hiring and firing

When you get to my ripe old age, theres not a lot you can tell me about how to make a film.
In fact I'd be as bold as to say, I wrote the book on making films, then sold the option to myself.
Yes... what I don't know about films can be put into an oven and served up to a family of starving midgets.
Now... my latest venture is a bona-fide commercial success. how do I know this? I'm bloody clever, that's how. Don't be so damn impertinent.
My aim is to make this film for as little as possible and make as much profit from the sales as I possibly can.
I'll make all kinds of outrageous promises to everyone in my employ, of course. I was thinking of dishing out percentage points that add up to 678%. That'll throw them off the scent.

This week I interviewed a number of over-eager young directors to make this film I'm calling 'Got Buzz' (I think it's a huge commercial success, did I mention that?)
I sat in my large black leather chair and listened to their 'pitch' whilst being tugged off by my young friend Kenny. (It helps me concentrate)
They all seemed very eager, but frankly I found it all rather tiresome.
I just want them to make this film quite honestly. There was a lot of sleep-inducing talk of 'vision' and 'connection' and 'motivation' and 'being an artist' and blah blah blah... Good Bloody Lord. I don't want any of that. i just want them to wave the camera at a load of young pretty people who are being either ; -
a. killed
b. fucked.
c. A combination of the two.

Anyway. I sent them away with a flea in their ear and a beetle up their arse. utterly tiresome.
For me, a director is there to do exactly what I want, and nothing more. Couldn't be simpler. If I say jump, I expect acrobatics on a grand scale. If I want my shoes polished I want the little fucker to polish it so hard my toes are revealed.

I'm thinking of being a director myself. Cut out all this nonsense...
But it seems like too much hard work...

a musing

Traveled to the county of Essex this last weekend, and retired myself to what I thought was a quiet country hotel.

Turned out that the bloody place was some sort of haven for local weddings, and I was depressingly interrupted from my slumber by the continued pestilence of happy couples and the incessant cheeriness of their many (loud and vulgar) guests.

The saving grace of the whole horrible experience was the presence of 'Essex girls'. A particular favorite of mine.
Generous of thigh and stout of calf, I was perpetually stimulated by the short-skirted, pale and chunky delights that strutted around the hotel grounds.

On one occasion I found myself blagging a glass of bubbly and ingratiated myself with one of these lovely creatures.
I proposed we make intimate acquaintance in the adjacent lavatories, but her suggestion of funding her ailing modeling career in exchange for a brief tug on my flaccid member seemed an unequal deal and I made my excuses.

Thereafter, I repaired to my hotel room and ransacked what little dignity I had left, whilst thoughts of cheap smelling flesh danced through my imagination.

Later that evening I made my way carefully (I'm 71) to the hotel's 'fine-dining' restaurant, where I enjoyed stuffed pigeon and a main course that featured lamb and something purple.
All washed down, of course, with a vintage Liebfraumilch.

It was after the third brandy that I suddenly hit upon an idea for a new film project.
As I gazed upon the carcass of my completed meal, I imagined a talking lamb that goes to Hollywood and falls in love with one of those young socialite types.
The lamb, a gentle and modest creature, makes the young superficial lady lover see the error of her facile ways and they go on a journey of self discovery to the Arctic, where they discover a way to halt global warning.

its a love story with an ecological message!

I hurried back to my hotel room to grab my pen and aper.

At 1:00am the paramedics finally loaded me into the ambulance.

Will it always be this way.... I wonder?