AM I really the only person in the western hemisphere not to like Slumdog Millionaire?
Actually, I know the answer to that question. My wife didn't like it much either. But she didn't take against it quite so violently as I did, and with the usual critic's antennae twitching, I have been turning over why I found this Oscar shoo-in quite so objectionable.
Part of it is the script, by Full Monty writer Simon Beaufoy. It seems to me to be ramshackle, incoherent and needlessly unpleasant. Incredibly, it won the Golden Globe.
Part of it is the direction, in which Danny Boyle transposes Trainspotting to the slums of Mumbai and gives us plenty of gritty realism but no humour or contrast to leaven the distasteful diet. Incredibly, it won the Golden Globe.
Part of it is the pacing, which is unforgivably interrupted by the leaden device of the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire framing, although it has to be said that most of the dramatic tension comes from the TV show scenes - and I would rather have watched an hour of that than two of this seedy nonsense.
Incredibly, it won the Golden Globe.
And there's another thing: this is being sold as "the feelgood movie of the decade". Feelgood? If this is a feelgood film, what does that make Trainspotting - a light romance?
Now the Oscars are bearing down on us and it looks like not even Kate Winslet can stop the juggernaut of hype behind Slumdog. Does it matter? Not in the grand scheme of things - not compared to the life-and-death daily struggle of the real slumdogs in Mumbai, whose horrific existence is exploited for entertainment purposes here.
But I would be fascinated to ask the Academy members who vote for it just what they see that is passing me by.
Monday 19 January 2009
Thursday 4 December 2008
A pile of pants
It's done.
The mantra has been met: Don't get it right, get it written.
The first draft of the pilot episode of my new TV drama series is in the bag.
And, according to all sources, it'll be a pile of pants. But it's my pile of pants and I can be proud of having written it, if not of it itself.
I used to think synchronicity was a word Sting had made up to make himself sound clever, but it actually has a real meaning. And it's odd that the completion of my first draft last night should coincide with a message from another scriptwriter pointing me in the direction of this fascinating BBC4 programme, in which TV writers are interviewed about... well, TV writing:
www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00fvgj5/Charlie_Brookers_Screenwipe_Series_4_Episode_3/
There is so much for me to cling on to here, from the assurance that there will be many more drafts ahead to the near certainty that I will hate what I have written when I go back to it cold.
None of this matters. For now, I am basking in the simple but significant achievement of writing "FADE OUT" at the end of my episode.
Now the real work begins...
The mantra has been met: Don't get it right, get it written.
The first draft of the pilot episode of my new TV drama series is in the bag.
And, according to all sources, it'll be a pile of pants. But it's my pile of pants and I can be proud of having written it, if not of it itself.
I used to think synchronicity was a word Sting had made up to make himself sound clever, but it actually has a real meaning. And it's odd that the completion of my first draft last night should coincide with a message from another scriptwriter pointing me in the direction of this fascinating BBC4 programme, in which TV writers are interviewed about... well, TV writing:
www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00fvgj5/Charlie_Brookers_Screenwipe_Series_4_Episode_3/
There is so much for me to cling on to here, from the assurance that there will be many more drafts ahead to the near certainty that I will hate what I have written when I go back to it cold.
None of this matters. For now, I am basking in the simple but significant achievement of writing "FADE OUT" at the end of my episode.
Now the real work begins...
Tuesday 2 December 2008
Virtual Viagra
WHERE the hell have I been these past few weeks?
Blogging is a major commitment if you want to be taken seriously, and there's no bigger crime in the blogosphere than failure to get it up, if you'll pardon the expression.
I guess I could make my excuses and reach for the virtual Viagra but - hey - the truth is actually more interesting.
The truth is I've been working my way through weeks of careful preparation for creating the pilot episode of my new hour-long TV drama serial. That and an interesting mixture of reviewing, roleplaying and redundancy.
Check the website - www.mrgdavies.com - for the reviews. Roleplays have ranged from the Foreign Office to Travis Perkins (you can't complain it's not varied). And redundancy is an ongoing tale of woe familiar to all freelances, who not only suffer the indignity of being regarded as second-class citizens, but also then have to fight for every last penny when they've outlived their usefulness... or at least their affordability. Every silver lining has a cloud, they don't say but they should.
Anyway, back to the main point. The script.
