But on the hand - the application involves some fascinating research...

... into the Irish 'Fascist' parties of the 30s, in the aftermath of the
Civil War.

One of my leads is an Irish Social Conservative who idealises Mussolini,
and travels to Ethiopia to become a teacher during the Italian
occupation. He comes to a nasty dead end towards the middle of the
Second Act.

Another 4 forms to fill in by May 27

... and I just want to go to bed for a week.

So - what does a Weekend at the Cannes Festival Cost?

I'm just totting up the receipts...

Accreditation: £0.00
Back in the day this used to be a hard copy application, with
photographs, colour copies, business cards, courier - I think it cost me
£60 in all. Now it's all PDFs and online forms, and costs zip!

Accommodation: £153 for two nights in a shared flat
This is twice what I paid before, dammit - but then, it was a clean,
cute one-bed studio only 5 minutes walk from the croisette, with an iron
and a decent shower, sharing with 3 other women.

Transport: £250 for the Eurostar and the two sleeper trains.
This looks steep in the era of cheap flights, but as I didn't have to
buy a train ticket to Gatwick/Luton, or bus transfer from Nice to
Cannes, it worked out cheaper than the Easyjet equivalent, and gave me
and extra 12 hours to enjoy the festival.(If I'd been able to book
earlier, I could have got this for under £100!)

Subsistence: I spent 100 Euros (approx £75) over the course of 88 hours -
mostly on sandwiches, water, fruit, and coffee. Oh, and a book by John
Berger which I didn't have time to read.

Other: I bought some clothes, but all of them things I desperately
needed to temp over the summer - the Stone Caravan look (3 sweaters,
skirt *and* trousers, crocs or wellies, mud) is neither corporate nor
seasonal. Ditto the hair cut (£29) and the waxing (£15)

Damage: £15 excess for the replacement phone

Freebies: Tacky Delegate bag, four coffees, ear plugs on train, tickets
to movies, many glasses of rather acid rose wine, WIFI internet access,
a tartan lanyard from the Scottish Screen stand.

Saturday - the return to the Caravan. yay!!!!!

Schedule revised! Yay or not Yay?

On the one hand...

Yay! We've been given an extra two days grace to complete the
application because of the impact of Cannes on the timeline.

On the other...

Yikes! The application just doubled in size!

On the other hand...

Yay! I don't have to write a 10 page version - they'll accept the 55 page

On the other hand...

Yikes - I have to revised the 55 pages and write a 4 page outline!

Bed now. Shattered.

London is freezing!

I had to pile on three shirts and a shawl to get home last night.

At least the sky is blue.

I have seven days to create a brand new package for the Irish Film Board
(on my own, as my Producer is still in Cannes running from place to
place working on 2 other projects. It's really not a place you can sit
down and think straight.

Tasks in the next 7 days:

Meet with Screen WM
Revise own CV
Revise producer's CV (not as easy as it sounds - my producer writes in
her own version of TXT. I will scratching my head over her notes for hours.)
Complete application form(s)
Logline (25 words)
1/2 page Synopsis
10 page Outline (the current version is 40 pages!)
Writer's Notes on future development.
Buy mother's birthday present.
Shout at building manager and insurance company over damaged bathroom
ceiling.
...
Oh - and turn up at work, 9-6.

All manageable. (I think!?)

On British soil, though still a long way from home and the peace of the caravan

Smelly guy now playing minesweeper on his PowerBook.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

On the last leg of the journey in reverse: Cannes>Sleeper>Paris at
Dawn>Eurostar>Work.
The man in the seat next to me pongs. He seems to be a mathematician,
and not to have washed his arm pits for several days.
Cannes is a Dantean series of circles within circles. Those without the
magic accreditation mill past the barriers, locals, bemused tourists,
cinephiles and starfeckers. They see only one barrier between
themselves and the red carpet, when in fact there are several, physical
and practical. Yesterday evening the area around the Palais was rammed
with onlookers for the Indiana Jones premiere, many of them wearing
promotional fedoras in a rather odd shade of orangey-dun(g). The hard
core were in evening dress, holding up hand written signs "Invitation SVP"
In theory my pass (a pretty gold) was access all areas:
The Palais itself - this is the natural home of the press, where they
watch the movies (rarely in the main house, more often secondary
screening rooms). All through the day competition films premiere here;
the dress code is black tie for the evening, casual during the day.
The Marche: the Exhibition centre beneath where thousands of films are
being bought and sold in a dim humid bunker light.
The Grand Jetee: where the yachts are moored. These are not the haunt
of stars. They are mobile meeting rooms for financiers, and during the
day host business brunches and lunches and cocktails for small earnest
groups, making deals within spitting distance of the pedestrians.
The International Village: the national film commissions, camping on the
beach and offering advice, wifi and free coffee through the day.
The Hotels: more meeting spaces and some screenings.
What the pass won't guarantee: 1.) a ticket to any film (all subject to
queues, allocation and a final judgment on the suitability of your
dress.) 2.) Access to parties and clubs (invitation only), 3.) Access
to stars. (They live and move in a bubble within a bubble, at
out-of-town villas and hotels, or yachts moored almost out of site,
quite invisible, even to delegates, until they pop up on the red carpet,
large as life but three times skinnier.

