Saturday 10 April 2010

GERMS

I’m a germaphobe. Not OCD or anything, but getting pretty darn close. It’s when I start thinking about things too profoundly – an occupational hazard – that I can scare myself into never leaving the house. But as neurotic as I can be, I can also be stubborn, and no germ is going to keep me from enjoying my fine city – be damned you mutated flu virus!

Sometimes I play a game with myself and see how little I can touch out in public from point A to point B. I walk down the road with hands in pockets, then when at the stoplight, I hit the crossing button with the edge of my umbrella (this is England, it’s practically grafted to my hand), then I take a deep breath – the last fresh air one will have for awhile and head into the tube. This is where things get a bit tricky. Topping up one’s Oyster card (London’s pass of travel) with money is a delicate process. The trick is to never actually touch the machine, just the oyster card, and the money in your hand (I know I know, the money is probably the dirtiest thing out there, but I said this is a game, not a pathway to being institutionalized). Once you go through the gates and into the tube, from here on out it’s all about standing in the center of the carriage – I figure licking a motel bed sheet is cleaner than those seats – using your elbows, and praying your balance is on top form that day. Or of course the other option, travel with your boyfriend and use him as support and manslave.

Don’t get me wrong, there are days when fatigue and hunger hits, and I’m the woman on the tube slumped in the seat, holding her library book (that everyone in the city who has checked it out has handled) digging through her bag for anything edible. It’s on these days I tell myself to lighten up, no one ever died from something on a subway seat (or have they??). Dear god, where is my anti-bacterial gel?!

Thursday 8 April 2010

THE TRENCHES

Hello, my name is Anthea Anka, and I am a screenwriter. The first step, as we all know is admitting it. I'm starting to think that after ten years it's an affliction, rather than a prudent career choice - and one despite my better judgment, I clearly can't shake. Such addict behavior.

You see, I'm a gal that needs things to make sense. If I understand how something works, and I can see what has to be done to tackle it, then hey, I'm all about the work. But the industry of filmmaking does not make sense. Never has, never will. From the top down to the bottom, it's the blind leading the blind, and not a day goes by that someone does not get left in the middle of the road to get whacked by a truck.

For those of you that don't live in L.A (I wisely opted out after years of doing so), if you were to visit, and troll the local coffee houses, you'd see a group of individuals chained to laptops with hollowed out eyes and the look of sheer aching bewilderment on their faces. In short, a look that says, why o why did I think it was a good idea to be become a writer?

The problem - in my humble opinion - with Hollywood is that it's a town of desperation. People desperate for work, executives desperate to hold onto their jobs, CEO's desperate to avoid being burned at the stake by their stockholders. This of course means that decisions are made from a desperate, ‘please don't axe’ me place. And no good decision can come from this. So what do they do? They play it safe. More than safe, they beat an idea within an inch of its life and hope the audience does not notice (oh, we notice). They pony out the remake; the hybrid of the remake; the remake of the adaptation of the remake hybrid. Hell, they are pretty much putting out the same movie time and time again, they just switch the title and put in someone younger and pray for the best. Cause the commonly accepted secret is, no one knows what they're doing. If they did, every movie would be a hit. It's all just one big crapshoot, and when they hit it, they take the credit (“I knew a movie about a dyslexic hermaphrodite that joins the circus was the way to go!”) and when they don't, it's another man's problem - "he's finished in this town, who the hell wants to see a dyslexic hermaphrodite on a trapeze?!"

The quickest way to realize that you are swimming upstream with lead weights on is to go through the development process (if you're lucky to get to this stage, thank whomever you pray to). It is here that you discover that whatever you have written that got you in the door is going to be dismantled until it’s a shadow of its former self. Which always made me think, 'if you're determined to give this script a deep barium enema, what did you like about it in the first place?? Then after changing your script three hundred times only to return to the original draft, they delight you with astute comments like, "Actually, I don't believe the character would do that." Hmm. okay, well, as I wrote the character, I'm pretty confident that they would. Or one of my personal favorites "Can you make the script, I don't know, funnier." [I wonder what John Steinbeck would've done if his editor had told him to make Grapes of Wrath less, I don't know...depressing.] Um, okay, in what way do you want it funnier, can you be more specific? As well, humor is subjective; one man's ‘Hangover’ is another man's pile of shit.

"Not really. Just funny it up a bit." You then glance at the poster on the wall behind them of the last 'funny' film they made and you think, I'm totally screwed.

