In the company of long time collaborator Edward Feery, I'll shortly be pitching a season of audio plays to Liverpool theatre group What We Did Next. I don't think we'll have a problem at this stage, as it won't prevent any other potential show, and the support we've received so far from members seems positive.
If all goes according to plan, then, in a couple of weeks we should cast for two 15 minute pilot episodes - a four person sitcom, and a larger, looser fake documentary. In the absence of proper writers, I've penned these two scripts, with accompanying reservations - comedy just is not my strong suit.
To be returning to radio plays is nice. I like the process of rehearsing then recording. I like the simplicity, the lack of fuss - no waiting on set designers or costume designers, no negotiating for venues and for performance dates. The relative lack of expense is also a factor - any form of monetary reliance is a compromise, but here I can at least preserve the feeling of independence.
I am aware that there are things that cannot be done with pure audio. Some of these limitations merely require creative solutions. But the one hurdle that cannot be overcome is their perception by others. The fact is that very few people actually listen to audio plays. It's a shame, but the consequence is that producing them will not necessarily lead on to other things - and, after all, I want to do everything.
We must be superlative, then.
Friday, 24 February 2012
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Impressions: The Bleak Old Shop of Stuff, BBC2
Over Christmas 2011, the BBC aired a Dickens parody entitled The Bleak Old Shop of Stuff. It featured Stephen Fry, Robert Webb, and the usual assortment of British comedy actors, familiar from panel show and sitcom. I avoided it. I've been pretty disheartened by UK comedy output, both on television and radio, recently, which seems to have too often suffered from poor, unambitious writing and weak directing. It also isn't helped by the aforementioned familiar faces being too, well, familiar.
This doesn't mean that there has not been good comedy over the past few years. Misfits was excellent, and on Radio 4, the Dickens parody series Bleak Expectations was sublime - and partly the reason I didn't watch Bleak Shop, as frankly that's a little too obvious a copy, and a little less clever a title.
However, it's not very helpful to complain if I'm not willing to give things a chance, and in that spirit, when an idle glance of the BBC's iPlayer revealed that a full series of Bleak Shop had been commissioned, I attempted to watch it. I was pleasantly surprised to see that Mark Evans, writer of Bleak Expectations, had actually also penned this, so I expected good things.
For the record, I began to watch the first episode of the newly broadcast series, but was forced to turn it off about halfway through. The performances were wooden, lines were delivered as if at gunpoint, and the direction seemed haphazard. In the spirit of fairness, I decided to watch the Christmas hour-long special, on the basis that it had obviously been of a high enough quality to merit commissioning a series.
I was instantly downhearted. The whole enterprise has the desperate air of a school play, with actors delivering lines as if they have never performed the script together, and that if they can just get through this, all will be well. It is as if there was not time to check things, or to redo scenes which didn't quite work.
Stephen Fry, searching for a secret, smashes a shelf of porcelain busts, and complains that that which he seeks is not amongst them, and must be hidden in some other, missing bust. He then notices that one bust has not fallen from the shelf with the others in some awkward prop mistake, and promptly decides to carry on regardless. Some simple running gags are just forgotten, like introducing three alliterative London clocks (Big Ben, Massive Murray, and Tiny Terry) and later only showing the first two. Later they remember again. What?
In addition, as I noted above, the acting is simply bizarre in its lack of quality. These are experienced comedy actors and performers, who should be used to imbuing dialogue with character. Many have appeared in sketch comedy, in which a character can be reduced almost entirely to the lines they speak, and they have elsewhere done so successfully. Here, it is as though they are embarrassed to be there, and they will simply grit their teeth and get it over with. For the audience, it is equally embarrassing to watch, when performers of such high standing are reduced to the quality of the child actors, who are excused on the basis that all child actors are unwatchable.
Worse than that, though, is the sneaking suspicion that the awkward, wooden acting is intentional. The cast perform as though they don't want the audience to forget that they are actors. There is no attempt to become the characters, to pretend that the imaginary people are real, which is sort of the point of acting. The BBC are also currently showing re-runs of David Tennant's Doctor Who, and the juxtaposition is interesting. Both portray ridiculous worlds, with a dependency on CGI backgrounds, but in Who, for all its faults, the actors at least play along. Tennant at least has the decency not to wink at the audience and say "I'm not really a timelord, you know".
