FADE IN:

For best effect, I recommend playing the following while reading. Call it a soundtrack to Clive’s short film.

A Dream of Cannes

By Clive Ashenden aka. Leading Man Clive

[The following is a true story… Or a least a true dream.]

FADE IN:

 

INT. HOTEL ROOM, CANNES – NIGHT

 

POV: A hand pulls back the curtain to reveal: RAIN and neon reflected in the rain-slicked streets.

 

LMC (V.O.)

I came dressed for Casablanca but ended up in Se7en. I’ve been to the festival at Cannes five (or was it six?) times before but it’s always been blazing sunshine. The rain doesn’t suit the city. It looks bedraggled, hair-do ruined, mascara streaming…

It’s not a particularly new observation to note the similarity of film, of cinema, to dreams. Recently, Christopher Nolan’s “Inception” played with such ideas – cutting to Cobb and Ariadne sitting outside a café, and then having her become aware of the ‘jump’ in time and space. However, it’s only when you go somewhere like Cannes that you realise how apt the dream analogy is.

 Much ink has been spilled on the PR postcard view of Cannes the festival. Red carpet premieres; Hollywood stars; World cinema’s venerable auteurs and young tyros; A-list parties and Awards. More still on reviews of the ‘real’ festival, with views from the Marché (the film market that forms the hidden backbone of the festival) and first-hand accounts from Cannes virgins.

Returning to Cannes once again, it is clear (even in the dour light painting everything in greys) that there is no fake Cannes or real Cannes – only different dreams of Cannes. Dreams… and nightmares.

EXT. PETIT MAJESTIC BAR, CANNES – NIGHT

 

POV: A drinker’s eye view of the bottom of plastic pint glass. Beer disappearing, then the glass moves away to reveal: the dank and sodden remnants of Cannes’ party circuit. In the foreground are friend (S. his moustache and quiff waxed and unmoved in the constant drizzle) and foe (A. all burning red-eyes and spittle-flecked lips).

 

LMC (V.O.)

The Petit Majestic is the most democratic spot in Cannes. If you get there at what I like to think of as ‘Magic Hour’ (not the roseate light of a clear dusk or dawn, but rather the hour after all the main parties and screening have just finished) – this is the time where you might get a chance to meet real players. And in that one hour window you’ll find them well-oiled enough to be approachable, but not so drunk that they’re unable to speak, walk or see. After ‘Magic Hour’ passes…

 

A

You’ll never get anywhere until you’re been royally raped. Both of you.

 

LMC (V.O.)

We’re getting blasted with A’s philosophy and wisdom. He believes that S and I need to be broken on the wheel (unspoken: like he was) before we can graduate to the big leagues. A producer with actual completed theatrically released features under his belt, he plays the bountiful lord throwing scraps to the peasants (despite being a self-professed Marxist). He’s being an arsehole, and even though he’s drunk and (I learn later) has been up for two days straight, he knows he’s being an arsehole.

 

A. holds up his hand unsteadily at shoulder level.

 

A

I’m at a higher level than you. I’m sorry but it’s true. This…

 

He moves his hand down four inches.

 

A

This is where you are. You need to get a lot better if you want to make real movies. You need to be here.

 

He moves his hand back up.

 

A

Now I could help you but…

 

The hand disappears.

 

A

You need to do it yourself.

(beat)

Well? Are you going to punch me in the face now?

 

LMC (V.O.)

He seems disappointed when I tell him NO.

Everybody in Cannes is here for THE DREAM. The paparazzi perched on their chrome step ladders waiting for the next celebrity wardrobe malfunction. The cinephiles with their faces pressed up against the barrier to get that millimetre closer to their idols. The sales agent spreading his horror movie wares before the gimlet eye of the film buyer. The producer having breakfast with hard-faced ‘Soft Money’ (ie. Government subsidies and Tax breaks) people in a national pavilion. The drunken students searching for the semi-mythical porn yacht. The high-class prostitute brushing past an actress promoting her latest film in which she plays – a prostitute. The cloud of filmmakers buzzing around the Short Film Corner handing out flyers for their shorts…

We’re all here to SELL dreams or BUY dreams. Cannes is just a place we dreamt up to do it in. So we dress up like James Bond or Marilyn Monroe and play the game. Why? Well if you watch movies… I think you know why. Dreams and dreamers, masked, we dance around each other to the tune of Saint-Saens’ “The Aquarium” from ‘The Carnival of The Animals’.

