Friday 31 December 2010

Goodbye 2010!


The talented Miss Clarkson: Seeing her play was one of my favourite moments of the year.
Incidentally, I once took this very photo to a hairdresser to show them what I 
wanted, but I somehow ended up with a mullet instead. Not that I'm bitter. 

So, it's the end of 2010...here are some of my personal highlights...

  • Getting into a sold-out gig (Imelda May) and then deciding afterwards that it wasn’t worth going home, especially when work had foolishly given me keys so I could open up in the morning. It seemed serendipitous that I had just bought a new dress, so after an uncomfortable night curled up under my desk, I was able to appear fresh-faced (thanks to makeup samples from the Boots on Carnaby street that opens at 8am) and in different clothes from the day before. The perfect crime. 
  • Dressing up as a schoolgirl for a School disco event and inadvertently popping my shirt buttons open within the first ten minutes.  When I expressed horror that I had been flashing my bra to all and sundry for the entire evening, my friend Alicia helpfully explained ”I thought you were just going for a slutty schoolgirl look!” So that's my official line, if anyone asks. 
  • Having a great time at a Kelly Clarkson concert and then going on holiday immediately afterwards (when your flight is a 6am, it’s hardly worth going to bed...) thus “enjoying” a 36 hour day. (Actually, I’ve done this before, and became so tired that even though my friends were speaking English, I couldn’t understand the words. Sad, really.)
  • Working at the Chelsea flower show, seeing the Queen, and discovering that Alan Titchmarsh is a very lovely person, and strangely sexy too.
  •  Accidentally drugging my family with homemade lavender ice cream. (I come from a long line of cooking rebels who rarely follow recipes to the letter, and may have overdone this soporific ingredient.) I thought “A quarter of a cup of lavender? That’s not very much! Five minutes to steep? That’s not very long!” After eating, we were all suddenly overtaken with fatigue... (Other kitchen mishaps involve setting off a small fire inside the microwave... when you’re trying to soften butter that you forgot to leave at room temperature, make sure you peel all the paper off first, that’s all I can say. Otherwise you will be eating smoky flavoured toast for weeks.) 
  • Camping for a wedding, which meant having to emerge from my tiny (2 midget) tent in full evening dress. After the reception ended at midnight, I got changed into my pyjamas before realising that actually, people weren’t going to bed yet. So I socialised with people who were still in their wedding outfits while I was in my pyjamas, an oddly liberating and dreamlike experience. 
  •  Possibly sounding a little bit like a paedophile to a roomful of fellow travellers in a hostel room. After spending a week house-sitting and sleeping in the youngest child’s room, I confessed to my friend “I‘m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed.. that little boy’s bed was uncomfortable...” and then laughing manically for a full two minutes as I realised the possible confusion this could cause. 
  • Actually, I’m sort of proud of this one.  I went down the red carpet at a film premiere in my jeans. (In fact, the outfit I’d worn all day for pottering around the house in.) When a friend asked if I wanted to go to a “screening”, I didn’t know it would be a glamorous, celebrity-ridden affair (actually, it was only Katherine Heigl and a couple of people from Hollyoaks). Surprisingly, no reporters cared to enquire who this bohemian, insouciant young starlet was. How odd. 
  • At a friend’s house, we heard an “Oy! You up there!” from a male voice below the window. A toy tiger sitting on the windowsill was volunteered to peer out inquisitively.... all fun and games until we realised that the voice belonged to a policeman, who had heard our music and thought we were squatters. (I don’t know why.)
  • I had a second winter holiday (I hadn’t actually been abroad since my year-long travelling escapades five years ago, so I felt justified) spending a week in Spain with my friend Jasmine. We may have been a little irresponsible letting the local stray cats into our apartment to sleep on our beds, but it’s hardly less hygienic than what some people do with stray people they find in the pub. Getting trapped at the airport all day because Gatwick was shut due to snow? All part of the fun. 
  • Working as a costume designer, I had my own assistant for the very first time – how exciting! She was a lovely girl, and kindly offered to give me a lift home. Unfortunately she drove like a freaking maniac. As the car filled with pounding bass and cigarette smoke, I realised this stomach-lurching feeling was oddly familiar. Lightheaded, I realised that it was uncannily like being on a fairground ride. But I survived and so did she; a highlight of the year, indeed. 
  • Other film shoots vivid in my memory: the occasion I was driving myself between various locations and got lost twice. When I did find the others an hour later, my first action was to blow up the kettle. Oops! Honourable mention must also go to the childrenswear ad which involved 8 children with 3 outfits each, in the space of one morning, with the only instruction from the director being  “Good luck”. 
  • Finally, I was an extra in a film I was costume designing. My tip for the day? Never believe a director who tells you “You won’t have any lines... well, if you do, it’ll be part of the crowd scene, nobody’s going to hear you.” Cue me and one other person, who happened to be the main actor, being the only ones talking while a roomful of crew watched.  Mortifying, and no actor’s fee either! 
I wonder what 2011 will bring...? Have a good one y'all! 