Considering Mark Evans' involvement, I at least had high hopes for the script. Bleak Expectations, which as a radio comedy has of course never been discovered or listen to by anyone, ever, is an excellent combination of strong acting, wordplay and running gags which also manages to be extremely funny. It is also inextricably bound to radio, the dialogue and plots making full use of the medium's strengths. Radio also allows it to get away with more - the family friendliness of Bleak Shop is something which struck me particularly. To draw an example from the more recently aired episode, a vicious boarding school is named "St Nasty's", whereas the radio series opted for "St Bastard's". It's the little things.
More importantly, the script of Bleak Shop is not at all as superlative. Much of the same enjoyment of language is evident - the children are chided for calling another character a "mentalist", and are asked to use more sensitive terms, "like softhead, nutjob or derangetron". Direct nods are made, in fact - instead of saying "hurrah", or similar, the characters use "Harumble!", invented in Expectations by Harry Biscuit. Except when they do in fact say "hurrah".
For the most part, the dialogue seems stilted and formulaic. Whereas in Expectations characters were quick to subvert or question an exchange or scene, here many obvious . You long for a character to draw attention to the absurdity of a situation, rather than simply ploughing into yet another "noble sir...".
There are some exceptions. Richard Johnson, a veteran of the Expectations cast, is at least getting into his minor role as an elderly uncle, and David Mitchell is watchable in any capacity, if seemingly a little frustrated here. Some jokes, like Fry switching hats to talk to himself as two characters, are not by any means original, but are handled adeptly - saved if nothing else by the natural talent of the actors themselves.
It's an awkward, disappointing thing, with an air of "that'll do". These are veterans actors, writers and directors, and they are capable of so much more. Add to that the quality of the source material. Dickens, as has been proved before, is a gift to those wanting to parody him. The Victorian era, or our hazy, jumbled-up notion of it, is equally a sweaty, shouty mine of humour, if one with dangerously inadequate safety standards.
I've watched and enjoyed a great deal of American television comedy recently, and I find it frustrating not that the UK is being left behind, but that we don't even seem to be playing the same game. It simply means less good television, which is a shame. We should be doing better.
This doesn't mean that there has not been good comedy over the past few years. Misfits was excellent, and on Radio 4, the Dickens parody series Bleak Expectations was sublime - and partly the reason I didn't watch Bleak Shop, as frankly that's a little too obvious a copy, and a little less clever a title.
However, it's not very helpful to complain if I'm not willing to give things a chance, and in that spirit, when an idle glance of the BBC's iPlayer revealed that a full series of Bleak Shop had been commissioned, I attempted to watch it. I was pleasantly surprised to see that Mark Evans, writer of Bleak Expectations, had actually also penned this, so I expected good things.
For the record, I began to watch the first episode of the newly broadcast series, but was forced to turn it off about halfway through. The performances were wooden, lines were delivered as if at gunpoint, and the direction seemed haphazard. In the spirit of fairness, I decided to watch the Christmas hour-long special, on the basis that it had obviously been of a high enough quality to merit commissioning a series.
I was instantly downhearted. The whole enterprise has the desperate air of a school play, with actors delivering lines as if they have never performed the script together, and that if they can just get through this, all will be well. It is as if there was not time to check things, or to redo scenes which didn't quite work.
Stephen Fry, searching for a secret, smashes a shelf of porcelain busts, and complains that that which he seeks is not amongst them, and must be hidden in some other, missing bust. He then notices that one bust has not fallen from the shelf with the others in some awkward prop mistake, and promptly decides to carry on regardless. Some simple running gags are just forgotten, like introducing three alliterative London clocks (Big Ben, Massive Murray, and Tiny Terry) and later only showing the first two. Later they remember again. What?
In addition, as I noted above, the acting is simply bizarre in its lack of quality. These are experienced comedy actors and performers, who should be used to imbuing dialogue with character. Many have appeared in sketch comedy, in which a character can be reduced almost entirely to the lines they speak, and they have elsewhere done so successfully. Here, it is as though they are embarrassed to be there, and they will simply grit their teeth and get it over with. For the audience, it is equally embarrassing to watch, when performers of such high standing are reduced to the quality of the child actors, who are excused on the basis that all child actors are unwatchable.
Worse than that, though, is the sneaking suspicion that the awkward, wooden acting is intentional. The cast perform as though they don't want the audience to forget that they are actors. There is no attempt to become the characters, to pretend that the imaginary people are real, which is sort of the point of acting. The BBC are also currently showing re-runs of David Tennant's Doctor Who, and the juxtaposition is interesting. Both portray ridiculous worlds, with a dependency on CGI backgrounds, but in Who, for all its faults, the actors at least play along. Tennant at least has the decency not to wink at the audience and say "I'm not really a timelord, you know".