Because sometimes, if you put the hard work in and you’re lucky – dreams can come true.

INT. PRIVATE BEACH PARTY, CANNES – NIGHT

 

POV: S. converses with J, a professional film man who wears his scars lightly.

 

LMC (V.O.)

Sometimes… it all just works. We pitch our script as a team. Naturally, fluidly, S. starts with the logline, I pick up the story, throw it back and so it goes. It’s relaxed. We know our story back-to-front and we glory in its twists and turns. Its ‘movieness’ (if that’s even a word). We’ve hooked J – he wants to know more and believes it maybe just the project he’s been looking for to collaborate with his friend, the red-hot young producer X. No promises, but we all share similar taste in movies and well… you’ve got to DREAM… haven’t you?

 

Outside, for the first time since arrival, the rain stops.

CUT TO BLACK:

With that in mind, I’m delighted to present Doco Domsy’s report on the annual Norwich 100 cycle ride in support of the British Heart Foundation. This is a big event for an important cause which I know is close to his heart and…

Hell, why don’t I just shut up and let him tell the story? 

It all started, I guess, with my mate Bill. We met through the bike shop that he used to own and run in Cambridge called Taurus Cycles.  This was in the mid 80s.  I had just started to get interested in cycling.  I worked at Taurus while at school and college.  Bill and his partner in the business Mark helped me learn the ways of the spinning wheels.  I raced until the age of 21.  I believe I learnt a lot in those early days of cycling.

Fast forward to May 2012.  I still have three Taurus bikes from all those years ago.  One a pink track bike, a winter bike with mudguard eyes and my best road racing bike.  I got back on the winter bike for the Norwich 100. I would have preferred to have ridden my best bike but it is in France, where I spend a good chunk of my time (Dom’s French cycling adventures are a subject for a whole other post – R).

Bill and I usually go for one ride a week on Sunday.  In the last few months I have ridden out to pick him up.  This gives me 10 miles on the bike before we start to ride together.  We have been riding between 15 and 30 miles together. I then have a 10 mile ride home.  So we had a base for the century around Norfolk.

In the week leading up to the ride Bill was on holiday so we packed in more rides.  My mile total before the Norwich ride was 200.

We both rested on Saturday, the day before our test.  I had liver, potatoes and asparagus for dinner — no booze!

We were at the start in Norwich by 7.30am.  I took some photos while we listened to a man in a yellow suit with a microphone. He was getting us in the mood for what lay ahead.  The mayor gave a count down and we were off.  There were around 3000 people doing the ride. We could choose 25, 50 or 100 miles.  Bill and I had opted for 100.  Bill needs the miles for a ride he’s doing later in the year in Sweden and me … well, I do like a challenge.  When I am back on these old bikes something inside me just thinks I am just as young and fit as I used to be when racing.  This of course is not the case and may well change when I get a new bike!

We set off at a gentle pace enjoying the spread of riders up ahead.  The course was basically flat, the most testing factor being the wind and how comfortable you are able to stay while in the saddle.  We must have still been within the first 10 miles when a loud crack came from Bill’s bike.  What was that?  You never want it to be anything too serious so usually say something like, “was that something kicked up from the road?”.  In this case no, it was Bill’s £140 carbon fibre seat pin that had ceased to be.  This did not help the mood.  I left Bill and headed up the road, there would be a mechanic on the way soon.  He called me, I pedalled back to him, the pin was not rideable.  Not a good start to the ride.  Bill and I had a testing exchange and I headed on my way.  Not fun at all for Bill to be foiled so early on.

Bill’s story did not finish there.  He waited 2 hours for a new seat pin and completed the 50 mile route.  Not a bad end, the miles will help him in Sweden and it is never fun to not complete something.

I got to the half way point at Sheringham School at 11.00am.  On these kinds of rides you catch a conversation here and there.  Each side gives some of their life experience by what is said and how they are riding and on what.