Friday 24 December 2010

I believe in magic....

Every time you say that Santa doesn't exist, a puppy dies. Fact.

As I may have mentioned, at this time of year I love to waste hours watching dreadful cheesy Christmas movies. Seriously – quality is not an issue. I’ll watch them all.
Somehow it seems easier in December to suspend disbelief and get all sappy over the magic of flying reindeer and little bells you can only hear if you really and truly believe (Yep, Polar Express is one of my faves).
And it doesn’t take a Christmas pixie to spot the theme that emerges in these “Santa-in-peril-because-nobody-believes-except-one-small-child” tales. This benevolent, all-knowing father figure may hand out some gifts if we behave ourselves (he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake!) but in order to receive, we have to believe. A “Santa as God-lite” analogy, if you will. And if there’s one thing movies teach us (apart from the fact that New York is THE place to spend Christmas, not least because you can ice skate in central park with Cary Grant) it’s that faith is the cornerstone of the Santa religion. Kris Kringle is the real thing only because he is BELIEVED to be the real thing.
For some people, the idea of God is just as nonsensical as Père Noel; a fairy tale you outgrow. It’s easy to become disillusioned as you grow up – prayers and letters to Santa go unanswered, cracks appear in the stories, and magic is an illusion that only a fool would believe in.
Well, call me a fool, but I do believe in magic. It’s all around us. Take photographs, for instance. You can explain it to me in whatever scientific way you like, but the fact remains that the MAGIC BOX manages to suck in an image of whatever it is pointed at and record it forever. Likewise telephones – tell me about airwaves til the cows come home; the fact is, I can communicate with someone in another country via a tiny MAGIC TOOL. And don’t even get me started on CDs and the miracle that is music trapped in a tiny disc. It might just blow my mind.
 As Jostein Gaarder points out in his novel The Solitaire Mystery, “Nobody would believe this world if they hadn’t spent years getting used to it.”
The very fact that your mind controls your body is pretty stupendous when you think about it – not to mention the fact that your body can HEAL ITSELF of minor injuries. You cut your finger, a couple of days later there isn’t so much as a mark. You’re a freaking terminator!
I remember being astonished when I first realised that trees can heal themselves in a similar way – and it turns out they also talk to each other. Well, sort of – they can communicate via pheromones, managing to warn when a predatory insect is around so they can prepare themselves to make their leaves taste nasty. How clever is that! 
And those proponents of the Law of Attraction claim that every word we speak has a magical effect on our vibrations; anyone who’s ever read a self-help book will know the dangers of saying “I’m so sick and tired of x” until it becomes true, but who knew you could magically create your own reality by the power of your mind? (If you’re skeptical – well, just keep doing what you’re doing, if it’s working out for you...)
The Bard put it best; “There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
As for Jesus, well, I think it was C.S. Lewis (and do correct me if I’m wrong, because I now can’t find the quote) who said “Don’t knock the immaculate conception, because the normal method is strange enough.”
May I quote Jostein Gaarder one more time?
 “I have been in outer space many times,” bragged the cosmonaut, “but I have never seen any angels.” The brain surgeon stared in amazement, but then he said “and I have operated on many intelligent brains, but I have never seen a single thought.”
So, I think we can conclude that the world is a pretty wacky place. And we human beings, in our infinite wisdom, have decided what is possible and what is not. As this is based merely on what we have so far seen to be possible, it seems we may not have the exhaustive list worked out just yet.
Of course, nobody REALLY believes in old Saint Nick. (Not even the adults in the movies who apparently don’t notice the strange gifts appearing in their houses every year.) I do fervently wish he was real, though. I’ve always wanted to have an interviewer ask me what my dream job would be, so I could answer honestly Being an elf in Santa’s workshop,” and I would sound far less bonkers if it was actually an option. 
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, y’all. xx

