Monday, 22 June 2009

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Oh God! Oh Jesus Christ, noooooooo!Well, with the summer solstice passing this weekend, it was a good time for a bit of a celebration of death and rebirth... that's right, dedicated readers: my laptop has died. Booooooooo. But now I have a nice new shiny laptop. Hurrah! It's all ups and downs on the solstice.

But shiny and nail-polish stain free as my lovely new Acer is, let us spend a minute to mourn the passing of my bizarrely over-specced (is that how you spell that?) but still slightly rubbish Dell, The Script Machine. Yes, I named my laptop. Nothing weird about that. It's been dying a slow and torturous death of massive crashes and complete file corruptions for three months or so, and I spent quite a lot of the past month shouting at it furiously and threatening to hit it with sticks, but t'was on those fair keys that I wrote my very first half decent scripts, and a few bad ones.

The Script Machine: 2004 - 2009. Rest in the spare bedroom.

My new laptop is very shiny, and in a super sexy midnight blue, not, not, I assure you, pink. I would include a picture, but it's so beautiful that you would all travel to my house and kidnap it, travelling with it to a cave to be your illicit-tech bride. You know you would. You're filthy.

It's crunch week for That's How I Roll - commissioning decisions from BBC3 are due this week, so I should know one way or t'other soon enough. Whichever way the decision falls, I suspect beer will follow.

And finally, in my occasional series of musical recommendations that mostly revolve around Ladytron, can I suggest you purchase their very first iTunes exclusive live album here. I should have been part of the crowd noise, but I was at the previous Astoria show, that got cancelled 40 minutes in when an amp blew up unimpressivley but fatally (for the amp, nobody actually died). Therefore, this recommendation is tinged with a little bit of resentment, which at least suits the mood of the music.

I bid you adieu.





Saturday, 6 June 2009

Drag me to rationality...


I went to see Drag Me To Hell recently, and it's a lot of fun, silly, scary (in a boo! way as opposed to a Session 9 could sleep for days way) and a throw-back to the sort of movies that made me fall in love with horror in the first place; not suprising, as it was written by Sam and Ivan Raimi, who are also responsible for Army of Darkness, the very first horror film I saw.

But... here's my problem. Girl gets cursed by Gypsy. Fine, story wise, if a teensy bit racist. She has two people supporting her - her boyfriend, who tells her that everything's fine, all the spooky goings on are just post-traumatic stress, there's no such thing as demons, or hell etcetera etcetra - and the weird psychic dude with the bitchin' 'fro.

Of course, rational boy's wrong, and weird-ass mystic if right. Which is a problem for me. Because those movies make me a schmuck. They make Richard Dawkins a schmuck... well, he kind of is a schmuck, but he's also right. There are no demons. There is no hell. The only curse a Gypsy is likely to utter is "Fuck off".

And have you ever met anyone who believes, ernestly belives, in psychic powers, or angels or fairies - oh, god, those people with "I brake for fairies" stickers on the back of their car. They smell like joss-sticks. They think the world's going to end in 2012, and that horroscopes have some bearing on our weekly lives.

Those people are fucking nuts. And they drive me fucking nuts. But in supernatural movie land, they're heroes.

And then, bless him, George Romero came along and calmed me down. Because of the professor on the chat show in Dawn of the Dead. Utterly rational. Utterly right. Utterly believes in zombies.

Hurrah.

Monday, 1 June 2009

Writersroom Roadshow in Plymouth tomorrow...

At the risk of yet more marvelous redundancy, let me say as many others have that the BBC Writersroom Roadshow is in sunny old Plymouth tomorrow evening. You can read more about it here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/insight/roadshows.shtml.

It's at the very decent Theatre Royal (where one of the first things I ever co-wrote was staged, hoooh, yes) and you can hand in your script in person then ask the very friendly and helpful Writersroom peeps what is they do, what they're looking for and all that good gubbins.

Crazy people bringing powerdrills and chainsaws because their scripts came back with no notes are notified that their Writersroom roadshow has been moved to Jester's Nightclub on Union Street, where the bouncers will bid them a cheery hello.