I stopped for an hour, munching on my home made sandwiches and taking in more fluid.  I spotted someone in a Space Invader cycling top, this made me smile. (Dom and Invader is a subject for a whole other post – R) A little tweak with my gears and I was off for the second half.  My mum was waiting in West Runton.  I stopped and we chatted about how the ride was going.  I decided not to take any water from the team car.  I had been drinking well.

Just like me, all the cycling I do nowadays takes my mum back to my racing days.  She and I would go to most races together, our car stuffed with all that a racing cyclist needs to try and win.

I was on the coast now so views of the sea and lower temperatures helped me along.  Through Cromer, known for its crabs, at Mundesley the course came away from the coast I was heading for the rest stop at Horsey Mill.  Two chaps from the Diss Club caught me up.  We worked well together and this sped us along this part.  More water taken on at this stop and a coconut bar.

After this I passed an old boy going well.  He had a nice woolly Brooks jersey and Reynolds 531 British racing green frame.  I guess that could be me in a good few years!

I still had my rhythm while watching the mile count down signs appear.  At 20 miles to go I started to chat with a guy who had just spent three weeks in Singapore; he deals in aircraft.  His wife had said something along the lines of not really understanding why anyone would want to cycle 100 miles just for the fun of it.  She should try it and I am sure she would see why.

We sailed past the last rest stop, the finish was not far.  Big ring rolling to help eat up the last miles.  It was hot, the road was melting, I joked about how the tar can retread your tyres.

A few gentle slopes (?) in the road were enough to make me slip back from my temporary friend on the road.  Norwich was now under 5 miles away.  A couple of stops at traffic lights breaks up the last testing bits of tarmac.

The finish was back at the Cathedral grounds, through an arch the crowd were wishing everyone well over the line, no victory salute!  Just the sense of pride, a good thing done to help others.  A medal with red ribbon placed over the head and a cool half pint of local ale as reward.

We enjoyed the grounds for a gentle hour and then headed back to the car.  Some locals in a pub asked how far I had gone.  They seemed impressed with my 100 mile journey, I thanked them.

This one will not be forgotten and I have a strong feeling that I will be back for more next year.

A heroic effort there, I’m sure you’ll agree. Dom’s fundraising page is still active. If you’d like to support the cause, check him out on his BHF page. 

Fortunately, those of us who have been to the Festival know that the big premieres at the Palais only tell a small fraction of the whole story, and the underbelly of the Festival is ripe with oddities. 

In the first of our exclusive Cannes reports for Excuses And Half Truths, Stuart Wright shows us his picks for the films that will be lighting up the Croisette this time next year. 

You expect the sun to shine in the South Of France. I left sunny ol’ England behind and was greeted in Nice Airport by more of the same glorious weather. It wasn’t to last. By the second day the rain began and seemingly didn’t stop for five days straight.

Once you accept the daily reality of shoe dyed, rain-soaked socks by 11:30am, you begin to adapt and toughen up in Cannes. Or you find cover and haul ass around the Marché du Film, the film market in the basement of the Palais where nearly 4,000 films aim to get a sniff of the millions of dollars that are itching to be spent.

Officially: “the Marché du Film is the most important event in the industry.” To the unofficial observer/film geek it is a Willy Wonka world of movie dreams. Everyone who aspires to make a film must visit this place at least once to begin to understand how business people commoditise creativity for the mass markets they want to reach. It’s a vibrant place where expense accounts are stretched to their limits in order to find niche and mainstream audiences alike.

Here’s a few highlights of what was being promoted at Cannes 2012:

I’m no semiotics expert, but even I found myself trying to interpret this dazzling arrangement of: ZombeX, The Tortured and Princess Diana: A Celebration. I like to think they are subliminally selling us the truth about the ‘tortured’ royal and the hope she will rise from the grave. No? Just me, then.

Lesbian Vampire Warriors is interesting because if you look close enough you’ll see another poster poking out below. The hidden original was a proof of concept print that no one covered up for three days. It proudly read: “Strapline To Go Here” before the real artwork took centre stage.

Dead Walking is genius just for swapping the order of words for a known TV show title around.