Thursday 23 December 2010

And WHAT, pray tell, ARE YOU?

"I'm here, I'm here! I've come back, it's all right!" Ah, Lucy, I can hear your little piping voice now.

I love all Christmas films, from schmaltzy Jimmy Stewart ones to the delights of Clark Griswold (I always identified with his urgent need to make the entire family take part in the Christmas of his dreams). But when the snow is thick and crunchy, there is only one movie for me. Forget big budget Hollywood; the original cartoon of The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe is the definitive version (and available on VHS!).

I have to warn you, this film is greater than the sum of its parts. At first glance it may seem to be a slightly ropey animation (with colours that do not always match) and features some fairly dreadful acting from the child actors, especially in crying scenes.

However, it does boast a cracking soundtrack and a high calibre of adult actors. Do make sure you watch the slightly lesser known English soundtrack version; Arthur Lowe and June Whitfield are the ultimate cosy couple as Mr and Mrs Beaver, and Sheila Hancock gives what is, in my opinion, her tour de force performance as the white witch. I would love to ask her if she remembers this film; what was probably a few days work in the voiceover booth for her ended up influencing my entire childhood.

Until seeing the fancy schmancy remake, I didn’t appreciate how cleverly this screenplay was streamlined; cutting out unnecessary details and pushing the story along in broad strokes. The script has a lyrical quality, to the point where I realise now that I didn’t even understand half of the words I heard as a child, I just enjoyed the poetic rhythms. Despite the dodgy animation, parts of the film are spellbinding especially the death and resurrection of Aslan.

My friend / virtual sister Anna and I would spend hours acting the movie out as we watched, pulling the curtains and walking along the windowsill to create a “tunnel” for the extending wardrobe. She was always Mr Tumnus (who, I realise as an adult, was as camp as Christmas) and Edmund, and I was always Lucy and the witch (they didn’t have any scenes together). In fact, after spending my childhood performing the witch’s lines, I have them memorised and still occasionally use them. “Are you my counsellor? Or my slave? Do as you're told!” is a pretty failsafe retort to anyone who is attempting to boss you about. And "Who has won? Fool!" (in ringing, jubilant tones) will ensure that you exit every argument with triumph.

Being a little obsessed with the series and CS Lewis himself (I was recently admiring an antique wardrobe in Oxfam and HAD to open it and check the back, JUST IN CASE) I have a somewhat vested interest in hoping that the latest adaptations will do justice to the books. (Although I am quite fond of the rubbish BBC version which had people wearing barrels to suggest animal-like bodies.) I’m still disappointed that nobody thus far has attempted to film the wonderful prequel, The Magician’s Nephew; it has some sequences that would lend themselves so well to the CGI that has now been developed. I think we can safely say that The Last Battle will never be made into a film, unless the principles of the story are butchered beyond recognition. Call it racist, call it prophetic – but a story about Aslan's end-of-the-world judgement, brought about because Narnians start to believe that his name is synonymous with that of the god of the "foreign" Calormenes, and you have a problem.

Unfortunately movies like this are often ruined by the child actors; I’m a firm believer that generally, children cannot act. This is why you only ever see the same kids over and over again (Shirley Temple, Dakota Fanning, Haley Joel Osment) because once you find that quirk of nature who is able to sound natural rather than stagey, you're going to use them until the uppers and downers and coke and prescription nerve tonic have rendered them useless. The Golden Compass, despite its stellar cast and CGI polar bears, was ruined for me by the frankly appalling performance of Dakota Blue Richards in the leading role of Lyra. Poor kid, it wasn’t her fault – it was down to the person who cast her and the director who let them print the godawful takes.

