Things
The council has tarmacked a long stretch of the cycle lane I use to get to work, which means a grateful prostrate gland and thankful bollocks. But I shouldn’t count my domestic fowl before they hatch because they’ll probably be digging it up to lay gas pipes or fibre optic cables in a couple of days.
I’ve been meeting a lot of deadlines recently and devoted little time to things other than work.
However, on Saturday I took Little One (10) to appear as an extra in a film. My daughter has a incandescent desire to be an actress and a singer (normal for a pre-adolescent girl). The drama school she attends once a week often gives information about auditions for plays and parts for extras in films and television programmes.
Far from being a miserable bastard and trying to put her off (You can’t do that/not for the likes of you/our family’s always been shite at everything, etc.), I try to encourage her to go along, get parts and generally learn about theatre, telly and film.
Wifey usually refuses to accompany her but I like going.
This Saturday we took a long metro ride to the station at the end of the red line. We emerged on what seemed to be a different planet from the Barcelona with which I am familar. After leaving the station, getting lost a few times, an hour or so's walk, and being asked several times by Little One whether I knew where we were going, we ended up on a piece of wasteland where the film was to be shot. Shady-looking individuals leaning on cars, long since left to rot in the urban wilderness, hung around the site.
The fear of having my throat slit for ten bob/x euros (irrationally) disappeared when I saw that a large group of film people had arrived already; chief grips, stand-in booms, etc. (people whose names appear in the credits at the end of a film and whose identity folk in arty cinemas hang around long after the film has finished to discover).
Film-making is a dull business for anyone who’s not at the centre of it all (there's no Oscar for Best Boomholder or Set Sandwichmaker - "and the Oscar goes to ...... Mrs Ethel Bishop for her Mother's Pride with Potted Meat period feature"). It involves a lot of hanging around waiting for people to do or not to do things (e.g. waiting for the sun and clouds to get into position so the exposure is right/telling a guy in a car to switch his techno down/he refuses/more persuasion/he refuses/bribe/he accepts).
Little One enjoyed it a lot and I made up for lost father/daughter bonding opportunities.
The council has tarmacked a long stretch of the cycle lane I use to get to work, which means a grateful prostrate gland and thankful bollocks. But I shouldn’t count my domestic fowl before they hatch because they’ll probably be digging it up to lay gas pipes or fibre optic cables in a couple of days.
I’ve been meeting a lot of deadlines recently and devoted little time to things other than work.
However, on Saturday I took Little One (10) to appear as an extra in a film. My daughter has a incandescent desire to be an actress and a singer (normal for a pre-adolescent girl). The drama school she attends once a week often gives information about auditions for plays and parts for extras in films and television programmes.
Far from being a miserable bastard and trying to put her off (You can’t do that/not for the likes of you/our family’s always been shite at everything, etc.), I try to encourage her to go along, get parts and generally learn about theatre, telly and film.
Wifey usually refuses to accompany her but I like going.
This Saturday we took a long metro ride to the station at the end of the red line. We emerged on what seemed to be a different planet from the Barcelona with which I am familar. After leaving the station, getting lost a few times, an hour or so's walk, and being asked several times by Little One whether I knew where we were going, we ended up on a piece of wasteland where the film was to be shot. Shady-looking individuals leaning on cars, long since left to rot in the urban wilderness, hung around the site.
The fear of having my throat slit for ten bob/x euros (irrationally) disappeared when I saw that a large group of film people had arrived already; chief grips, stand-in booms, etc. (people whose names appear in the credits at the end of a film and whose identity folk in arty cinemas hang around long after the film has finished to discover).
Film-making is a dull business for anyone who’s not at the centre of it all (there's no Oscar for Best Boomholder or Set Sandwichmaker - "and the Oscar goes to ...... Mrs Ethel Bishop for her Mother's Pride with Potted Meat period feature"). It involves a lot of hanging around waiting for people to do or not to do things (e.g. waiting for the sun and clouds to get into position so the exposure is right/telling a guy in a car to switch his techno down/he refuses/more persuasion/he refuses/bribe/he accepts).
Little One enjoyed it a lot and I made up for lost father/daughter bonding opportunities.
posted by Bob at 12:10 pm
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