Atlantic Rim was my favourite, to the point strapline: Aliens invade! Mankind fights back! Any sci-fi genre buyer doesn’t really need to know anymore about that movie to make a purchase.

Hypercane. This title is not a made up word. It is the name of a hypothetical extreme hurricane that according to scientists requires the oceans to rise in temperature to circa 50C (more that ever recorded) as a result of say a massive asteroid shower. High concept meets science head on for some CGI mayhem I imagine.

The best of the best was early sales art featuring Nicolas Cage ripped like a manga cartoon hero for Marble City. Not remotely near production, nevermind selling, Todd Brown on twitchfilm.com referred to it as: “…the greatest, most ridiculous poster ever made for a movie which does not yet exist.”

In the Marché du Film, genre is king. Horror and action thrillers dominate the landscape. Remember that as you speculatively write a twee melodrama set in a remote Suffolk village. There’s an important lesson to be learnt in the depths of the basement of the Palais in Cannes: Who will buy my film? And more importantly, how do I get people interested and who will sell it?

For Excuses And Half Truths I’m Stuart Wright, and it’s time for an ice-cream. 

Anyway. If you’ve been reading the blog for any length of time, you will know of my deep and enduring love for Spotify, the music streaming service. It’s all I use these days, excluding the odd few artists that have chosen not to make their work available. 99.5% of the music I love is on Spotify, and it’s a brilliant way of discovering new sounds.

I’ve been making and enjoying other people’s playlists on Spotify for a while. Indeed, one of the strengths of the service is using an app like ShareMyPlaylists to find intriguing and playful mixtapes on common or esoteric themes. I’m a regular contributor to virtual music festival Spotstock, a fun place for people to share their likes on a “stage” without the need for wellies, a pacamac and an over-priced hot dog.

Over the next few Saturdays, then, I want to share some of my playlists, or perhaps a song or album that has got me jumping around. You will, of course, need Spotify to listen to the tracks. It’s a free download that allows you a certain amount of free playback a month. I pay a fiver a month for unlimited, ad-free access to the service, and it’s money I never begrudge paying out.

First up, I would like to present a playlist of darkly gothic romance. I call it DEAD IN LOVE.

Black out the windows. It’s party time.

On Thursday afternoon, four days after launch, it was in the top 100 Kindle Horror chart, and top 10 for Horror Short Stories overall. That’s Kindle and book downloads, I’ll have you know. At one point we were actually sitting between two Stephen King books at no. 9 on the chart. Don’t believe me?

The notion of outselling the King Of Horror, even if only for a moment and in a niche market is a giddy one, I can tell you.

Things have calmed down slightly, but after this first flush we’re keen to keep things moving. We’re actively looking for readers to review The Dead Files, Vol. 1 on their own sites. We’d especially like a few reviews on Amazon itself – a few star ratings would really help us out. If you’ve read it and liked it – let the world know!

Looking ahead, we’re already planning Vol. 2, which we hope to launch in late June/early July. My contribution will be an expansion of the world I introduced in The Key To The Gates Of Hell. We’re very excited about it, and think you guys are in for a treat. It’s vital that we continue to expand the remit, and make sure our Readership is well supplied with tales of the zombie apocalypse.

Furthermore, we’re in the final stages of prepping a print run, which means you can read The Dead Files on actual paper made out of actual wood pulp veeery soon. Keep this channel open for further communications.

It’s all been a bit manic and humbling, and we’re incredibly grateful for the love and suport we’ve had in our first week. A massive thanks is due to everyone that’s bought the book. And we won’t let you down. Believe us – this is only the beginning…

Not bought The Dead Files, Vol. 1 yet? Well, my goodness, what are you waiting for? The links are right here!

The Dead Files, Vol. 1 on Amazon.co.uk

The Dead Files, Vol. 1 on Amazon.com

In my defence, I know Kate’s tastes. She has no patience for subtitled misery, and my delight in depressing foreign movies usually ends up with me on the wrong end of the finest display of lip-curling this side of Elvis.

But I do think I’m on safe ground when I say that Kaurismäki’s films are not for everyone. They’re deadpan, deliberately paced (oh, alright, slow) and deal with small stories set in poor locations acted out by sad, ugly people.