Then to completely add insult to injury as they finish telling you they are worried the audience won't find something in your script believable, (“A 30 year old female that doesn’t want to get married?? I don’t buy it.” Gosh Chuck, you know this how exactly? Clearly NOT by being a woman in your 30's. And might I add, Julia Roberts was a hooker in Pretty Woman. She gave blowjobs. People didn’t have a problem with that one) they tell you excitedly about their next project about a time traveling porn star that ends up marrying the Prince of England and opening a cupcake shop. Cause that my dear friends is something anyone would buy.

Wednesday 7 April 2010

TWEETING TWATS

Tweeting. Twittering. One twatted. Don’t get me started! Currently, this is way up there on my pet peeve list (as you can see I'm still on a bit of a disturbed streak). What bored individual came up with this total mind-numbing act of narcissism? Seriously. Facebook was bad enough, encouraging all of us (and don't worry, I'm woman enough to admit when I succumb to things) to post what we are doing at any given moment. And of course some people take this to the extreme just to ensure that we know they're still breathing; "Jenny is buttering her toast with a very dull knife, but man does she love butter." No offense, Jenny, but I don't really care.

Then there is the celebrity tweets announcing their moral opinions, their tirades at other celebs (Courtney Love should just surrender all of her electronic devices. Although her rants while high do have comic value), and of course their break-ups. Cause that is what I always feel like doing when my relationship has just ended, tweeting about it, and making sure the whole freaking world knows how it went down. "It's fine, we grew apart, but we're the best of friends and she'll be in my heart forever." Please, give it a rest.

I think the real kicker for me was when half of congress was tweeting during one of President Obama's speeches. Seriously, we realize the government is drowning at the moment in a sea of partisan dysfunction, but can you at least pretend to show some respect for your job and leader of the free world? Then again, perhaps it's just as important to let the world know what Senator Webb thinks of Senator Dodd's punchy red tie.

I realize that this is slightly hypocritical as I am in a sense being revealing, and yes, narcissistic (do people really care about the words I am typing??) But I figure, we have to draw a line somewhere. The immediacy and inane-ness (yes, I even have license to make up my own words. What a egotist!) of tweeting is leading us down a path where every single moment of our lives is deemed important enough to put out there. Note to mass public: it’s not. I know the human condition is to fear being mundane and ordinary, but people, it's okay, we are all stewing in the boring pot together. So don't be afraid to butter that toast in silence.

HOW DELIGHTFUL

I feel like I've been more disturbed than delighted in the past few posts. For some reason I need to rectify this to balance the universe.

So, things to delight in: freshly washed (and pressed, cause who can bother doing that at home) hotel sheets. Peanut butter and chocolate ice cream (Baskin & Robbins of course). A good absorbing book. Laughing so hard you almost pee yourself.

There. I feel better now.

STRAP IN, SONNY'S AT THE WHEEL!

I took a mini cab to the airport the other day (for you American readers this is a licensed cab – you hope - that gives you a set price for your journey). In my area, one company had a lock on the business – oddly no matter what number you called of competing companies, this one company always answered! They of course decided that this meant they could do whatever they wanted: arrive late, be rude, not show up at all. You know the usual pride of business type stuff. The beauty of it for them was that you had to use them if you wanted to go anywhere. So being the benefit of the doubt type girl (I do try), I booked them to go to the airport, against my partner’s protestations. [He’s convinced that I am sometimes a glutton for punishment, just so I can then kick up a fuss.Who me??]

So I’m pacing at my window, cause of course they’re late – which I wisely withhold from my partner who is texting me for progress reports. Finally I hear the screeching wheels of a car out front. I look outside and see a black, old school Mercedes Benz. Alright, not a bad start. On second glance, it is a bit tricked out, rims, tinted windows, but hey, as long as it has wheels, what the hell do I care?

I go downstairs with my bags to find the driver on the street. On first blush I can only best describe him as an Asian Sonny Crocket from Miami Vice. I mean, to the tee. The shiny 80’s blazer, opened to reveal a pastel t-shirt, his hair flowing and long in some sort of mullet type do. Hell, I was impressed for the sheer effort and love of genre. So off we go, and I can see that this man takes his driving seriously. Pedal to the metal and all that. So seriously that he has a tape all cued up, Whitesnake no less, “Here I Go Again On My Own.” Being an ex-metal gal myself from years gone by, I had to appreciate the love of cheese as Tawny Kitean writhing on the hood of a Jaguar danced thru my head.