Considering Mark Evans' involvement, I at least had high hopes for the script. Bleak Expectations, which as a radio comedy has of course never been discovered or listen to by anyone, ever, is an excellent combination of strong acting, wordplay and running gags which also manages to be extremely funny. It is also inextricably bound to radio, the dialogue and plots making full use of the medium's strengths. Radio also allows it to get away with more - the family friendliness of Bleak Shop is something which struck me particularly. To draw an example from the more recently aired episode, a vicious boarding school is named "St Nasty's", whereas the radio series opted for "St Bastard's". It's the little things.
More importantly, the script of Bleak Shop is not at all as superlative. Much of the same enjoyment of language is evident - the children are chided for calling another character a "mentalist", and are asked to use more sensitive terms, "like softhead, nutjob or derangetron". Direct nods are made, in fact - instead of saying "hurrah", or similar, the characters use "Harumble!", invented in Expectations by Harry Biscuit. Except when they do in fact say "hurrah".
For the most part, the dialogue seems stilted and formulaic. Whereas in Expectations characters were quick to subvert or question an exchange or scene, here many obvious . You long for a character to draw attention to the absurdity of a situation, rather than simply ploughing into yet another "noble sir...".
There are some exceptions. Richard Johnson, a veteran of the Expectations cast, is at least getting into his minor role as an elderly uncle, and David Mitchell is watchable in any capacity, if seemingly a little frustrated here. Some jokes, like Fry switching hats to talk to himself as two characters, are not by any means original, but are handled adeptly - saved if nothing else by the natural talent of the actors themselves.
It's an awkward, disappointing thing, with an air of "that'll do". These are veterans actors, writers and directors, and they are capable of so much more. Add to that the quality of the source material. Dickens, as has been proved before, is a gift to those wanting to parody him. The Victorian era, or our hazy, jumbled-up notion of it, is equally a sweaty, shouty mine of humour, if one with dangerously inadequate safety standards.
I've watched and enjoyed a great deal of American television comedy recently, and I find it frustrating not that the UK is being left behind, but that we don't even seem to be playing the same game. It simply means less good television, which is a shame. We should be doing better.
Friday, 20 January 2012
Forwardly Direction
I'll be perfectly honest - this is an odd patch for me. Right now I'm living on the floor of a friend, job-seeking, home-seeking, and my options are almost infinitely open. I have no ties, really, and my skills are as valuable and redundant in any one place as they are in another. Aside from the limitations of money and language, I could settle anywhere in the world.
Of course, if I was really that skilled, that valuable, perhaps I wouldn't be in this position. I'd like to make a TV series, direct a play, run a ridiculous art thing, but I've systematically alienated anyone who would once have thought those might be cool ideas. Not just by being an ass either - that's a crutch of which I'm painfully aware, and a quick glance through my back catalogue shows that my critics haven't been wrong. I've been attempting to put together some kind of portfolio, and it's a unique experience. I've always valued doing an ambitious thing over doing a thing right, and I think that was foolhardy. There's not a lot back there that I'm proud of.
Hence the Dickensian soliloquy - I am every old man wondering whether it is too late to change. This year I need to decide whether I'm as smart as I think I am, and whether I shouldn't just cut my losses and be an accountant, or whatever the hell I'm supposed to be. That means I should really just get a project started, and damn the consequences.
We'll approach this objectively, because frankly if I was all that then I wouldn't be without actors and collaborators right now. I'm guessing being a full time creative man isn't all standing on a mountain asking where everyone has gone. If I'm so damn smart, I'll make use of what I've got, and go from there.
Of course, if I was really that skilled, that valuable, perhaps I wouldn't be in this position. I'd like to make a TV series, direct a play, run a ridiculous art thing, but I've systematically alienated anyone who would once have thought those might be cool ideas. Not just by being an ass either - that's a crutch of which I'm painfully aware, and a quick glance through my back catalogue shows that my critics haven't been wrong. I've been attempting to put together some kind of portfolio, and it's a unique experience. I've always valued doing an ambitious thing over doing a thing right, and I think that was foolhardy. There's not a lot back there that I'm proud of.