Back to Narnia; in my humble opinion, the 1979 cartoon wipes the floor with the new offering. Aslan (voiced by Stephen Thorne) is an imposing presence, with a voice that is deep and rich – as per the original description in the book – and creates the truest interpretation of the character that I've seen. To me, Liam Neeson sounds far too friendly – although the current Oxford / Regent Street displays have Aslan looking like a yellow-eyed vampire lion. I know he isn’t tame, but I don’t think he should be scaring small children.

Tilda Swinton may look ridiculously evil in most of her film roles, but I felt that her turn as Jadis was hampered by her apparent reluctance to ham it up. She ended up going too far in the opposite direction and underplayed the whole thing to the point where lines such as “Despair... and die!” came out as a feeble suggestion rather than a strident command.

So for the ultimate in "always winter and never Christmas" fun, curl up with a pint of hot ribena (best drink evah!) and enjoy the sight of those saucer-eyed, bell-bottom-wearing kids, the snuggly atmosphere of the Beaver's underground hideout, and the uplifting music. You might even want to indulge in a box of Turkish delight. As a child, I'd never seen the real stuff and used to cut a Fry's chocolate-covered Turkish delight into miniscule cubes to better resemble the witch's confection. We made our own fun in the 80s.

Monday 20 December 2010

I love Lucy. And Calamity Jane.


Of course, the flipside to the ladylike dignity of an Audrey Hepburn (see earlier post) is the kooky gaucheness of a Lucille Ball. It’s said that Lucy was the first woman to make it acceptable to be attractive AND funny; a prototype which has become familiar. These days our heroines are women such as Bridget Jones and Carrie Bradshaw, who seem to fall over a lot and always get introduced to an attractive man when they’ve just stuffed a whole vol au vent into their mouths. 

All this, combined with Stephenie Meyer making clumsiness endearing, makes me feel slightly better about having some experience with being the “kooky” girl, as evidenced by various “would be embarrassing if I cared” events. My oldest school pal is of a similar ilk; she recently met an online date at a train station with the bumbling words “I’m so glad with myself that I could find you here!” (My usual MO, at least when outdoors, is to find wind blowing my hair into my mouth, choking me midsentence.) 

Similarly my mother (who is really worthy of a blog of her own) had an incident recently when my dad went out without his keys and asked her to let him in. Hearing a knock at the door, she decided it would be funny to crouch by the door and demand “Who goes there?” Hearing a mumble in reply, she demanded (in a tone both aggressive and squeaky) “WHAT?” Needless to say, the delivery man was not amused.

There is also a slight tendency to absent mindedness – I was recently most indignant at the pair of new boots I had bought – one seemed to be crumbling after only a day’s wear. Luckily I noticed, before I stormed into the shop, receipt in hand, that I had actually put on one old boot and one new one. As you were, Mr Shopkeeper.

One memorable occasion was when I went to let my (slightly intimidating) boss know that I was leaving, at the end of my first day on the job. He asked “Are you enjoying it?” and I replied with a vehement “Yes!” and fell over a chair. I also said long goodbyes to everyone and then had to come back in to retrieve my bag.

Being a fan of Seinfeld’s Kramer, I have now come to terms with my ability to trip over a hair on the ground. After several mishaps involving flipflops and rain (they have NO traction on wet pavement), a friend advised me that the only acceptable recovery is to jump up, arms in the air, and shout “Ta daaaaa!” 

At least my whimsy is self-inflicted, unlike the chap I saw recently with a luminous ghost sticker in the folds in his briefcase, evidently donated by a child and invisible to all but those walking behind him on the escalator. Perhaps the best thing to do is to surround ourselves with the equally daffy; I once had a long conversation with a friend about the practice of “sprinkling” ashes before one of us realised “that doesn’t sound right....” (If your mind has now gone blank, the word we were looking for was “scattering.”) 