Tempted?

The thing is, all the points above are the reason that I love Kaurismäki’s work. His films are cut through with a bone-dry humour and a genuine sense of warmth. His characters have the patina of life, of history. They’ve been places. They’ve done stuff.

I often think of Charles Bukowski when I consider Aki Kaurismäki. They both feature barflys, bums, the downtrodden, the has-beens, the never-weres. But Kaurismäki teases a beauty out of the everyday that Bukowski can’t hang onto. He’s too busy yelling to see the quiet grace that comes out of a kind deed, a simple act of unexpected decency. Kaurismäki gets it, and it’s those moments that make his films a source of delight.

In Le Havre, we meet Marcel Marx, a shoeshine man working the streets of the titular poor French port. He comes across a young Ghanian refugee, who he feeds and shelters. Almost by accident, he decides to help the boy complete his journey to England. In some ways it’s a distraction: his beloved wife Arletty is in hospital and, unknown to him, dying of cancer.

It should be grim. Marx is an obvious loser who struggles to get any work and is often violently cleared away from his patches. Arletty will not tell him she is dying because she doesn’t think he can cope with the notion of life without her. You genuinely get the feeling that Le Havre is going to end tragically, as Marx blows his life savings on a plan to get the young refugee across the Channel, and the police led by the implacable Inspector Monet close in.

But things are never that simple in Kaurismäkiland. There’s always hope, even in the bleakest of moments. Deadpan does not mean dead in the water, and even if his characters never crack a smile, that’s no reason for his audience not to.

Le Havre is suffused with a gentle absurdism that lends the film an unexpected lightness of touch. I think it’s worth the price of admission to see Little Bob rock out at the benefit concert Marx organises (it says everything about Marx’s character that he would consider it a good idea to hold a charity do to raise funds to help smuggle an illegal immigrant out of the country). Monet’s tough guy approach is subverted when he marches into a bar looking for information armed with a pineapple.

Above all, Le Havre feels like a film out of time that could have been made at any time in the last 70 years. The themes – displacement, death, the triumph of love over despair – are universal. It feels like a movie that Robert Bresson or Buster Keaton could have made, or even David Lynch if he’d continued in the intriguing direction he took with The Straight Story. Shot on film, edited on film, composed with an uncompromising formality, Le Havre is still, I think, Kaurismäki’s most accessible film. Allow yourself to fall under its spell, and you will be rewarded. It’s not for everyone – but I should know better than presume that it’s not for you.

Exciting news, Readership! It’s been hellish having to wait until now to share the news but, at last, finally, I can announce the arrival of the first UKZDL anthology, The Dead Files, Vol. 1.

We are the United Kingdom Zombie Defence League – a group of writers and fans that have teamed up to give you, the discerning horror aficionado, new twists and takes on the zombie apocalypse tale. There’s a lot of fun stuff in here, and even a cautionary nursery rhyme!

I’m especially excited because of course, I’m a part of the group and my novella, The Key To The Gates Of Hell, is the finale of the whole book. It’s a tale of adventure and electrical zombies set five hundred years after Z-Day, in a world that’s very different. I think it’s sci-fi horror with a difference, and I really hope you enjoy it. Here’s an extract, just to give you an idea of what to expect.

They were silent, for they no longer had a use for God’s breath in their lungs. The torrent that raged in their blood was something other, born of man. In our shame, we tried to indict the old enemy. The man in red, the one with flames for eyes who poured his spirit into the dead, bringing them out of the earth to despoil God’s good works. 

Lies, of course. A poor attempt to disguise our guilt that no-one truly believed. The Red Man may have guided our hands, but we had crafted the satanae spiritus and set it loose on the world. A bottle filled with woe that, once uncorked, had taken 300 years to plug. 300 years, and the dead outnumbered the living by hundreds to one. Peace, when it had finally arrived, had come with a terrible price. Our world, once so vibrant with life, was an empty place now, a pale shadow. 

Haunted with the constant fear that the dead would rise again. 

They were silent, and frighteningly fast, and they would have taken us all if Daekin had not abandoned his post to take a piss. Sheriff Carborne had set a watch, fearful of the attacks that had torn several of our sheep and broodmares to shreds. The flesh had been scattered. None of it had been taken for food. 

