Category Archives: 12 trailers project 2012

Signing off the 12 trailers project


well, that’s it
12 standalone pieces, each suggested by one of the trailers on the list.
It’s been a variable project, one or two pieces have worked well, a couple more have been at least interesting and some have been abysmal failures, bit like the films choosen really.

I hope you’ve enjoyed them.


kill bill


watch this

read this

Revenge is a dish best eaten cold they say and i have waited for these moments, these split seconds when our eyes meet and you know with that final certainty that its payback time.
i’m just about to take from you everything you took from me
love, status, family, future.

Did you really think I would be so easy to kill?

Did you really think I would just curl up and die ?

Its not over till the fat lady sings and there’s no fat lady, but I’m singing now

The song of blade, of bullet, the whine of engine and the whump of explosion.

It’s not a pretty song, but it’s all my own.

Did you remember me, when you went about making your life ?

Did you watch your back, waiting for the knock on the door, the judgement call, the day of reckoning ?

Give it your best shot, show me what you’ve got, you better pray that I’ve lost my touch, cos I’m coming to get you.

Run scared if you want
run interference
run the numbers
run excuses

Wont make any difference

I’m coming to get you

Revenge is a dish best eaten hot,
white hot
red hot

Action fueled by anger.


Songs from the 2nd floor


One day we wake up and we are middle aged, our bodies softened, flabby, slip sliding towards death.
We make the same journeys as we have always done, travelling to the jobs that define us, give structure to our lives. Sometimes it seems as if only the middle aged make these journeys in our uniform of grey. Each one of us has a narrative, a story of failure, of tiredness, of opportunity lost, of the road not travelled.

We live Lives that are full of tragedy, loss, heroic struggles against a world that makes no sense.

But our bodies make clowns of us, we fall and in our falling become ridiculous , recipients of sideward glances, crowds that gather but offer no help.

We rail against injustice, insanity, but no one listens, instead they move us to one side, ignore our shouts.

Our homes are small, practical, built to shelter us, to keep us safe. We find ourselves standing in corners, perched on beds, our heads in our hands, we no longer fill the spaces we live in.

And still the losses come,
Our jobs, our children, business gone up in smoke, all our certainties gone.

And still we continue to move forward, even when movement seems impossible,our very hearts gridlocked.

In middle age we are haunted by our dead, our shame. The ghosts walk beside, quiet, undemonstrative, evidence of our fears, our failings as human beings, behind them other ghosts, other spirits. We want to help, to quiet them, to make them go away.

We look to the old to help us make sense of everything, acolyte like we stand before them before we realise they have nothing to tell us. As they are now so shall we be and all the drink in the world cannot wash away that bitter taste.

Blessed are those who sit down

Blessed are those who catch their hand in the door

We have lived lives of tiny triumphs , won battles that the world never noticed, carried our heavy burdens cheerfully or at least with only minimal moaning. We have survived.

And now when everything seems to fall apart, when there is no sense and only nonsense left, we retain our tattered clown like dignity. Polite, cheerful, we face another impossible task.

Blessed are those who sit down.

Check out this video on YouTube:

Sent from my iPad


Songs from the 2nd floor


this is the poem quoted and referenced in the film, enjoy while i struggle to complete the final piece in the 12 trailers project

Stumble Between Two Stars

Beloved be the unknown man and his wife.
My fellow man with sleeves, neck and eyes!
Beloved be the one who sleeps on his back.
The one who wears a torn shoe in the rain.
Beloved be the bald man without hat.
The one who catches a finger in a door.
Beloved be the one who sweats out of pain or out of shame.
The one who pays with what he does not have…
Beloved be the ones who sit down.
Beloved be the one who works by the day, by the month, by the hour.
Beloved be the one who sweats out of pain or out of shame.
The person who goes, at the order of his hands, to the movies.
The one who pays with what he does not have…
The one who sleeps on his back.
The one who no longer remembers his childhood.
Beloved be the one who sits down.
Beloved be the just man without thorns.
The bald man without hat.
The thief without roses.
The one who wears a watch and has seen God.
The one who has honor and does not die!
by Cesar Vallejo


Watching The Holy Mountain


I’m not sure if this one is cheating within the spirit of the project, but hey ho.

So, watch this…………….

And read this………………………………..