So if you’re not as poised as Audrey or Grace, at least you’re in good company. Meg Ryan, Sandra Bullock and Jennifer Aniston have made careers out of being lovably goofy; the lesson here is that you can get away with anything, as long as your hair looks good. But they owe it all to the originals – Katharine Hepburn, Lucille Ball and Doris Day paved the way for screwball fun; long may it continue.

Saturday 18 December 2010

May I quote Andre 3000? Behold, a lady.

She was channeling Audrey from her first audition; no wonder she beat Cheryl's piranha.

I confess, I was rather disappointed that Rebecca lost X factor – Matt started out well, but on the weekend of the final he was...well, rubbish. I know he was ill (the usual... doctors say his throat will explode if he sings, but he’s so determined...blah blah blah....) but I do find it extraordinary how the judges try to brainwash us into thinking that performances were “amazing!” when they were decidedly not. (Does anyone else remember Cheryl’s jedi mind tricks last year?  She kept repeating that Danyl Johnson was “arrogant,” as he trembled before her, eyes wide as a baby seal.)

What was refreshing about Rebecca was that she had the dignity of Grace Kelly, in a world of snarling, leatherclad starlets. Much as I love Christina Aguilera, it was painfully obvious that she and Rebecca had never met before their performance, let alone rehearsed. As she rose from the stage like a peroxide Venus, she managed to inject new waves of vibrato into every word. Rebecca’s Roisin Murphy-esue vocals didn’t stand a chance; she was clearly terrified and not even sure if she was allowed to sing at the same time as Xtina. 

Despite this, who came across as more professional and polished? Christina has been blasted for her “risqué” performance (BTW, the trailer for Burlesque looks incredibly hokey – I wouldn’t have bought Aguilera as a naive ingénue when she was twelve – but I may well go to see it, because I ADORE cheese.)

Meanwhile Rihanna screeched her way through a duet with Matt (ok, I’ll say it. They were BOTH rubbish). Miss Nasally Challenged writhes and strips with such aplomb, it’s hard to say where she can go from here. I was once discussing this with a friend who said “She might as well just sing “Come and have sex with me-eee...” She accompanied this with a little bended knee dance, which made me actually fall over laughing in the middle of the street. You should have been there. It was really funny.) 

So, is the tide turning? Leona Lewis, the original demure X Factor gal, has been constantly criticised for being “boring”. Well, maybe compared with Lindsay Lohan and Peaches Geldof... but whose life would you prefer?

Although it seems unlikely, being “ladylike” is gaining ground – there are a number of blogs about dressing nicely, revelling in being feminine and rising above the idea that we should be like men. 

It can be fun, when surrounded by ladettes slurping beer, to be the only one in a pencil skirt, sipping delicately at a pina colada. Also, while I spent my teens telling men “Don’t worry, I swear all the time” when they apologised for dropping an f-bomb, now I think “Damn right, you shouldn’t be using language like that in front of me, I’m a lady!” Of course, this effect is ruined when I enter into lively debates regarding the use of the c-word as a negative profanity, arguing that men should “have some f-ing respect” for the orifice from whence we all came. 

Meanwhile, queen of the Southern belles is Beyoncé; who could forget the way she graciously invited little Taylor Swift onstage after Kanyewestgate? You just know her momma raised her to match her nail polish to her shoes and handwrite her Thank-you notes.   

Let’s hope that the pop world will be gently inundated with women who combine talent and business brains with elegance and grace. Slappers are so over.

Friday 17 December 2010

I only like ones with bunnies on them.

If I did send cards, they'd probably be like this ultra-cute vintage one.

I’m in an ethical pickle. Here we are in the most festive of all seasons, and I feel like a Grinch. Why? (Apart from the fact that I like to shove little old ladies aside when spotting the last pack of chocolate reindeer?) Well, I don’t “do” Christmas cards. It’s partly to be green (waste of trees) partly laziness (haven’t I got enough to do?) and partly a scroogey tightness (pay for postage?).