Hence the Dickensian soliloquy - I am every old man wondering whether it is too late to change. This year I need to decide whether I'm as smart as I think I am, and whether I shouldn't just cut my losses and be an accountant, or whatever the hell I'm supposed to be. That means I should really just get a project started, and damn the consequences.
We'll approach this objectively, because frankly if I was all that then I wouldn't be without actors and collaborators right now. I'm guessing being a full time creative man isn't all standing on a mountain asking where everyone has gone. If I'm so damn smart, I'll make use of what I've got, and go from there.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
The Waiting Game
Waiting is for chumps. If you have any kind of sense, make people wait for you, not the other way around. Turn up late, change venues, actively deceive your friends - these are the actions of sensible, forward-thinking people.
I was recently caught out by an evidently more sensible friend, and found myself the first to arrive at the pleasant bistro-bar-cafe that was our rendezvous. I bought a drink, sat outside in the fading January sun, and contemplated the scene.
The rituals of waiting are familiar, from the railway platform to the hospital waiting room. You are keen to announce to all possible observers that you are expecting another person, that this brief period of solitude is either a frustrating, if entirely necessary and unavoidable, part of your planned schedule, or a pleasing entrée, whetting the appetite for the main event. Your many, many friends will be arriving shortly, and - perhaps you smile to yourself - you're glad of the respite from all the camaraderie, the general hustling and bustling of your life. You're fine with it, this is fine. You wouldn't have arranged it any other way.
This is the point at which people check their watches and their phones, and roll their eyes, tut and shake their heads. "I said 7:00, and it's now 7:03," they silently say. The lone sitter hopes that someone will ask for one of the spare chairs, so that they can loudly impart the information that others will be arriving shortly, and those chairs will be required. This tactic can backfire, of course, if the delay increases - those people who wanted the chair will talk about you, and possibly believe that you have invisible friends.
I had by this point been waiting so long that I was experiencing Zeno's dichotomy paradox (beverage department). I had ordered a pint as, frankly, I have enough working against me sitting on my own without drinking a glass of red wine or similar. The pint is a prop - it gives me something to do whilst waiting. However, it is a risky tactic, because the person waiting (with a drink) is basically indistinguishable from the person drinking alone. You - the solitary waiting drinker - don't wish to finish the alcoholic beverage because you would then be faced with a dilemma - do you once again sit motionless, without a visual excuse explaining your presence, and inviting the scorn of passers-by, or do you order a second drink - thus admitting to yourself and to everyone present that you have consumed at least one alcoholic beverage alone.
So you begin to take smaller and smaller sips from your glass, or bottle, or mug. A pint works well in these situations because you begin with a reasonable quantity of beverage. If you have decided to wait with, say, some shots, then the problem that this presents is not your only problem. But in all normal situations - that is to say, paranoid and far too concerned with what indifferent citizens may think of you - then the scene will readily come to mind.
You start with confidence - perhaps, after all, you are a bit thirsty. Half of your beery drink is gone before ten minutes have elapsed (I'll be honest - years of poverty have engrained in me a leisurely drinking pace at the best of times, so alter these figures to fit with whatever you drunken louts think best). Slowly you become uneasy - either they should be here by now, or perhaps they interpreted the rendezvous time differently. It is not quite the time for anxious texts, but you begin to perform mental calculations - what if, say, the traffic was heavier than expected? Have the clocks gone back? You take a cautious swig from your glass and set it down. You text anyway.
I always envy smokers in these situations. Armed with a packet of cigarettes, a person can wait indefinitely - they acquire an air of concentration, of contemplation, that the solitary drinker (surely a reasonable comparison) cannot approach. It is the tactility of the prop - that it still active in the hand even while not near the mouth - combined with the its tangential relation with the drinking establishment. One would not necessarily go to a bar to smoke alone, but one might to drink alone. The person who rolls their own cigarettes does not even have to smoke them - in fact, I have friends who gave up smoking but still perform this ritual on these occasions.
The pint is now in its final third, and the waiting drinker finally receives a response text. An ornate dance is made of the receiving and reading of the text - "I wonder which of my many friends of which I have many has contacted me?". You take sips from your glass at infrequent intervals, but you cannot conserve it forever.
Your friend informs you that they have now left the house. Forty minutes have passed since the arranged meeting time. Your drinking has been reduced to a confident attitude while picking up the glass to mask the tiniest of sips. These are timed to take place whenever a glass-collector approaches, for fear that they will mistake the thin line of beverage for unwanted dregs, and remove it for your convenience.
