Skins: a shiny shiny shrine to all that is wrong with TV

Ah, Skins: a menagerie of awful, entitled, jaded rich kids doing awful things to each other whilst seemingly getting a sexual kick out of this posturing, faux-nihilistic awfulness. Occasionally, we are asked to suspend our disbelief whilst the unbearable little shits export their particular brand of awfulness to a range of exotic locations, unlikely warehouse raves and/or what appears to be the set of Brighton Rock, all the while uttering the kind of wallowing, baseless, psychology-by-numbers banalities that make Amy Childs seem insightful and complex.

Inexplicably, according to Skins, no one in Bristol has a Bristolian accent, jobless teenagers never run out of cash and no one under 30 can act, with the possible exception of (OMG LIKE SO FUCKED UP!!!!) Franky’s psychotic cockney drug-dealing love interest, a sort of Scum-era Ray Winstone-cum-Topman model.

Unless the world has changed beyond all recognition in the seven years since I left sixth form college, the only thing amongst this drivel which actually rings true is the pervading sense of vacuity and selfishness that permeates all adolescent activity. All that is revealed by C4’s extended turd-polishing exercise is that, for all their slender limbs and agonised pouts, the lives of 17-year-olds are just too boring to stomach without a liberal smattering of violent sex, hourly drug intake and ill-conceived ‘serious issues’ to sledgehammer away any semblance of reality and/ or meaning. Luckily, there’s plenty of jumpy editing, elaborate sound design and the odd hallucination or dream sequence to distract from the very silly script, allowing the audience to focus their attention on what the cast do best: lolling around in their underwear, reciting clichés, with narrowed eyes and flat, plummy-voiced resolution. Gripping stuff.

Skins: The Young Offenders

Dreadful People.

Breaking and Entering: Filmmaking for the Uninitiated

Just over a year ago, following a string of disastrous graduate jobs, I finally admitted to myself that being a general punchbag for a narcissistic fantasist with too much pocket money is, in fact, soul-destroyingly futile. Instead, I taught myself to edit, took a storyboarding course and decided it was finally time to revisit that childhood dream of becoming a film director.

Being pretty clueless with no industry ties or contacts, it was clear that I was setting myself up for many years of abject poverty, general disappointment and yapping at the heels of low-budget indie outfits who may or may not turn out to specialise in donkey porn for an East Timor niche market. These facts I was prepared for. Others I was not. For those of you considering embarking upon a career as a teeny tiny unappreciated minnow in a vast nepotistic ocean, here are my top four nuggets of wisdom to help prepare you for your glorious quest.

1. The Film Industry is a Breeding Ground for Misogynistic Halfwits.

When I was nine, my grandfather told me that I couldn’t be a film director because I was a girl and girls don’t get to be film directors. Having never found this biological quirk to have been much of a hindrance before (and bearing in mind that my grandfather was also an alcoholic who would frequently call at 4am to garble lines from Macbeth over and over until someone hung up on him) I decided not to set too much store by his gin-addled career advice. Terrifyingly, it seems he was a little bit right.

For the first six super-keen months, I found myself at industry networking events where I was variously told that I ‘don’t look like an editor’ that ‘women aren’t really seen as directors’ or, at best: ‘You mean you want to be a producer?’ It used to be said that behind every great man is a great woman; behind every great director there is, necessarily, a formidable producer. Producers, then, as the all-organising, multi-tasking, non-limelight-stealing backbone of filmmaking are, according to this patriarchal logic, singularly permitted to be women. For other roles: girls – expect to fight tooth and nail for every tiny grain of respect, and to have any beginner’s gaps in your professional knowledge attributed to that glaing lack of a penis between your legs.

2. Beware the Mentals.

My first ‘job’, as an Assistant Director on a short film, consisted of disaster management for a delusional egoist who had cast himself and his family members in a film about a man who has an affair that costs him his marriage. In the process, he fucked up his own marriage so resoundingly that I spent most of my time providing counselling and tissues to his distraught better half.