But now I’m wavering. My parents have got to grips with email (dad) and texting (mum) but they are still of the generation which indulges in the “yearly catch-up” through cards. They get millions, each with little story attached (“This is from Elsie, she’s your second cousin once removed, who lives in Canada.... ooh, here’s one from Stinker, our old pal from the International Voluntary Service....”) 

But of course with the advent (geddit?) of Facebook, our generation doesn’t need a once-a-year communication with old school pals and long lost colleagues. Every day we can get a little update on what they’re up to, how extraordinarily intelligent their children are, and if we’re really unlucky, what they ate for breakfast and how long they spent on the M25. 

I think the last time I was actively excited about sending and receiving cards was at school, where there was a little red postbox, and deliveries at the beginning of lessons. I would spend hours writing alternately in red and green pen, and for my very best friends I would make cards, artfully strewn with glitter and symbols of the Christian faith, such as robins and donkeys. 

So maybe one day I will indulge in a little Christmas spirit and start sending cards again. But don’t worry if you don’t get one; It doesn’t mean that I don’t regularly browse through your holiday photos and google your boyfriend. 

Happy Holidays!

Saturday 11 December 2010

And this is why I don't listen to the radio....

No wonder kids are turning to drink. May I also suggest ear plugs?

Ooh, aren’t children growing up fast? 

Yep, and in ways too numerous to mention here. I recently found myself sitting next to a very sophisticated young lady at a family event; I guessed “So are you studying?” as I didn’t want to insult her if she was 20 and had been working for the last 2 – 4 years. Um, no, she was 12. And perhaps this reflects badly on my mental age, but I found her by far the most entertaining person there and we discussed The X Factor and Edward Cullen at length. 

As we chatted about alcohol (she had been strictly instructed to drink only one glass of champagne) she informed me thoughtfully “I probably won’t start drinking heavily until I’m... sixteen.” Well, that’s a relief. I did my best to persuade her that actually, hanging around outside the offy with a can of cider is not the most fun way to spend an evening in your teens. I may find myself in the minority for suggesting an evening of drinking shots til you puke actually isn’t the most fun you can have as an adult, either. 

In a desperate attempt to dissuade youngsters from drinking to excess is a new programme What Did I Do Last Night? – apparently actually seeing footage of yourself in all your “crawling around on the toilet floor in your underwear and then punching your best friend,” glory actually does shame people into changing their habits. Unlike the ill-advised anti-drinking campaign from a year or so back, which attempted to chastise us with the legend “You wouldn’t start a night like this. So why end it that way?” It simply illustrated that the campaigners had no understanding whatsoever of their subjects; if they had, they would have known that falling down the stairs, getting sick in your hair and makeup smeared everywhere is actually a badge of honour; proof  that you had a good time, and a story to be told and re-told until it has passed into legend. 

Coming back for a moment to precocious kids, the airwaves are full of Willow Smith and the amazingness of her performances at the age of ten. (Slightly creepy and “Hollywood family” it may be but at least she wasn’t, to my knowledge, sporting Suri Cruise-style stilettos aged three.) This is all very well, but am I the only one who can actually HEAR the song? It is mind-numbingly awful. And I mean actually, seriously, you might have to be a little bit brain damaged to be able to listen to it all the way through without wanting to rip off your ears. Almost 2 minutes of the 3m 24 sec running time is taken up by the imaginative line “I whip my hair back and forth”. (And just remember, somebody got paid for writing this. Somebody who is clearly from the Natasha “I’m in a big big big big ocean” Bedingfield school of lyric writing.)

Fittingly for a child’s song, it is simplistic, repetitive and will stick in your brain like chewing gum. The verses (during which Miss Smith sounds like a carbon copy of Rihanna) are slightly better, even if one does include the line “None of them whip it like I do.” Good to know that the next generation of girls are aspiring to... well, whip their hair, better than anyone else. Who said feminism was dead? 

Frankly, I may have to avoid any venue in which dance music is played – the thought of a roomful of adults miming along to whipping their hair back and forth is too tragic to contemplate.