Unfortunately, I quickly realize that he isn’t so sure about where to go, although he seems determined to take short cuts that all lead to either road works or dead ends. I’m in the back seat, looking at my watch, trying to remain calm. I must admit, I suck at flying and the whole airport experience makes me tense. Finally by the fourth dead end, I try as politely as I can to remind him of my flight time and that perhaps we should just get on the main road cause he clearly does not know where he is going. Okay, maybe my tone could have been brushed with more honey and rainbows, but hell, I’m about to enter the airport travel vortex, can you blame me???

Well, this does not sit well with Sonny. In short, he goes apeshit and hollers that I don’t respect him, and he will not be disrespected, especially by the likes of me. Little does he know I'm queen of odd jobs. I pick up dogshit off carpets. Disrespect I know well. As he’s screaming this, he’s increasing in speed and driving more erratic. I make the smart choice and say little aside from the fact that I have the utmost respect for him and his driving skills (the prudent choice when someone is going 80mph), whilst of course texting my partner telling him that I love him, in case I end up in a pile of smoldering steel on the motorway. So back up goes the music, hastily rewound to the top of ‘Hear I Go Again On My Own,” which I took as a clear sign to hold on tight and shut the hell up.

Tuesday 6 April 2010

CELEBRITY. A WORLD IN DECLINE

Every time I go to a film I think two things: PLEASE let this be good (as these days most things are not - we'll get to that in future posts, trust me) and two: I know way too much about the actors in this film. I will admit that I'm partially guilty for this, as I do my fair share of pop culture surfing. But on the other hand, due to the 'vulture culture' of the celebrity machine, we are now as a public, privy to entirely way too much information when it comes to our public figures. A large part of this of course comes down to the media which has become an intrusive behemoth beyond imagination. In essence, reporters (web and print) and photographers are now essentially detectives and CIA agents rolled into one. Their mission, to expose as much as humanly possible about various people in the public eye to the point of lunacy. Obviously, it comes down to plain and simple economics, the demand is there, and they see their way fit to meet it.

For me, part of the beauty of going to the cinema or listening to an album (yes, I'm clinging to yesteryear) was - as this is clearly a thing long gone by - the mystery of the person behind the work. In the days of the old school performer (something I'm confident I know a bit about), there was glamour; there was mystique..there was that side of the person you knew you were being shown, but were never really going to know in a true sense. Take Sinatra for example, rumors swirled around him his whole life about this, that and the other. Some of which he danced around, some he'd play coy, others he wouldn't even dignify. And the best part was, it was all part of the package. He showed you what he wanted, and the rest of his life was clearly off limits. As it should be. And this is why he was about as cool as it got.

Now of course there is the emergence of the mutated celebrity. As I like to call it. This new side show of the undignified, pumped through the factory of the reality show culture. The 'Snooky's (I had to look this person up as I refuse to know any thing more than her name), and Heidi 'whatever her name is' of the world, spouting about her 3,000 surgeries. Their job description as far as I can tell is embarrassing themselves (and their families) on national television, and the kicker, they get paid for it, and damn well! And now we know everything. and I mean everything. We know about their addictions (real and fabricated), their bankruptcy, their surgeries, even their sex lives (hell, we even see them in the act). Even the mistresses of celebrities are so called 'celebs' now. [Gloria Allred you should be ashamed of yourself for perpetuating this total b.s.].

We've turned into a society that has become hooked on watching these base exhibitionists. And don't try denying it, some of you are watching this stuff. Some of you know and care who the heck Jon plus 8 is. The day I saw their divorce make the CNN ticker I knew we were a civilization in decline. I figure, the only way we can stop this madness is to stop feeding into it - myself included of course. Put down the rags, turn off the Hills series 28 (Heidi and Lauren run off to get colonoscopies), and tell yourself, do these people really deserve to be making this much money for doing absolutely nothing?

Monday 5 April 2010

KEEP IT ZIPPED FELLAS

I saw an excerpt from Larry King the other night about the raging debate in regards to men and their cheating habits. In short, are they hardwired to do so? It’s hard not to be amused by this latest rash (pun intended of course) of men getting exposed by their ‘upstanding’ mistresses – seriously, the fact that you guys expect fidelity from these women in light of your joint infidelity is excruciatingly hysterical and ironic.