Funniest thing overheard in Cannes

A penniless writer who missed the whole point of Cannes (ie - to
network, sell or buy within an international industry, while drinking
other people's wine):

"Next year I'm coming on my own, to take a room in the Majestic [ie the
only hotel which has security barriers and body searches to keep
non-players out] and write...."

Way to piss off the colleagues who organised a beautiful room in a
central apartment for her, blagged her tickets for two premieres and
invitations to 5 parties....

She was never heard of again.

Storm blown out

This is more like it - sky blue from horizon to horizon, sea shimmering,
sun sucking up the puddles.
I have 5 hours left in Cannes,before I dash for the sleeper back to
Paris then London.
It's not just the sea that is shimmering - the mirage of major
development funding is hovering just a hands-breadth away. The film
board execs we met this morning couldn't have been happier with the
project - I have to get the long treatment in by the end of the month,
for consideration in the next round of investment.
So it's back to blighty and back to work.
Phone still fried, alas.

"Comme une vache" - Cannes wash out!

Saturday was cold and damp all day, and I huddles under cover drinking
coffee and preparing for the meeting on Sunday am.
It doesn't feel right - Cannes in steady gray English rain.
Northumberland is warmer!
I peeled my eyes open at about 10am, and peered at the heap of clothes
on the suit case. Nothing waterproof and all of it in need of
pressing. So the morning was spent over the ironing board (glamour,
what glamour), and planning world conquest ("We should be in bed by
11(!) to ensure that we make the meeting bright eyed and on the ball.)
Lunch was a picnic, perched between the puddles in the UK Pavilion. It
was impossible to find a table in a restaurant or snack bar - the rain
had driven everyone in ahead of me.
At 5.00 I was offered shelter and a glass of wine in the deserted
Tunisian stand. The wine was cloudy, the glass as smeared as the filthy
sky.
Things perked up an a Brazilian cocktail event - the strongest
Caipirinha I have ever downed set the tone for the next few hours.
Then we gathered together an all female party to trail from the Carlton
to Le Suquet to find a restaurant that would fulfill the requirements of
the obligatory vegetarian.
Then - the sky opened. A downpour of biblical proportions, just as the
crowds were gathering for the Walter Sallis premiere, and my producer
and I were cutting through the back streets towards home.
We dodges, we ran, we waded through flooded streets. Alarms rocked the
night as cars rocked under the weight of falling water. Lights fizzed
and spluttered and plunged bars into darkness.
Finally we stood in a midst a spreading puddle in our shared studio. My
shoes had tripled in weight, and my feet were died a vile shade of
indigo - and my phone was stewing nicely in a pool of water at the
bottom of my bag.
Years ago I spent an evening with a group of execs who were celebrating
their 20th Cannes. They were trying to remember how it had worked
before the mobile phone.
On Sunday I will be forced to find out, first hand!

Cannes, Friday

7.30 am: Tumbled warm and crumpled from the train at 7.30. The last few
miles of track wind along the coast and allows some window leaning
(against - not out) to set the scene.
Unfortunately the scene is gray. The weather is cool, dull and
interrupted by frequent showers. It rains like a cow pissing - at one
point I was holding an umbrella over the laptop so that I could send and
urgent email and close up`.

10.00 am: Accreditation was swift and efficient - getting into films
less so. Queueing for tickets in the morning was use d to be highlight
of Cannes. All the producers etc camped in a line in the sun, keeping
places for those who went for coffee or rolls. The queue was next to
the official photographers tent, so you could kill some time looking for
faces on the red carpet of each premiere. It was time consuming, but at
least you started the day knowing if you were going to the Palais that
night and would have to change into evening dress.
Now my badge only entitles me to wait in line - in full evening dress
and high heels - until 10 minutes before the premiere for any unused
tickets. If there are no seats - then it's evening dress in the pub and
pizzerias.
This is no great shakes - there was only one evening film a wanted to
see, and I'll catch that during the next day. I just makes me sad to
look at my 10 year old gold silk frock hanging on the bathroom door and
know that it won't get an outing for yet another 12 months.

