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 Dotty gets her waders on for another session in the mire of the industry... And soon returns with her buttons shined bright, hair brushed straight and a cheeky smile that welcomes the new term at Netribution Grammar...
In the absence of many of my filmmaking compadres and my flock of artistes boheme over the weekend I found myself donning waders, binoculars and a small notebook to start my new hobby. No, not ornithology, birds of a feather do not particularly attract me, unless of course the feathers are of the burlesque type and are hiding a much more fancier species of bird. No, this weekend I devoted myself to the zoological study of a hugely common species often to be found gracing the pages of YOU magazine or appearing at your local cinema before disappearing back into the wilds. I speak of The Overnight Success.
Their habits are quite easily studied and very soon you realise that there are two types. One, usually of the genus Cambridgeus or Oxfordus, are genuine overnight successes, or Greater Spotted Tits as I like to call them. They appear from their mother’s nests, mothers who have often already forged careers as artists’ muses in the 60s, and are instant celebrities with all the acting ability of a gnat. They make a film with Pierce Brosnan, appear in a few lad mags talking about their artistic integrity and then go back to modelling or whatever other nefarious activities they used to pay their through university when Mummy and Daddy thought stopping their allowance would teach them about responsibility. They are usually named after romantic heroes like Rosalind, Tristan, or Phoebe. If they are filmmakers they appear in outrageously cool magazines like Dazed and Confused to talk about how its so hard being an outsider and a maverick filmmaker. They use HDV because they think it’s the way forward, not because they understand it. They hang out in the clubs in Soho that were big when Dotty was an ingénue with winsome eyes and pouting lips, not realising that they have gone the way of the dinosaurs now. They take their five seconds in the sun and waste it on coke. And then there is The Lesser Spotted Overnight Successes. Now these creatures are harder to spot on the streets of my beloved Soho. They do not wear the ridiculous mullet/Mohican combos that crest the heads of the “mavericks”. Every single bloody one of them. They do not stand and pout hoping the wind will change and they will stay that way, saving them money on botox and polyfiller later on. No, the Lesser Spotted Overnight Success may get a part in a Pierce Brosnan film but will be third girl in a dress at the party. They will make short film after film after film. Not one a year that has bad sound, continuity mistakes that they put on VHS and forget but several with bad sound, continuity mistakes that they put on VHS and re-watch until they see what went wrong. They will appear in lousy horror flicks with neon pink fake blood and badly animated computer monsters because its about learning. They will star in, write, direct, produce and promote their own shorts on DV because a DVcam was all they could borrow. And then suddenly, diligently, patiently, they will be an over night success. Ten years later. And ten years after that they will still have their number on the rolodexes of the two or three people in this town who can actually get a film made. And I know this because when these giants take me out to dinner I always ask to meet at their office first so I can have a sneaky flick through that treasure trove of talent. And I know this because I spent all this weekend in my waders (and nothing else) drinking Honey Buttons (honey rum, coke and a dash of lime), re-watching the hundred and one DVDs I have been sent in the last few years: shorts with bad dialogue, features with terrible effects and documentaries without a point. All for a bit of talent spotting. Like bird spotting its lonely work, the boredom can be overwhelming but in the end you might get lucky and spot something really interesting. Like a Shag* or a Brown Boobie*. I will be doing some more talent spotting later this week at a Pre-Cannes Networking Party if you are interested in displaying your finest plumage to me. The blessed event is fast approaching and with it a certain amount of stress and people willing to act as stress relievers. As I batter this out on my old-school red Valentine typewriter there are at least four or five events coming up solely aimed at preparing you for Cannes, including the aforementioned networking party (I’m going for the cute waiters). There are talks where you can listen to veterans discuss the wounds they received taking the beach head, ducking under enemy lines to sneak into parties, and the hip that still aches in the winter after they landed on it when the bouncers chucked them out on their arses. At the parties you can meet the beautiful people you will see again at the Petit Majestic in a few brief weeks, now looking like shit as they hungrily ask you what you’ve done, who you’ve pitched to and judge whether you are doing better or worse than them (if it’s the Petit Majestic, they will always believe you are whupping their arses in this game and return morosely to their drinks). Or you could be smart and not go. Horrors! No, go. But read the reference books, don’t pay to listen to the dreamers who tell fairytales about going to George Clooney’s villa when really they slept in their hire car all week. But all go with some kind of purpose. Do your homework, brush your hair, wear a vest (okay, not the last one, coming over all maternal), and work bloody hard at being an overnight success. Because they can spot a Bustard* at twenty paces. As can I. See you there sweets.
*Yes, these really are birds’ names.
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