Inevitably, your friend then texts to nominate a new venue. They will not have the decency to phone you, so that you can loudly announce the new plan to the assembled crowd. Learn your lesson, and never return.
I was recently caught out by an evidently more sensible friend, and found myself the first to arrive at the pleasant bistro-bar-cafe that was our rendezvous. I bought a drink, sat outside in the fading January sun, and contemplated the scene.
The rituals of waiting are familiar, from the railway platform to the hospital waiting room. You are keen to announce to all possible observers that you are expecting another person, that this brief period of solitude is either a frustrating, if entirely necessary and unavoidable, part of your planned schedule, or a pleasing entrée, whetting the appetite for the main event. Your many, many friends will be arriving shortly, and - perhaps you smile to yourself - you're glad of the respite from all the camaraderie, the general hustling and bustling of your life. You're fine with it, this is fine. You wouldn't have arranged it any other way.
This is the point at which people check their watches and their phones, and roll their eyes, tut and shake their heads. "I said 7:00, and it's now 7:03," they silently say. The lone sitter hopes that someone will ask for one of the spare chairs, so that they can loudly impart the information that others will be arriving shortly, and those chairs will be required. This tactic can backfire, of course, if the delay increases - those people who wanted the chair will talk about you, and possibly believe that you have invisible friends.
I had by this point been waiting so long that I was experiencing Zeno's dichotomy paradox (beverage department). I had ordered a pint as, frankly, I have enough working against me sitting on my own without drinking a glass of red wine or similar. The pint is a prop - it gives me something to do whilst waiting. However, it is a risky tactic, because the person waiting (with a drink) is basically indistinguishable from the person drinking alone. You - the solitary waiting drinker - don't wish to finish the alcoholic beverage because you would then be faced with a dilemma - do you once again sit motionless, without a visual excuse explaining your presence, and inviting the scorn of passers-by, or do you order a second drink - thus admitting to yourself and to everyone present that you have consumed at least one alcoholic beverage alone.
So you begin to take smaller and smaller sips from your glass, or bottle, or mug. A pint works well in these situations because you begin with a reasonable quantity of beverage. If you have decided to wait with, say, some shots, then the problem that this presents is not your only problem. But in all normal situations - that is to say, paranoid and far too concerned with what indifferent citizens may think of you - then the scene will readily come to mind.
You start with confidence - perhaps, after all, you are a bit thirsty. Half of your beery drink is gone before ten minutes have elapsed (I'll be honest - years of poverty have engrained in me a leisurely drinking pace at the best of times, so alter these figures to fit with whatever you drunken louts think best). Slowly you become uneasy - either they should be here by now, or perhaps they interpreted the rendezvous time differently. It is not quite the time for anxious texts, but you begin to perform mental calculations - what if, say, the traffic was heavier than expected? Have the clocks gone back? You take a cautious swig from your glass and set it down. You text anyway.
I always envy smokers in these situations. Armed with a packet of cigarettes, a person can wait indefinitely - they acquire an air of concentration, of contemplation, that the solitary drinker (surely a reasonable comparison) cannot approach. It is the tactility of the prop - that it still active in the hand even while not near the mouth - combined with the its tangential relation with the drinking establishment. One would not necessarily go to a bar to smoke alone, but one might to drink alone. The person who rolls their own cigarettes does not even have to smoke them - in fact, I have friends who gave up smoking but still perform this ritual on these occasions.
The pint is now in its final third, and the waiting drinker finally receives a response text. An ornate dance is made of the receiving and reading of the text - "I wonder which of my many friends of which I have many has contacted me?". You take sips from your glass at infrequent intervals, but you cannot conserve it forever.
Your friend informs you that they have now left the house. Forty minutes have passed since the arranged meeting time. Your drinking has been reduced to a confident attitude while picking up the glass to mask the tiniest of sips. These are timed to take place whenever a glass-collector approaches, for fear that they will mistake the thin line of beverage for unwanted dregs, and remove it for your convenience.
Inevitably, your friend then texts to nominate a new venue. They will not have the decency to phone you, so that you can loudly announce the new plan to the assembled crowd. Learn your lesson, and never return.
Monday, 19 December 2011
This will inevitably, but accidentally, get lots of pageviews
I've read quite a lot of material on making indie films over the past few weeks. That includes some books, articles, and a whole lot of websites. I have no interest in creating an independent film - TV series, remember? - but my theory is that surely a whole lot of the advice must be applicable to both. I mean, it's all cameras, microphones and complaining about Apple products.
