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Continuing our retrospective of Dotty S Parker, before her return from the detox boot camp in the Maldives, here is her column from March of last year...
I believe that I have quite a good head for figures. I know that one plus one is two and not one as so many mushy romantic lyrics would have us believe. I know that the sum of one plus one plus one is threesum. And I can know how to divide and conquer, go forth and multiply, and when a particularly good figure passes me by on Wardour Street I know how to subtract the other half and practice some algebra of attraction. I have a fondness for figures, the roundness of a sultry eight, the sorrow of a solitary one, the rareness of a perfect ten. But a recent figure has left me a little perturbed, confused and bemused. It appears that only 7% of directors are female. This figure has haunted me all week as the divas of the Birds Eye Festival have spun their little PR legs all over town and very successfully indeed. From the Guardian to the Islington magazine, Angel, the figure 7 is prominent like a naked man in a field. But, fear not, sweet soul, there follows here not a feminist diatribe against the ugly male and his dominance of the world cinematique. Instead I want you to join me on my journey through the numbers to how I believe I have come to the final QED of this problematic piece of film world formula. The first part of the equation is to realise that there are two factors involved. I could give them abbreviated names such as x and y, but instead let us call them XY and XX, male and female. You see, when a woman decides she wishes to direct she is not working in a vacuum. She must play the age old game of network, network, network. And as things stand, the people she must network with are predominantly male. I have no high faluting plans to direct, I have enough problems getting myself to abandon lazying on my chaise-longue, take this seat and pound out a few hundreds words of ascorbic wit. Where is my motivation, where is my muse… where is my bloody wine! But still, I write, therefore I am… and in this business we call show, my column would be a paltry thing without my regular touches with the world of the Networker. And here I have realised the main problem facing the female director. It is not that muscular, glistening, arrogant men block the doors to this celluloid ceiling (would that that were true… sigh) but that women find them facing two paths and neither is particularly attractive. On the one hand, they might choose to reflect what they think are the successful traits of other, male, directors they have observed. They will bully, brag and bullshit their way onto the men’s table and become known by that other b-word, “bitch”. Or else, they will believe that flirtation and charm will help them on their way. For, as mother says, more flies are caught by honey than vinegar. But before you know it you find yourself in what you thought was a professional meeting drinking your fifth glass of wine and slapping back his hand from your thigh. Two men out for drinks is a meeting, a man and a woman together, a date. The barkeeps of the Soho Curzon must be thinking I am getting busy every week. If only. So is there no hope, no path through these two hard paths, no chance the poor seven percent will be multiplied. Unfortunatly for my ambitions as a quiz show winner, I do not have all the answers. But perhaps you out there, if you be of the male persuasion might read these tender words and learn a little life lesson. Yes this week this column is brought to you by the number seven and the moral, “Sometimes she just wants to be friends”. Stop thinking about her in front of the camera and start thinking about her skills behind it. Of course if you run into me in some dark seedy bar one night and you have no influence, connections or brains, brace yourself. This week I will be mainly partying. Along with the aforementioned Birds Eye View Festival I will also be attending a little Raindance shindig in Leicester square. I am going purely for research reasons you understand, not because I am a party hearty beast and need at least one late late night a week or I look dreadfully haggard. And it is incredibly convenient for my flat in Soho…. And there will be some terrible interesting people there… Okay, so I just like to party. But I have yet to make the proper acquaintance of that silver fox, Elliot Grove, so I will be buying him vermouth through the night to pick his brains on the word cinematique and how he sees the industry. There is something positively Los Angelenos about him that reminds one of the nights and days I spent in the bars of that sun blest state. A touch of Frankie, a hint of machine gun and a charmer to boot. A combination I have missed since my days as a Speakeasie madame, when I made booze illegal just to enjoy it the more. And then on Friday I will be attending a premier. Of what I do not yet know, but a week without a free press trip to the cinema is a very dull thing indeed. I was introduced to the press junket by an Ex who left me with two very important things, a love of the free lunch, and a hatred of him. So I am sure that some sweet PR girl is currently writing my invite as we speak (Dotty with a y, dear). I do not of course write reviews. The review is a hideous slothful beast that exudes a poison of lethargy. Why engage your own mind when I can make it up for you. I could write recommendations, but why believe me? I drink too much wine, smoke too much weed and have dubious taste in men. Of films I have watched the best to the worst and do not believe my sense of taste is any better for it. Go yourself, support the underdog and see what man (and woman, remember the 7%) can do with a bit of light and dark. I never leave a film part way through, I never squeeze my honey in the dark on the back row, I respect the men and women who slugged out their guts to be best boy, key grip or chief cheerleader on the latest Ashton Kutcher film. So if you have invites to premiers, press screenings, or lovely junkets, send them this way and I will be there. Scandalous plug over… Goodnight Sweetheart.
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