11.00am: I have nothing planned for the day.
Print up the one-page outline and a wonderfully timed and utterly
nonsensical article in the Time about the Ethiopian Ark of the
Covenant. That's my movie on the page (only with less sex and fewer
explosions)

Lunch: My, prices have rocketed! Bought a box of strawberries to share
on the terrace of the UK Pavilion.

3.30 pm: First attempt at a meeting - walk in of the street to the Irish
Pavilion and get in invitation to pitch over breakfast on Sunday.
Sounds enthusiastic (although actually he just wants to talk about the
movie my producer *didn't* make with her partner. If we can convince
him the project has legs it could unlock the path to serious development
money, and a recce trip to Ethiopia.

5.00pm: Dash to Palais for market screening of Heart of Fire
<http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1169272/> - set in Eritrea in 1981.
Scramble around the building looking for the correct sales agent to blag
a ticket from, and get chatting to a French security guard about
Ethiopian food. Turns out she ate at an Ethiopian Restaurant in
Washington DC 10 days ago, and thought it wonderful. Helps me find the
right booth, just in time.

5.30pm: Heart of Fire has a slightly pedestrian script fired up by the
performances of the children, particularly Letekidan Micael as the 10
year old heroine. The sound cut in and out all the way through the
screening. Wonderful landscapes, with Kenya standing in for Eritrea
throughout.

8.00pm: Head to apartment to change, then out to the Romanian party on
the beach. Great food, great music, lovely people. I cut out about
11.00, to find the Petit Majestic (a backstreet bar which acts as the
unofficial festival drinking spot, all plastic pint glasses and people
talking 15 to the dozen in the street.

Instead I bump into a friend from Berlin, and end up with an invitation
in the Century Club (which being members is full of old people), dancing
to the Clash, drinking cocktails sponsored by a Sheik and talking to an
American Producer about the about the 12th C Civil War between Maud and
Stephen. Only in Cannes.

I think I walked home....

Speaking of rust...

... there was quite a lot of that to scrape off yours truly to prepare
for Cannes.

I emerged from the woods with lovely soft skin (soft water) but
otherwise pretty mossy and smoke-stained, a bit like the Stone Caravan
itself.

So off come the three layers of woollies, the thermal undies, the layer
of smoke (I *do* wash daily up there, but cooking over wood does add a
delicious aroma of kipper. The hair is shorn (unlike the sheep, who are
still bundled up in ragged gray sweaters) and coloured, and then new
layers put on from the suitcase in storage (shoes, undies, skirt,
tshirt, sunglasses - and polish).

The urban disguise seems to have worked. No one has rumbled me yet.
But I had forgotten that 6 hours on the Croissette is harder on the feet
than hauling groceries up the side of a mountain. I'm knackered!

Paris had a surprise for me...

I first spent time in Paris 25 years ago, as a student, paying, I think
£5 a night for a room near Chatelet.

The hotel was a survivor from the 19th Century. Our room on the 4th
floor, had a bare wood floor, brass bedstead with a bolster, a rug, a
wash basin, and long windows that looked out not to the street but to
the light well. The lavatory was 3 doors further down the corridor, a
bath cost extra and involved a slightly longer walk. Breakfast was
bread and bowls of chocolat. I loved it.

Are there any hotels like this left? I doubt it; I looked at that same
hotel on-line a few weeks ago. It is now furnished throughout with twin
beds, in red and gray, all rooms are en suite, and the room where we ate
breakfast is now orange Formica and vending machines.

I'm used to traveling through Paris now, en route to Cannes, or to visit
colleagues. I started to believe that the city I remembered (Imagined)
had slipped away.

First surprise - on the metro, as I opened the door, there he was, the
little white cartoon bunny in blue overalls. After 25 years he still
has his poor paw trapped in the closing doors, which pinch "tres fort".
I thought he had been rescued and consigned to history long ago. Where
has he been hiding?

Then I discover Gare Austerlitz - from which my train is just pulling
away. It is a ridiculously quiet station, particularly after the bustle
of the Eurostar. In the hour I waited there only two trains left - to
Barcelona and Orleans.

It is a wonderful decayed building of sandstone, iron and wood, paint
blistered, plaster sprung, iron rusted as if the air of the
Mediterranean escaped from the arriving carriages with a sigh, and
seeped into the building over the decades.

And the best surprise. As I ate a large and not very exciting sandwich,
a fragment of bread fell to the floor.

Instantly I was surrounded by sparrows, wheeling over head, landing to
dispute crumbs.

There are no sparrows left in London. How has Paris managed to keep hers?

Then I realised that the whole great glass shed of a station was full of
the sound of sparrows singing.

I'm lying in the couchette, jammed between my bag, top and tail. It's
9.30, and in 10 hours time I wake up in Cannes.

From Snow to Sunshine in the course of 4 weeks.