Why do I want to make a TV series? Why do I keep calling it a TV series given that it will be on the web?
I don't own a television. Television, for me, comes in discs or (more often) from the internet. By which I mean things like iPlayer, obviously. Anyway! I am pretty fussy when it comes to the kind of TV I watch. We've covered this before - I like stories, characters, worlds. I do not watch Don't Tell the Bride, or Keeping up with the Kardashians. I tell my co-workers I watch no television at all, just to avoid those awful daily conversations (it doesn't work).
Why do I like the idea of a series? It's the same reason I like genre fictions - a series lets you set up characters, and a world, and then do what you like with them. Strong enough characters can survive practically any juxtaposition - think of the shows which throw in a musical episode, or a one-where-they-all-act-like-each-other. Or a bottle episode. Right now, Community does this the best - in fact, it rarely has what you might call a 'straight' episode. The characters are so well-defined that it isn't just a case of throwing interesting situations at them, but whole genres and worlds.
That's where I want to be. I want to have a backdrop on which to mess about. I want to use all of literature, all of culture, as a lens through which to peer at the interactions of a few imaginary people. And then, before I'm tired of them, just start it all over again with another crowd.
Why do I want to make a TV series? Why do I keep calling it a TV series given that it will be on the web?
I don't own a television. Television, for me, comes in discs or (more often) from the internet. By which I mean things like iPlayer, obviously. Anyway! I am pretty fussy when it comes to the kind of TV I watch. We've covered this before - I like stories, characters, worlds. I do not watch Don't Tell the Bride, or Keeping up with the Kardashians. I tell my co-workers I watch no television at all, just to avoid those awful daily conversations (it doesn't work).
Why do I like the idea of a series? It's the same reason I like genre fictions - a series lets you set up characters, and a world, and then do what you like with them. Strong enough characters can survive practically any juxtaposition - think of the shows which throw in a musical episode, or a one-where-they-all-act-like-each-other. Or a bottle episode. Right now, Community does this the best - in fact, it rarely has what you might call a 'straight' episode. The characters are so well-defined that it isn't just a case of throwing interesting situations at them, but whole genres and worlds.
That's where I want to be. I want to have a backdrop on which to mess about. I want to use all of literature, all of culture, as a lens through which to peer at the interactions of a few imaginary people. And then, before I'm tired of them, just start it all over again with another crowd.
Saturday, 17 December 2011
Let's make a TV series in 2012
I know I promise things, and sometimes I don't follow through. I am sorry, and I will try to do better. While I'm working on that, let's talk about my new exciting plan.
Next year I head to Holland and film a TV series. That's pretty great, right? The thinking is that we do a short, web-based series and for the rest of our lives, can always say that we produced a TV show. Or maybe we use it to springboard into glitzy jobs, I'm not sure. Anyway!
Right now, the main problem is that to persuade people (potential investors, cast and crew) that our TV series is a good idea, we need scripts, synopses, general information. But stories are supposed to be character led, and who knows what kind of actors I'll get. The relative abundance of volunteer actors is why this is going down in the Netherlands, incidentally.
Arguing chicken and the egg in this way is silly, of course. Write a decent script, get the actors, then change it completely later on if we have to.
What do we know? Well, male actors are going to be in short supply, so a character list should be female-biased. These people are volunteers, driven mainly by general altruism, love of performance, and my co-producer's interpersonal skills. Rehearsing and filming will be fairly time-intensive (I've opted for a single camera set-up, on the basis of equipment costs, and the fact that the actors will be used to theatre, and so blocking and re-running a scene should be second nature) so limiting the number of episodes the majority are in will be a priority.
A 'main character' list of, say, three actors. Probably one male, 2 female. It's going to be awkward that other classic sources of diversity - say, age, race etc - are going to be pretty much out of my hands. I imagine the narrative as whole as this long line, of which the actual episodes are sort of the middle. The characters' backstories will get changed by whoever ends up playing them, which in turn affects what kind of characters they become, which alters the way the stories play out, which changes the direction of the show, and whatever direction we're facing when we close.
Next year I head to Holland and film a TV series. That's pretty great, right? The thinking is that we do a short, web-based series and for the rest of our lives, can always say that we produced a TV show. Or maybe we use it to springboard into glitzy jobs, I'm not sure. Anyway!