This may shape up to be one of the worst 120 minutes of my life.

I’m sitting in an art house cinema watching The Holy Mountain with my 15 year old daughter and its just not dark enough for this experience.

Within the first two minutes, there is full butt nakedness.

I feel her tension, sitting bolt upright, she silently dares me to say anything, to make a fuss.

I watch the screen and out of the corner of my eye, I watch her, vigilant for any signs of anxiety, desperate to scoop her up, to make our exit and our apologies.

I am dangerously close to committing the cardinal sin of teenage parenting.

I am considering drawing attention to ourselves.

I try to gather myself, take a deep breath.

She is a child of the 21st century, inter-net savvy.

Tweets, blogs, updates her status with the rest of her breed.

I try to convince myself that she’s seen it all before.

Nothing has prepared me for the experience of watching 70s art house actors getting it on in a variety of interesting and unusual ways while my daughter sits next to me.

The wall of embarasment between is almost palatable, it has, however briefly, replaced the usual barriers of indifference and confusion that so effectively keep us apart.

And sitting next to her is a solitary man, bearded.

A stranger – i wonder if her presence is disturbing his viewing of the film and for a second, unbidden, comes the terrible thought – could she be in some way, enhancing his filmic experience.

I physically have to shake my head to dislodge this monstrous idea.

I wonder if I can lure her out with promises of cup cakes, pizza, unfettered Top Shop shopping extravaganzas.

The film ends, we leave.

“what did you think ?” – I ask

There is a pause while she untangles herself from her constant personal soundtrack and removes the tiny headphones

“S’alright, can we go for noodles?”

I decide that tonight is not the night to stalk her Facebook status.


Night of the living dead


Watch this…………….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GUtoCpeAyS0

 

Read this………………..

 

It starts in a grave yard, grief has made us wooden, awkward with each other, my brother scares me and i half scream, half laugh. Confident that nothing bad can really happen in daylight when i have my big brother next to me.

The distant lurching man is funny then, until he isnt and then i scream and scream and scream and finally there are no screams left, only a silence because there are no words for this.

They have made me silent, taken away language, meaning, sense.

They too are stripped away, reduced to a  hunger that pushes them onward, slow and focused, a tidal-wave of need, of desire.

We inside,  trapped or sheltered, it’s hard to tell the difference, cling onto language, difference, opposition, argument.

They, outside, share one vision, one drive,one nation under a groove

Zombie, zombie nation.

Inside, they wont stop talking, word after word after word. I want to scream

“Stop it, language has no place here”

But I have given that skill away , faced with the silence of those outsiders.

So, I peer through cracks in the hastily barricaded windows, their silence seems almost peaceful, their movement slow, restful.

I wonder what that hunger feels like and listen to the men who driven by other hungers, argue and argue and argue.

The night goes on forever, they silently circle, waiting to feed.

We tear each other apart in different ways.

And everybody waits for dawn.

 


Moulin Rouge


Watch this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dtEgAx80NC4

Read this…………………………………..

Truth

Beauty

Freedom and

Love

above all else, Love,  because  this is a story about falling in love at the Moulin Rouge, about doomed love, about love that no-one even notices, about love for sale and love given away for free.

But even then, there is always a cost, something lost, something taken, love is bad for business.

The French are glad to die for love

This then is the best sort of love, a doomed and tragic love

A kiss on the hand is quite continental

Why fall in love with the penniless writer when other desire will wrap your neck in jewels, allow the moon to shine against your skin, pale skin in paler moonlight

But diamonds are a girls’ best friend

Lost in their love story, eyes only for each-other, blind to harsh realities of our Moulin lives

A kiss may be grand

But it won’t pay the rental

On your humble flat

She chooses to close her eyes, imagine a better future

A life where charm is never lost, where the body stays adored, forever young

But square-cut or pear-shaped,

These rocks don’t loose their shape.

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

We try to warn her,

Time rolls on,

And youth is gone

,And you can’t straighten up when you bend.

But she laughs in our faces, says their love will last for always, says that their love will keep her warm

Men grow cold

As girls grow old,

And we all lose our charms in the end.

And at the end, when everything is lost, love, beauty, freedom.

There is only truth remaining

Diamonds! Diamonds!

I don’t mean rhinestones!

But diamonds are a girl’s best friend.