On some level I can step back and say yes, men and women are hardwired very differently. We know this by now, just live with one. They’re inherently hunters, not big on empathy, compassion (there are exceptions of course) or being able to do more than one thing at a time. But give them an objective, esp. one that is biological to their very being, ie. “sewing their seed,” well then apparently they can do this without batting an eye. In fact, they can do this with such gusto and furtive manipulation, it leads me to wonder if they can indeed multi-task after all, they just pretend that in the home, listening to you and drinking a mere glass of water takes far too much energy for them. “Honey, can’t you see I’m drinking a glass of water?”

And it’s not like on some level I don’t understand infidelity. We’ve all been there at one point - in my case I’m blaming my youth - when choice A seemed more appealing the choice B, especially as B is the one we now see sitting in their underwear on our furniture. But we soon learn that cheating lands us in a huge emotional and physical quagmire that results in only one thing, a HEADACHE. And to be honest, you could’ve gotten that at home with your partner.

How about… if you decide to commit to one person, don’t cheat? How’s that for simplicity. Make a choice; abstain like the rest of us and save yourself the hassle of self imposed career exiles, loss of income and reputation, sex rehab and huge payoffs that result in your overall bank balance suffering a monstrous hit. Your other choice, do what George Clooney and other self appointed bachelors do, be a bachelor. Own it. Do it, change one in every year like it’s a new car. Hell, drive three cars at once. It doesn’t matter when you have no one to answer to.

Most importantly, if any of these men, famous or not, are dumb enough to think that they can STILL have it all, the whore and the bride, all they have to do is open the newspaper to see that it’s not the case anymore. Sorry boys. In this day and age, infidelity ain’t as easy as it used to be.

LONDON CALLING

I live in London and by now call it home. I suppose by textbook definition you could say I am an ‘anglophile.’ For some reason even I can’t explain, I feel like I was meant to be living here over anywhere else. It might have something to do with the fact that I grew up with an English Mother – who of course emigrated to the States and has called that home for over 45 years. Perhaps I’m trying to balance the universe?

When I first got here, there were of course the usual adjustments to shock the system. Note to Americans: there is not just one English accent. There are MANY; and once you start heading north, good luck understanding half of them. Another thing that I’m sure is common knowledge by now, is that the language is different in many ways. And the English will remind you of this every step of the way. For some reason they take joy in letting us yanks know that we have bastardized or ruined pretty much everything. (Don't let them get started on how atrocious Dick Van Dyke's accent was in Mary Poppins....okay it was, but the man is an icon) But then again, isn’t that what children do to their parents?

My friends, still to this day correct me, giggle at my pronunciation of aluminum (aluminium to them), and seem to every now and then suddenly remember I have an American accent. “You sound like such a yank!” My partner loves this game, don't you honey...Well, yes, that’s because I AM a yank, and I have no plans to start speaking like Madonna (although in her defense, a certain change in pronunciation is inevitable. But if you find an American saying tomato like the English, deport them. They’re not to be trusted).

I would say overall, all the little things you get used to and realize that at the end of the day we’re not so different, we just have different poisons if you will. Americans have their French fries and burgers, the English their fish and chips (or fry ups). Americans have their baseball and basketball, the English their football (that’s soccer to us). Americans have their upbeat ‘have a nice day’ attitude (the English will gladly point out that no race of people could be this happy in a sincere way) and the English pride themselves on mild cynicism with plenty of negativity thrown in – this is when some of the older generation will bring up the war of course. Ah, got to love it.

Overall, I’d have to say my favorite thing about the English is their wit. And it is alive and well and one of the primary reasons I think I find it so comforting to be amongst them. I remember the moment that I realized that this was a people that was very comfortable taking the piss, as they say (translation = gentle mocking) out of just about anyone, esp. Americans (I secretly think it’s a sign of envy that the bastard child made good in life). But to my delight, what they enjoyed even better was when you hurled it right back at them. Of course you had to do it well to earn their respect, this was a sport after all. For example, when they accuse of being loud tacky Americans, take them down to the high street and point out the lovely English ladies hurling their dinner into the gutters after too much beer. So classy…if they say we’re all fat to the point of obscenity, point out their teeth, overall hygiene, and remind them that as a country they’re catching up damn fast…you see how it works. You’ll have friends in no time.

By the way, for those thin-skinned of you out there, I would perhaps suggest a visit to Spain instead. God save the Queen!

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