Right now, the main problem is that to persuade people (potential investors, cast and crew) that our TV series is a good idea, we need scripts, synopses, general information. But stories are supposed to be character led, and who knows what kind of actors I'll get. The relative abundance of volunteer actors is why this is going down in the Netherlands, incidentally.
Arguing chicken and the egg in this way is silly, of course. Write a decent script, get the actors, then change it completely later on if we have to.
What do we know? Well, male actors are going to be in short supply, so a character list should be female-biased. These people are volunteers, driven mainly by general altruism, love of performance, and my co-producer's interpersonal skills. Rehearsing and filming will be fairly time-intensive (I've opted for a single camera set-up, on the basis of equipment costs, and the fact that the actors will be used to theatre, and so blocking and re-running a scene should be second nature) so limiting the number of episodes the majority are in will be a priority.
A 'main character' list of, say, three actors. Probably one male, 2 female. It's going to be awkward that other classic sources of diversity - say, age, race etc - are going to be pretty much out of my hands. I imagine the narrative as whole as this long line, of which the actual episodes are sort of the middle. The characters' backstories will get changed by whoever ends up playing them, which in turn affects what kind of characters they become, which alters the way the stories play out, which changes the direction of the show, and whatever direction we're facing when we close.
Sunday, 26 June 2011
Blundering
I was cold, wet, and my legs were openly rebelling. They weren't made for this. The rain wasn't heavy, but it was consistent. It wasn't as dark as it had been, and I was beginning to think I'd taken a wrong turning, or several, at some point.
Starting in the middle of the story is cliché, the Latin pops into your head as you roll your eyes. Sometimes you can't see the beginning until you've realised that a story is actually being told. Until that point it's just been things happening to you, one after the other. Sometimes (depending on what kind of night you're having), you can't actually remember the beginning. Other people might not remember the end, but we probably have different sorts of nights.
It was 4am, which meant I'd already spent an hour on what should be an hour's journey. And I didn't recognise anything. Or worse, I was recognising streets and following them, only to realise that they were just very similar in appearance to other roads. There's only so much variety that can be expected in a straight, curvy line with houses on the sides. I've no problem with admitting I'm lost, I'm not that proud. I just never saw how admitting it actually helped. Still got to find the way to wherever you're going.
This is not how nights out are meant to end. I brought a sleeping bag and a change of clothes, for Christ's sake. I was offered not one but two sofas. That was in the drier part of the evening, before events became all connected. The route of my taxi from the station inspired a text, and the response inspired a meeting with someone entirely different. But the kingdom wasn't lost for want of a nail. The kingdom was buggered either way, and whatever any series of events that night would have led to me stumbling through the rain looking for street signs.
At some point I started attempting to hitchhike. I did this more as an empty gesture than the beginnings of a plan - I have never actually seen a car stop for anyone, especially in a city, and this was the dead hours of Saturday morning. My drowned rat looks couldn't have helped matters. One car stopped, and I realised I had hailed a taxi. I was minded to be fatalistic at this point, but was bemused to see the cab gradually roll from a stop into a sprint. "I've just got another call, mate." Right.
I remember, in the bar, someone suggesting that I should stop trying to get arty people together, and instead just write, finish some projects. And here we are, typing energetically. A connection - that's progress, good. That's almost a narrative structure, right there. We're beginning to get somewhere.
I was having to navigate by smartphone GPS. This was fine if I wanted to know what street I was on, but not if I wanted to see how that fitted into the bigger picture - for some reason both scrolling and zooming weren't working. Anything off the postage stamp sized screen was a mystery to me. I walking a map of separate screens. Once my destination and I were on the same postage stamp - about a hundred yards away from each other - then I would know where I was going. Eventually, any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from idiocy.
The city has a tall tower, more or less at its centre. This is helpful, in theory, as it is a landmark one can simply walk towards. But travelling through a city with your eyes on a point is like attempting to navigate a lawn maze by the stars. Cities, at least our cities, know the secret, that one thing isn't necessarily connected to another. They abhor straight lines.
Eventually I ended up in a suburb of cul-de-sacs, right where I reckoned the university to be. It had changed, I could see that. I could still see the tower, and knew I wasn't too far from my destination, but now I was surrounded by houses and walls. One big wall. I actually did a little double-jump, hopping from a fence onto the top of the wall. I could now see the ten foot drop into a field of brambles on the other side. I lived in this city for three years. When was all this stuff added? I walked all the way back out of the estate.