But our watchmen were lazy and skeptical, and they often brought ale up to the watch-houses. Carric, whose post was the northern approach facing the woods, had dropped into a dreamless drunken coma within an hour of sunset. Daekin, nodding in the south tower, was only roused by the need to ease the pressure of the six pints of dark ale swelling inside him. 

Most of that volume of liquid came out of him at the first sight of the zombei swarming over the north wall. Daekin was fat and slow, but fear gave him an admirable turn of speed. And his voice, the loudest alto in the church choir, was raised as he ran for the alarum. 

It was his dying scream that woke me. An awful, ragged thing, rising with the clang of the alarum bell. He clung to the rope even as the first of the undead reached him, latching its sharp-tooted maw into the soft flesh of his throat and biting down. 

A dark figure loomed over me, and I flinched back, reaching under my pillow for a blade that wasn’t there and wouldn’t have done me any good if it had been. 

“Up, boy,” Father Daniel said. “The Mortuis. Quickly.” His narrow features were set in an awful expression—half terror, half rage. 

Screams and the clang of weapons and armour from outside my door now. The men who watched our perimeter may have failed, but praise God that our Guard were well-trained. They would be setting a cordon, giving me the time I needed to run for the chancellery and wake the mortuis. 

In seconds, I had slipped on a robe and slippers. Shadows danced on the walls. Firelight, painting awful shapes in red and gold. Daniel was beside me. He slipped something cold and heavy into my hand. A dagger. I looked up. His eyes blazed, fury and excitement melting together in the furnace. 

“What are you waiting for?” he spat, and shoved me out of the door. 

Would you like to read more? Well, of course you would, and of course you can, you lucky people. The Dead Files, Vol. 1 is now on sale for Kindle for £2.99. And we are actively seeking submissions for volume 2, so if you’re interested drop me  or Sarge a line. 

Remember: Survival Of The League Is Paramount.

Buy The Dead Files Vol. 1 on Amazon

Now, I can just about swallow the idea if a film has been written and directed by the same person, and in a low-budget environment. Lack of money and resources mean that the prime mover behind the film will be doing a lot of the heavy lifting both on set and in post. But watch the credits of any major studio movie and you’ll see how quickly the concept falls to bits. Film is a uniquely collaborative medium, a glorious meeting of a myriad of talent. Everyone on that credit roller brings their own strengths to the table. Sure, every shoot needs a boss, the buck-stopper, the go-to guy or gal. But that director’s USP, the look they negotiate with their DoPs, the performances they tease out of their actors, presents a unified body of work that can be effectively marketed. The notion of branding is as important as any airy-fairy hoo-hah about a director’s vision. When you sit down in front of a Hitchcock, a Preston Sturges, a Tim Burton or a Jodorowsky you have a certain preconception of what you’re going to get. To get that consistency of product, a smart director will have gathered a crew with which he or she can work comfortably in order to achieve the expected result. The same ADs, editors, camera crew. Effectively, you’re ending up with a band. And yet there’s one name front and centre in the credits – the person who yells “Action!”

Film is unique in this regard. Theatres have their companies. Music is performed by orchestras or groups. Art and literature, yes, fine, the auteur theory holds up there – because they are largely carried out by one person. Writing and drawing, as I know very well, are intensely solitary activities. The act of creativity is largely undertaken between the artist and the keyboard or the easel. It’s virtually impossible to make a film on your tod. It can be done. I’ve done it. But you won’t end up with a piece of mainstream cinema. 

I think the idea of films being made by bands would be a fairer admission of the collaborative nature of the medium. If a writer, director, DoP and editor always work together, why not simply admit that and play to it as a strength? It’s not like there aren’t directing teams out there. The Coens, Nevedine/Taylor, the Pang Brothers – these are all acclaimed partnerships. More importantly, they’re strong, instantly identifiable brands.

There are groups of insanely talented low-to-no budget film-makers around the world who pool resources and help each other out on their shoots. Why not go the whole hog and simply gang up? Have some fun with it. Come up with a cool name. Get some band photos done. Everyone in shades. You know the deal. I’m not saying it’s an ideal solution – but at the very least it makes for a unique marketing hook, and everyone’s being a bit more honest about the co-operative nature of the gig. You could even make it an umbrella partnership, with members dropping in or out for each project. 