Having toiled for endless hours through various stages of development, from pitch and synopsis to treatment and scene-by-scene breakdown, the writer now faces the ultimate in painful pleasure: actually writing the damn thing.
And that's why I'm back blogging. Classic diversionary tactics. There's a script in there somewhere, Jim, I promise, and I'll have it to you before next Wednesday's deadline by hook or by crook.
Unless those three panto reviews, next week's roleplay, a weekend gig and washing my hair somehow conspire to get in the way.
Blogging is a major commitment if you want to be taken seriously, and there's no bigger crime in the blogosphere than failure to get it up, if you'll pardon the expression.
I guess I could make my excuses and reach for the virtual Viagra but - hey - the truth is actually more interesting.
The truth is I've been working my way through weeks of careful preparation for creating the pilot episode of my new hour-long TV drama serial. That and an interesting mixture of reviewing, roleplaying and redundancy.
Check the website - www.mrgdavies.com - for the reviews. Roleplays have ranged from the Foreign Office to Travis Perkins (you can't complain it's not varied). And redundancy is an ongoing tale of woe familiar to all freelances, who not only suffer the indignity of being regarded as second-class citizens, but also then have to fight for every last penny when they've outlived their usefulness... or at least their affordability. Every silver lining has a cloud, they don't say but they should.
Anyway, back to the main point. The script.
Having toiled for endless hours through various stages of development, from pitch and synopsis to treatment and scene-by-scene breakdown, the writer now faces the ultimate in painful pleasure: actually writing the damn thing.
And that's why I'm back blogging. Classic diversionary tactics. There's a script in there somewhere, Jim, I promise, and I'll have it to you before next Wednesday's deadline by hook or by crook.
Unless those three panto reviews, next week's roleplay, a weekend gig and washing my hair somehow conspire to get in the way.
Tuesday 7 October 2008
Pearls of Wisdom, Quantum of Solace
SO there were indeed plenty of pearls of wisdom from John Yorke, head drama honcho at Auntie Beeb, but the best nuggets were specifically banned from bloggers' reports of the occasion and, since the man is who he is, I'm not about to spill the beans.
Suffice it to say that my expectations of the MA course look likely to be exposed as myopic narrow-mindedness compared to the reality that unfolds over the next two extraordinary years.
To cap a fine week in name-dropping opportunities, I spent Sunday evening in the company of a whole host of stars and megastars at a gala tribute to Ian Fleming at the London Palladium.
As you might expect from the creator of the best-known spy in the world, Fleming's name alone would have drawn A-listers wanting to mark the centenary year of his birth. The fact that his family had managed to entice Daniel Craig, Joanna Lumley, Stephen Fry and that old raised eyebrow himself, Sir Roger Moore, merely added icing to the thrill-seeker's cake.
Camped in our finery in the star-spangled stalls, we found ourselves seated immediately behind two of the Redgrave girls - Jemma and her half-sister Natasha Richardson - and immediately in front of Lady Moore and her family. I even outdid myself at one point by standing on the foot of Sir Roger's grandson, who smiled sweetly at my apology and graciously abstained from kicking me with a poisoned stiletto or slipping a venomous scorpion into my tuxedo pocket.
The list of celebrities is too numerous to offer in full, but among the audience were Don Black, Richard Curtis and, just along the row from us, the present incumbent of the 007 mantle, Mr Craig himself. On stage, they included Jeremy Irons, Toby Stephens, Lemar, Lee Mead, Tony Hadley, Beverley Knight, Samantha Bond, Brian Conley, Ruby Turner, Mica Paris, Christopher Lee, Harriet Walter and Charlie Higson.
It was a sublime evening, a fine tribute to Fleming and all in aid of the British Heart Foundation. And best of all, there was a huge band, live on stage, under the matchless musical direction of Michael Reed, making all those James Bond themes sound as thrilling and fresh as the day they were minted.
Suffice it to say that my expectations of the MA course look likely to be exposed as myopic narrow-mindedness compared to the reality that unfolds over the next two extraordinary years.
To cap a fine week in name-dropping opportunities, I spent Sunday evening in the company of a whole host of stars and megastars at a gala tribute to Ian Fleming at the London Palladium.
As you might expect from the creator of the best-known spy in the world, Fleming's name alone would have drawn A-listers wanting to mark the centenary year of his birth. The fact that his family had managed to entice Daniel Craig, Joanna Lumley, Stephen Fry and that old raised eyebrow himself, Sir Roger Moore, merely added icing to the thrill-seeker's cake.