I was at the mouth of an empty road tunnel. The signs all pointed into the tunnel, but I was understandably apprehensive. That was where cars lived, after all. A harsh voice sounded from somewhere behind me - only the second life sign I'd come across since appearing in the streets. My first instinct - not a reliable guide so far, admittedly - was to avoid contact, but the man, keeping his own distance as well, asked where I going. Feeling that a metaphysical response was beyond me at this stage, I told him, and he pointed at a gap in the architecture. I was metres away from my destination.
In the train station I attacked a panini with more gusto than it deserved, and swayingly purchased a notepad. On the train I wrote a few words (and long sentences) before falling in a damp, head on arms sleep. I woke moments before the train arrived at the right station.
Starting in the middle of the story is cliché, the Latin pops into your head as you roll your eyes. Sometimes you can't see the beginning until you've realised that a story is actually being told. Until that point it's just been things happening to you, one after the other. Sometimes (depending on what kind of night you're having), you can't actually remember the beginning. Other people might not remember the end, but we probably have different sorts of nights.
It was 4am, which meant I'd already spent an hour on what should be an hour's journey. And I didn't recognise anything. Or worse, I was recognising streets and following them, only to realise that they were just very similar in appearance to other roads. There's only so much variety that can be expected in a straight, curvy line with houses on the sides. I've no problem with admitting I'm lost, I'm not that proud. I just never saw how admitting it actually helped. Still got to find the way to wherever you're going.
This is not how nights out are meant to end. I brought a sleeping bag and a change of clothes, for Christ's sake. I was offered not one but two sofas. That was in the drier part of the evening, before events became all connected. The route of my taxi from the station inspired a text, and the response inspired a meeting with someone entirely different. But the kingdom wasn't lost for want of a nail. The kingdom was buggered either way, and whatever any series of events that night would have led to me stumbling through the rain looking for street signs.
At some point I started attempting to hitchhike. I did this more as an empty gesture than the beginnings of a plan - I have never actually seen a car stop for anyone, especially in a city, and this was the dead hours of Saturday morning. My drowned rat looks couldn't have helped matters. One car stopped, and I realised I had hailed a taxi. I was minded to be fatalistic at this point, but was bemused to see the cab gradually roll from a stop into a sprint. "I've just got another call, mate." Right.
I remember, in the bar, someone suggesting that I should stop trying to get arty people together, and instead just write, finish some projects. And here we are, typing energetically. A connection - that's progress, good. That's almost a narrative structure, right there. We're beginning to get somewhere.
I was having to navigate by smartphone GPS. This was fine if I wanted to know what street I was on, but not if I wanted to see how that fitted into the bigger picture - for some reason both scrolling and zooming weren't working. Anything off the postage stamp sized screen was a mystery to me. I walking a map of separate screens. Once my destination and I were on the same postage stamp - about a hundred yards away from each other - then I would know where I was going. Eventually, any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from idiocy.
The city has a tall tower, more or less at its centre. This is helpful, in theory, as it is a landmark one can simply walk towards. But travelling through a city with your eyes on a point is like attempting to navigate a lawn maze by the stars. Cities, at least our cities, know the secret, that one thing isn't necessarily connected to another. They abhor straight lines.
Eventually I ended up in a suburb of cul-de-sacs, right where I reckoned the university to be. It had changed, I could see that. I could still see the tower, and knew I wasn't too far from my destination, but now I was surrounded by houses and walls. One big wall. I actually did a little double-jump, hopping from a fence onto the top of the wall. I could now see the ten foot drop into a field of brambles on the other side. I lived in this city for three years. When was all this stuff added? I walked all the way back out of the estate.
I was at the mouth of an empty road tunnel. The signs all pointed into the tunnel, but I was understandably apprehensive. That was where cars lived, after all. A harsh voice sounded from somewhere behind me - only the second life sign I'd come across since appearing in the streets. My first instinct - not a reliable guide so far, admittedly - was to avoid contact, but the man, keeping his own distance as well, asked where I going. Feeling that a metaphysical response was beyond me at this stage, I told him, and he pointed at a gap in the architecture. I was metres away from my destination.
In the train station I attacked a panini with more gusto than it deserved, and swayingly purchased a notepad. On the train I wrote a few words (and long sentences) before falling in a damp, head on arms sleep. I woke moments before the train arrived at the right station.
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