag to the end of my day rather than some random decision I’d come to after watching Eastenders. As though, the moment Phil threatened to buy 'alf of the Queen Vic and the credits rolled, I’d smacked my lips and said “Is it too late for a bowl of moules? I think not!”

My first solo dining outing was more of a social experiment than a pleasurable experience, my over-thinking saw to that. Once I’d got over the initially awkwardness of the maîtr’d’s judgmental “just you?”, I then had the issue of how to occupy myself while at my table para uno. Simply eating wouldn’t suffice. To propagate an air of nonchalant solitude I felt I had to engage in an activity that said, “I am super comfortable on my own!”. Chowing down like a marine with PTSD would somewhat undermine that.

I thought long and hard about what effortlessly carefree activity I would undertake at the table. Knitting? Could have a post modern irony to it. Reading the paper? Well, it’d have to be a broadsheet to maintain my air of being a lady what’s classy, like. I could hardly sit there thumbing through the Daily Mirror’s tits and footie over delicately prepared seabass. But if I were to go broadsheet, I was 100% certain I would end up dragging the bottom of the paper through my appetizer. And newspaper ink is not and never will be a tasty addition to grilled Camembert. I plumped for a book. I can’t remember which one but it would definitely have been something sophisticated and on trend that suggested my bibliophilia, such as Affluenza or Sophie’s Garden (which I quickly discovered, is the most boring book ever written).

Scroll forward a few years and I now love dining alone. Sometimes, I don’t even feel the need to knit, or read or stare (sorry, 'people watch' – which is what people who want to sound interesting call staring. However, if you saw a bloke in a dirty mac by a kids’ playground and he told you he was just people watching, you’d tell him to do one before you called the law, ha. People watching. It’s staring!)

Another place I now prefer to go on my own is the cinema. Previously, that would have been as strange as going dancing by myself (which, by the way, is where I draw the line. There is something inherently strange about a person in a night club on their todd. It doesn’t matter how lovely and sane they seem, them telling you they "just fancied a dance” sounds like murderer’s code for “you’re next”.).

The movies was always a social, group activity. Formerly as a family unit then latterly with friends but now, as a treat to myself, I love disappearing inside those windowless abysses and indulging in the latest blockbuster, or when I’m trying to be all sophisticated, taking on some artsy indie offering. I love it. Last time I even brought my own popcorn! And why not? Their edible polystyrene has a bigger mark up than cocaine. Drug lords should move into the popcorn business. The profit margins are insane and it’s exactly the opposite of illegal. The only downside is  you can’t ask the drug mules to transport it in their stomachs, or up their arses for that matter.

So anyway, I’d done lots of stealth training, preparing myself for this holiday.

On the day of departure, I hadn’t accounted for the charter flight which was like an aviated episode of The Only Way Is Essex. I put my jacket over my head and slept all the way there.

On my first night at the hotel I cowered in my room for probably two hours under the guise of unpacking, before deciding to put my big girls panties on and go out. So, I made the epic journey down to the hotel bar where I proceeded to experience European measures Vodka tonics. After two drinks, I was very tipsy so I went to bed and safety.

The next morning, I tried to get in and out of the breakfast room before the gawpers could get a good look at me. For the most part, I’m a confident girl but put me in an unfamiliar situation and my confidence collapses like a cheap soufflé.

After breakfast, I hung around the pool and it was there I met Chloe who had planned to take a group holiday with some friends but when they’d bailed on her, she’d decided to make the trip regardless. Good for her. Chloe was very cool. We were likeminded gals who had lots to share on being lone travellers  (traveller sounds so much more adventurous but is probably overly-grand language for Fuertentura).

Chloe and I hung out together for a while and were soon joined by a pack of lads who, starved or female company, where keen to join us. For the rest of the week, we became a little gang of wolves, prowling around town, going clubbing, lazing at the beach and thrashing each other at pool. I was glad I met them because as great as it was to have this new experience, the thought of spending the whole week alone, was an intimidating one, especially after a peculiar encounter with a waiter who offered me coke and used placing my napkin on my lap as a good opportunity to grab my thigh!

I thought back to couples holidays I’d taken in the past and remembered that it was harder to strike up conversations with strangers. Perhaps people assume you are a self-contained unit, wanting for nothing, swooning at each other in a Jerry McGuire-esque, you-complete-me kind of way. People on their own, in a holiday resort maybe seem more approachable, more up for adventures or at least shits and giggles.

Now, there’s little I feel uncomfortable doing on my own (other than clubbing – that’s never going to happen) and actually, in a world where you’re constantly plugged in via Facebook or Twitter, the TV or text, where the fear of missing out can leave you a socially burned out husk, I love giving myself a bit of breathing space, some ‘me’ time, where I can just be. A day at the beach, a trip to the movies, a stroll in the park  are rejuvenating for the soul.

However, it’s a delicate line between becoming reclusive and enjoying one’s own company and something us lone wolves must be mindful of. Sometimes, I’ll spend a few days in my flat, writing (which involves one quarter working and three quarters eating, sleeping and watching Suits) and after a couple of days, I’ll suddenly realise, I miss people! And I’ll get myself back into the social flow.

Because as much as solitary people like to think we don’t need anyone, we do. Relatedness and community is an important human need. Ultimately, people love being around people whether they’re interacting with them or not, which is why the atmosphere in an empty bar is never as appealing as one brimming with punters. We’ve no intention of interacting with everyone in the bar, working the room like Bill Clinton at an intern induction day, but we still prefer to be amongst people. It’s a good sign for human beings because it means, despite the unsavoury things we do to each other, ultimately, people love people. 

Other posts you may like: A Lazy Sunday Afternoon, Love Film - a short post on my love of the movies, and What's Happened To The Movies - a lament about 2013's blockbusters