Camped in our finery in the star-spangled stalls, we found ourselves seated immediately behind two of the Redgrave girls - Jemma and her half-sister Natasha Richardson - and immediately in front of Lady Moore and her family. I even outdid myself at one point by standing on the foot of Sir Roger's grandson, who smiled sweetly at my apology and graciously abstained from kicking me with a poisoned stiletto or slipping a venomous scorpion into my tuxedo pocket.
The list of celebrities is too numerous to offer in full, but among the audience were Don Black, Richard Curtis and, just along the row from us, the present incumbent of the 007 mantle, Mr Craig himself. On stage, they included Jeremy Irons, Toby Stephens, Lemar, Lee Mead, Tony Hadley, Beverley Knight, Samantha Bond, Brian Conley, Ruby Turner, Mica Paris, Christopher Lee, Harriet Walter and Charlie Higson.
It was a sublime evening, a fine tribute to Fleming and all in aid of the British Heart Foundation. And best of all, there was a huge band, live on stage, under the matchless musical direction of Michael Reed, making all those James Bond themes sound as thrilling and fresh as the day they were minted.
Wednesday 1 October 2008
Going straight to the top
TODAY I get to spend a couple of hours with John Yorke, the BBC's controller of drama production.
Unfortunately, it's not a one-to-one commissioning meeting. But it is a unique opportunity for close-up access to perhaps the single most influential man in British telly at the moment.
For those who don't know, Yorke had an illustrious script editing and producing career, culminating in the role of executive producer of EastEnders through its high-rating Kat and Zoe Slater storyline. He's also the mastermind behind Auntie's Writers' Academy, an in-house incubator for writers on shows such as Casualty, Holby City and EE itself.
So how am I getting to share a room with him (and 20-odd other people, but we won't count them)? Well, it's the first day of my new MA degree course in TV Scriptwriting at De Montfort University in Leicester, one of the best-regarded training grounds in the industry. And they've bagged Mr Yorke for the very first seminar. Not bad, huh?
Considering a one-day event earlier in the year had already put me in a room with Tony McHale (Holby exec prod) and Corrie assistant prod Gavin Blythe, inter alia, I'm guessing the networking possibilities alone are going to be worth the course fees.
Pearls of wisdom from the very top: I'll keep you posted...
Unfortunately, it's not a one-to-one commissioning meeting. But it is a unique opportunity for close-up access to perhaps the single most influential man in British telly at the moment.
For those who don't know, Yorke had an illustrious script editing and producing career, culminating in the role of executive producer of EastEnders through its high-rating Kat and Zoe Slater storyline. He's also the mastermind behind Auntie's Writers' Academy, an in-house incubator for writers on shows such as Casualty, Holby City and EE itself.
So how am I getting to share a room with him (and 20-odd other people, but we won't count them)? Well, it's the first day of my new MA degree course in TV Scriptwriting at De Montfort University in Leicester, one of the best-regarded training grounds in the industry. And they've bagged Mr Yorke for the very first seminar. Not bad, huh?
Considering a one-day event earlier in the year had already put me in a room with Tony McHale (Holby exec prod) and Corrie assistant prod Gavin Blythe, inter alia, I'm guessing the networking possibilities alone are going to be worth the course fees.
Pearls of wisdom from the very top: I'll keep you posted...
Tuesday 23 September 2008
Let's misbehave
SINCE when has it become acceptable for theatre audiences to behave as if they were at the movies?
Cinemagoers these days routinely indulge in a variety of activities aimed, it seems to me, specifically at ruining my experience. Appalling behaviours that are casually exhibited include conversations, sweet-rustling and the incessant, intrusive use of mobile phones - both for texting and, incredibly, for updating absent friends on the progress of the film.
Then there's the weak bladder brigade, whose to-ing and fro-ing is a constant source of merriment for those of us long-legged enough to require aisle seats and thus be disturbed for every call of nature in our row.
All this is bad enough at the cinema, where the gradual increase in multiplex screens and erosion of staff numbers mean there are never enough of those children who pose as ushers to police the offenders.
But there are worrying signs that such aberrant behaviour is becoming the norm in our theatres too.