He then asked me for feedback on his next project: a short film about child molestation. This he described, with characteristic modesty, as the most powerful, unflinching work about this issue ever to be conceived. In fact, it turned out to be a sick, incomprehensible and utterly offensive tirade that included lengthy ‘stage directions’ debating the existence of God before inexplicably giving way to an eight page poem dedicated to Elizabeth Fritzl. My gentle suggestion that this was, perhaps, not the most sensitive way of approaching the subject matter led to a torrent of abuse telling me that (1) our friendship was over, (2) I was ‘a silly little girl’ and (3) he hoped I would live out my days in perpetual terror of my own children being abused, as just reward for failing to recognise his insurmountable genius.

3. It’s All About the Hierarchy.

Film is second only to the military in its rigid upholding of professional hierarchies. It is probably no accident that the Director of Photography on the last feature film I worked on still carries the bullet wounds from a previous stint in the Italian Special Forces.

Occasionally, on small, no-budget shorts, everyone pulls together in mutually respectful collaboration and harmony, suffusing the set with joyous enthusiasm that prevents you caring that the shoot has run over by seventeen hours, you haven’t eaten since Tuesday and your last tube left last week. Most of the time, however, being at the bottom of the food chain, your main purpose is to lurk miles from the action in the freezing cold, luring wild animals away from set by feeding them strips of your own flesh, whilst somewhere far away a psychotic 1st AD screams hysterical abuse down a walkie talkie because you forgot to remind her to tie her shoelaces and the Focus Puller’s sandwiches are cut into the wrong geometric shapes.

If you can stick out the ritual humiliation for long enough, you may be rewarded with your very own minion to torment – and one day, maybe even a whole crew to bully, threaten and cajole. This is called ‘making a film’.

4. Do it for Love. Not for money.

There’s nothing like that magical feeling when it all falls miraculously into place, better and more beautifully than you ever imagined it would. Sadly, that feeling is rarely the herald of any real world pecuniary relief. So don’t get carried away just yet: you’ll still need that bar job to pay the rent.

And This is Where the Carrot Gets Turned Into Poo

Life and the Afterlife, as Told by a Five Year Old

For almost a year now, every Saturday afternoon at 3pm, a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed child prodigy has been deposited upon my doorstep. This charmingly precocious bi-lingual five-year-old is Genius Child* (GC) and my loosely defined weekly mission, for which I am not entirely sure I am qualified, is to Teach Him Useful Stuff.

GC is brilliant fun. He’s exactly the kind of witty, cheeky, chatty and altogether likeable child that makes you forget that most children are screaming, snotty little brats, and start to entertain a dangerously romanticised view of what parenthood will probably be like. With the notable exceptions of writing neatly and colouring within the lines, two things I’ve never been that fussed about, he’s remarkably good at just about everything, including football, chess and, more recently, dispensing advice on how to make homemade tortellini – from scratch.

Moreover, like many children, GC has an extraordinarily active imagination and the ability to ask seemingly straightforward questions that are, in fact, disconcertingly difficult to answer. Fortunately for me, his parents are intellectually curious, religiously unaligned and generally chilled out enough not to question the fact that a lesson that might start off being about Tutankhamen’s tomb or where rain comes from regularly descends into crashing saucers covered in flour together to show how tectonic plates create earthquakes, lengthy discussions about protests in the Middle East or why different civilisations have picked different gods, and pages and pages of scribbled, disconnected diagrams showing what happens when particles heat up, how gravity works, why the Earth has different seasons and how meteors and resulting giant ash clouds could have killed off the dinosaurs – frequently annotated by GC with wonderfully linear comments like “well, why didn’t they just stand there?” or “what would have happened  if they’d built their nests on top of THIS rock?”

It is precisely this linear, wholly credulous train of thought which makes dealing with very young, very bright kids so fascinating: they take everything in, and they take everything literally. At times, I find this enlightening. The questions GC asks have a unique ability to cut straight through the crap, reminding me just how much received rhetoric, cultural conditioning and intellectual laziness contextualises meanings that I think of as definitive, or arguments I had presumed to be self-evidently logical. You’re forced to realise how much of what you say is indirect, obscured by metaphorical, posturing or implicit language, or validated only by reference to assumptions and uncertain principles you have long ceased to investigate and no longer fully understand. It exposes how little we as a species think to examine our perceptions, and the daily interactions we have with the world around us.