Less than a month ago I celebrated finishing the draft of the Screenplay
>From Hell by brushing snow from the primroses at my door.

Now it's shirtsleeves and suncream and enough blue sky to fit out the
entire Dutch navy in bell bottoms.

Cannes in 10 days. I'll have to scrub up a bit first.

Gifts for writers

A neighbour asked me last night to propose a suitable birthday present
for an penniless aspiring children's writer, with a budget of £50-£60.

Any ideas?

Trouble is, as far as I can see there is really nothing a writer needs
beyond paper, a pencil and perhaps a Thesaurus. A laptop? Well beyond
the proposed budget. Time, will-power and inspiration? Not in the gift
of even the most generous of friends.

I couldn't recommend my favourite book for writers, "One Continuous
Mistake" by Gail Sher, as both gift giver and recipient are members of
an evangelical Christian church, and Sher's book is explicitly Buddhist
in inspiration. (Or rather, I did recommend it, but with the expected
outcome.)

Besides. that is one £7.99 paperback - not the large generous gift my
neighbour wanted to offer.

What emerged, as we ferreted around for ideas, was that my neighbour
imagined that all writers have the same approach and needs, and that I,
on the contrary, realised that all writers have wildly different
approaches and needs.

In the end I suggested a box filled with smaller gifts and treats, the
sort of things a hardworking penny-less writer might have fun opening
and playing with, and which would remind her that her friends knew her,
and wished her well and happy; a teapot for one, tea, biscuits, bath
treats, candles, coloured pencils, a good note book, a paperweight, a
photo holder, a CD of quirky music....

But what would you put in such a box - and what would you like to find
in it...?

(For me - a month's free coffee at Cafe Nero!)

(no subject)

The sun is shining (at last), I am sipping an excellent coffee, and I
have finished the Outline - the one I thought I could toss off before
the end of October.

This is very humbling. I have consistently underestimated the time it
would take me to complete this stage of the project. Despite turning up
at my desk every morning, 6 days a week, and producing reams of
material, I couldn't find shortcuts to produce 50 pages of story that
had a working beginning. middle and end, and smelt somewhat like a film.

Oh well. Live and learn.

Sorry for the extended silence - I made a New Year resolution not to
blog or watch TV (except Ashes to Ashes and Doctor Who...) until I had
finished.

From Snow to Sunshine in the course of 4 weeks.

Less than a month ago I celebrated finishing the draft of the Screenplay
>From Hell by brushing snow from the primroses at my door.

Now it's shirtsleeves and suncream and enough blue sky to fit out the
entire Dutch navy in bell bottoms.

Cannes in 10 days. I'll have to scrub up a bit first.

Who would've thought it? London elected Jack Aubrey as Mayor...

Gifts for writers

A neighbour asked me last night to propose a suitable birthday present
for an penniless aspiring children's writer, with a budget of £50-£60.

Any ideas?

Trouble is, as far as I can see there is really nothing a writer needs
beyond paper, a pencil and perhaps a Thesaurus. A laptop? Well beyond
the proposed budget. Time, will-power and inspiration? Not in the gift
of even the most generous of friends.

I couldn't recommend my favourite book for writers, "One Continuous
Mistake" by Gail Sher, as both gift giver and recipient are members of
an evangelical Christian church, and Sher's book is explicitly Buddhist
in inspiration. (Or rather, I did recommend it, but with the expected
outcome.)

Besides. that is one £7.99 paperback - not the large generous gift my
neighbour wanted to offer.

What emerged, as we ferreted around for ideas, was that my neighbour
imagined that all writers have the same approach and needs, and that I,
on the contrary, realised that all writers have wildly different
approaches and needs.

In the end I suggested a box filled with smaller gifts and treats, the
sort of things a hardworking penny-less writer might have fun opening
and playing with, and which would remind her that her friends knew her,
and wished her well and happy; a teapot for one, tea, biscuits, bath
treats, candles, coloured pencils, a good note book, a paperweight, a
photo holder, a CD of quirky music....

But what would you put in such a box - and what would you like to find
in it...?

(For me - a month's free coffee at Cafe Nero!)

(no subject)

The sun is shining (at last), I am sipping an excellent coffee, and I
have finished the Outline - the one I thought I could toss off before
the end of October.

This is very humbling. I have consistently underestimated the time it
would take me to complete this stage of the project. Despite turning up
at my desk every morning, 6 days a week, and producing reams of
material, I couldn't find shortcuts to produce 50 pages of story that
had a working beginning. middle and end, and smelt somewhat like a film.

Oh well. Live and learn.

Sorry for the extended silence - I made a New Year resolution not to
blog or watch TV (except Ashes to Ashes and Doctor Who...) until I had
finished.