During successive performances last week, I was disturbed by people whispering to their neighbours, mobile phone lights indicating not-so-subtle texting going on, and even audience members getting up and moving about, either for a comfort break or to find a better seat.
And don't give me any nonsense about audiences in Shakespeare's day being a rowdy rabble to be won over by the players. We've had four hundred years of history since then for our attitudes to become a little more refined: we no longer kill people for misdemeanours, for instance, or throw piss into the street.
As with so many aspects of social collapse these days, I blame Thatcher. The cult of the individual, with its emphasis on personal fulfilment regardless of the wider cost, has been responsible for countless ills over the past couple of decades, but it's depressing to see this particular vein of selfishness creeping into our playhouses.
So if the day is fast approaching when I am moved to stand up in a theatre and shout at a straying texter "Put that light out!", don't say you haven't been warned.
Cinemagoers these days routinely indulge in a variety of activities aimed, it seems to me, specifically at ruining my experience. Appalling behaviours that are casually exhibited include conversations, sweet-rustling and the incessant, intrusive use of mobile phones - both for texting and, incredibly, for updating absent friends on the progress of the film.
Then there's the weak bladder brigade, whose to-ing and fro-ing is a constant source of merriment for those of us long-legged enough to require aisle seats and thus be disturbed for every call of nature in our row.
All this is bad enough at the cinema, where the gradual increase in multiplex screens and erosion of staff numbers mean there are never enough of those children who pose as ushers to police the offenders.
But there are worrying signs that such aberrant behaviour is becoming the norm in our theatres too.
During successive performances last week, I was disturbed by people whispering to their neighbours, mobile phone lights indicating not-so-subtle texting going on, and even audience members getting up and moving about, either for a comfort break or to find a better seat.
And don't give me any nonsense about audiences in Shakespeare's day being a rowdy rabble to be won over by the players. We've had four hundred years of history since then for our attitudes to become a little more refined: we no longer kill people for misdemeanours, for instance, or throw piss into the street.
As with so many aspects of social collapse these days, I blame Thatcher. The cult of the individual, with its emphasis on personal fulfilment regardless of the wider cost, has been responsible for countless ills over the past couple of decades, but it's depressing to see this particular vein of selfishness creeping into our playhouses.
So if the day is fast approaching when I am moved to stand up in a theatre and shout at a straying texter "Put that light out!", don't say you haven't been warned.
Captain's Blog
When is a blog not a blog?
I know there should be some witty punchline in there somewhere, but I'm damned if I can think of it.
That doesn't invalidate the question, of course, and anyone daring to presume that their pearls of wisdom might be of any interest to readers out there in what they apparently call the blogosphere (who invents this stuff?) should be possessed of:
1. a load of self-confidence;
2. an irresponsibly misguided sense of their own importance; or
3. something worth saying.
Which have I? You be the judge...
So why put one's opinions out there for all to see, alongside the thousands of others doing the same? Is it a journal? Is it a rant? Is it therapy?
Don't come looking for answers. You might find things that interest you, you might find things that infuriate you. My take is that I have views on certain matters, mainly related to theatre and the arts, and I have a 25-year professional career writing about these things that perhaps lends some weight to my opinions, so I feel - rightly or wrongly - entitled to air them. If you don't want to read them, that's fine. If you've got this far, you must be at least vaguely interested.
Stick with it if you can bear it. Post a comment if you like. I'm not precious. I just need to be loved...
I know there should be some witty punchline in there somewhere, but I'm damned if I can think of it.
That doesn't invalidate the question, of course, and anyone daring to presume that their pearls of wisdom might be of any interest to readers out there in what they apparently call the blogosphere (who invents this stuff?) should be possessed of:
1. a load of self-confidence;
2. an irresponsibly misguided sense of their own importance; or
3. something worth saying.
Which have I? You be the judge...
So why put one's opinions out there for all to see, alongside the thousands of others doing the same? Is it a journal? Is it a rant? Is it therapy?
Don't come looking for answers. You might find things that interest you, you might find things that infuriate you. My take is that I have views on certain matters, mainly related to theatre and the arts, and I have a 25-year professional career writing about these things that perhaps lends some weight to my opinions, so I feel - rightly or wrongly - entitled to air them. If you don't want to read them, that's fine. If you've got this far, you must be at least vaguely interested.
Stick with it if you can bear it. Post a comment if you like. I'm not precious. I just need to be loved...
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