Most of the time, though, it’s just really funny.

This week, for example, having just returned from a trip to Italy to visit his grandparents, GC arrived at the lesson enthused about a programme he had watched on Italian TV which had explained in some depth the internal workings of the human body. Keen to impart this wondrous new knowledge to me, he then set about recreating the relevant diagrams, accompanied by an excellently remembered (and translated) verbal explanation of what the process involved. It went like this:

“That’s great,” I said. “Very well done. Just one thing – these balls you’ve drawn, the white ones here, they’re oxygen coming in, and the multicoloured ones, that’s carbon dioxide going out. You remember, we learnt about this a few months ago?” GC looked at me wearily. “Yes,” he said. “I know that already. But what this programme was saying is, they’re really little coloured balls”.

Feeling it unwise to confuse him further, I then moved on to the prepared lesson, which concerned the building of the pyramids in Egypt. Reading aloud from his textbook, GC suddenly broke off mid-sentence to ask me whether ordinary people were allowed to have tombs in the pyramids, which in turn led on to a conversation about the comparative benefits of being preserved, buried or cremated.

“But why would you want to burn someone up?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “Some people like the idea of their ashes being scattered in places they liked when they were alive. The sea, for example.”

“That’s a bit disrespectful to the fishes, throwing bits of body all over them. Anyway why would you care, once you’re dead? It’s not as if you’d know about it.”

Well, quite.

A few moments passed in thoughtful silence as GC contemplated the possibility of post-mortal sentience.

“One thing I don’t get about the afterlife,” he proclaimed, at length. “If I have to leave my body behind, then how will I remember anything? I wouldn’t have a brain.”

“Well… I think the theory goes that the memory and all the rest of it goes up with the soul, which is a sort of ghost-version of you.”

“But what about my legs? How would I play football without any legs?”

“Well I suppose you’d – I don’t know. Maybe they’d give you a new body when you got up there. Specially built for the afterlife.”

“What if they forgot something? Like my nose?”

“You mean, what if they ran out? I don’t know. I don’t think that’s how it works.”

GC pondered.

“To be honest” he said. “It all sounds a bit silly to me. I don’t think there IS an afterlife”.

Richard Dawkins, eat your heart out.

*Name has been changed

Yeah, F*ck You, Toby Micklethwait

No. Just, please – no.

Last night I discovered a UKIP “Political Communication” in my kitchen. I do not know how this traumatizing incident came about; presumably the leaflet had been inadvertently intercepted on its journey from letterbox to recycling bin. After initially dropping it faster than an anthrax-saturated hot potato, I found myself seized by the desire to tear it into tiny little pieces, and to send those tiny little pieces back to the lamentable individual who had seen fit to post them to me in the first place. Which, having succeeded in salvaging the relevant address from the remaining scraps, I have now done.

The following is a transcript of the accompanying letter, sent off this afternoon with considerable glee:

Dear Mr. Micklethwait,

I write to confirm receipt of your “political communication”, which I am returning to you, enclosed. I had initially supposed that this would be sufficient to illustrate my feelings towards your party, but it now occurs to me that, given your membership of UKIP, further clarification may be required.

Firstly, as a rational and reasonably intelligent human being, I intend to reserve my vote for a party with the collective mental capacity to (1) comprehend basic environmental concepts, particularly rergarding climate change, and (2) think up a few half-useful policies that are rooted in something other than regressive, xenophobic paranoia.

Secondly, the fact of my having been born in Britain really is little more than geographical fact and a lucky accident – hardly something to base an entire sociopolitical ideology on. One of nicer things about living in this country is that a person’s right to think, act and develop along their own lines is (largely) legally enshrined rather than sidelined in favour of a contrived, idealised monoculture hacked out of nostalgia and senseless nationalism.

Moreover, being from a family whose members include indivduals of New Zealand, Jamaican, Indonesian, Trinidadian, Grenadan and Irish descent, I find your racist, blinkered and frankly pathetic analysis of what is “British” enough to be valuable not only prescriptive but insulting. I recommend that you get out of Surrey, and find a real job. Preferably, one which does not involve wasting public money on whingeing about the millions of British citizens who do not consider a roast potato to represent the dizzy heights of man’s achievement. Perhaps then you will begin to understand what a sad, silly little party you insist upon championing – although I strongly suspect you lack the intellectual rigour for such self-critique.

In the meantime, please refrain from distributing any more of your vile and unwelcome material to my family’s door.

Sincerely,

Lindsey Kennedy

***

Well, now I feel better. If anyone else feels the urge to forward their views (or, indeed, bodily excretions) to Mr. Micklethwait, his address is: UK Independence Party, Runnymede Weybridge and Spelthorne Branch, Hamilton House, Lyne, Surrey KT16 0AN.

Now I just have to decide who I am going to vote for…

Cambridge Invader (Review)

Review published in Varsity Newspaper, 8th March 2009. Cambridge Invader was a weekly feature covering a selection of the city’s (and university’s) lesser-known pubs, bars and secret societies.

Cambridge Invader: Girton College Bar

 

Our college bar closed on Tuesday. The new one is opening today, and it’s bigger and shinier and hopefully better, but nonetheless Tuesday night was seen very much as The End,  as swathes of current and ex- students poured in to the very limited space for a final nostalgic (and doomed) attempt to secure a lock-in, and to drunkenly sing College songs with misty-eyed enthusiasm and little in the way of coherent melody. Think the Pogues if half of them were actually English Public School veterans. Oh, wait, yeah. Think the Pogues.

 

As the final closure approached, panic set in. What would we do for two whole days without a cheap bar at stumbling distance? We were fairly sure this constituted a civil rights infringement. Fortunately I had a suggestion. “I know of a place,” I said. “A bar far, far away, where few students have ever ventured before.” The others raised a sceptical eyebrow. “’Tis called Girton” I said. There was a hushed silence. A few of the elders shook their wizened heads. One leaned in conspiratorially, whispering over his ale like an ancient sailor. “Have ye heard the tale,” he hissed, “of the Girton Threesome?” No. I hadn’t. And I didn’t believe it. But now I was more determined than ever to pursue the seldom trodden path to this remote Mecca of mythological debauchery.

 

The taxi pulled up outside what appeared to be a stately home. J and I hovered, feeling suddenly very isolated and vulnerable. I was reminded of the orgy scene in Eyes Wide Shut and wondered if I should have brought a mask.

 

We made our way through labyrinthine hallways and down a staircase into an underground bar which faintly resembled an S & M dungeon – all red uplighting, tucked away booths and exposed brick archways. We were the only people there. The bar lady surveyed us wordlessly with a look which said, “you’re not from these parts” and, fearing that our hacked up bodies might one day be discovered under the charmingly unlevelled flooring, we took our bottle of wine (£5.60 and certainly quaffable) and retreated to a corner.

 

An hour passed. I began to hallucinate tumbleweed. A few people turned up, but all seemed rather docile. Research revealed that the master’s efforts to prevent any Ents being organised has led to a general disillusionment with college socialising, and many Girtonians tend to eschew the bar for local pubs. I later discovered from an ex-member of my college that he’d been banned from the premises after announcing that the Mistress was a “fit little tart” during a formal dinner, which may or may not have had something to do with it. Regardless, I felt let down.

 

We finished our wine and called a taxi to take us to Cindies. As we made to leave, however, there was a sudden influx of people, establishing a highly satisfactory male-female ratio. Perhaps we were making a mistake? Just then, two previously unclocked FOLs blocked our path. “You can’t leave now!” they cried “THE SHOW’S JUST BEGINNING!” … and proceeded to strip, rapidly, to their boxer shorts. This was more like it. The bar lady nodded at the trousers around their ankles and snapped, “pull them up or take them out” with an unsurprised irritation which suggested the scene was commonplace. J and I began to reconsider our decision. Cindies, however, beckoned, and unable to persuade the men in question to accompany us, and unwilling to pass up our taxi to pay homage to the site of the – apparently real – threesome, we reluctantly departed. But we will be back. There’s untapped talent up there, girls, and the numbers are in our favour.