An example, just off the top of my head. Call the group Cinema Conojito. The individual talents would be subsumed to a degree by the gang name as a whole. I would have credits that read something like: 

For the purposes of this film, Cinema Conojito have been:

and then list the major talents involved, cast and crew, in strictly alphabetical order. I’m convinced I’ve seen this kind of thing before – it’s a Wes Anderson thing, perhaps. The point is that no one person takes precedence. Everyone has their role on the set and in post – the director still does the same job, as does the editor, the DoP. But no-one takes overall credit for a film that’s a product of a group. 

What do you think, Readership? I’ve deliberately left holes in the argument to encourage discussion (and indeed I have an argument as to why this democratic approach wouldn’t work). Let me know if I’m talking out of my hat, won’t you?

If you want examples of films that are genuine one-man shows, may I direct you towards the works of Patrick Keillor and Bill Plympton? Oh, and there’s this…

(I was so much older then. I’m younger than that now.)

It would be the luxury item that would give me pause. Although the notion of a fast satellite uplink feeding a hot-rodded MacBook Pro appeals, I think in the end I’d have to plump for a rice cooker.

In fact, it would have to be the rice cooker I already own. The Electrolux TLC bought me for Christmas 2010. A remarkable device. It steams. It slow-cooks. It makes porridge. But the way it makes rice is nothing short of necromancy. Rice and liquid go into the pot, I press one button, and 15 minutes later I have perfect rice. Every single time. It’s a source of constant marvel and wonderment to me, and has me experimenting with the world’s most popular staple crop in all sorts of new and exciting ways.

Now, the food blogs have lit up this week with a little bit of genius that I’d like to share with you. Tucked away in a nonsensical listicle about 31 new uses for beer on the Men’s Health magazine website (typical example – use beer to glue down an errant eyebrow hair) was an utter diamond bullet of blinding revelation.

Cook rice in beer.

Just take a moment to contemplate that sentence. It sounds like utter madness, the sort of thing you’d try when you’ve maybe had too many beers in the first place. It’ll be revolting, right? Soggy, stinky stuff.

Let’s think about this. We have no problem throwing wine into a risotto – in fact it’s an essential step. Beer is mostly water anyway, and the cooking process will cook off most of the alcohol, leaving the flavour of the ale to scent the rice. It makes an awful lot of sense.

Now, here’s where the exceptions slot into place. The Beeranauts often talk about “cooking lager”, referring to the bog-standard swill that’s front and centre in the British pub. For the purposes of this article, there is no such thing. Lager, even the nice European stuff, will not do. You need an ale with body and flavour.

I’ve chosen Tanglefoot, Badger’s delicious amber brew that regularly seems to be in supermarket twofers. It’s a full 5 percent, rich and tasty. It’s a perfect ale for throwing into stews and casseroles. I see no reason not to try it on rice.

OK, rice cooking 101 for those of you that don’t have a magic rice cooker. Two rules. Double the liquid to rice, equal the cook time to stand. I’ll elaborate.

Take a saucepan with a tight-fitting lid, and throw in a cup of rice. I have a 160ml plastic job that serves purpose, but use a teacup or whatever else suits. Don’t just throw in a handful. Have an idea of how much rice has gone in.

On top of that, two cups of liquid. That should come to about two-thirds of a standard 500ml can or bottle. It’ll froth a bit. That’s ok. The bubbles help keep the rice from sticking. Now, bring the whole lot up to the boil, then turn it right down to the lowest that your hob will go, clap a lid on the pan, and walk away. You’ll have some beer left over. That’s your treat. You enjoy that.

After ten minutes, switch the rice off and leave it. The kitchen should be filling with a heady, nutty aroma, the sort of smell that cooking rice gives off mixed in with a sweetly savoury note. Yes, you can have sweet/savoury. Have you never had caramelised onions?

Anyway. After ten minutes, you’re done. The rice will be golden, slightly sticky in places where the sugar in the booze has cooked out, and will smell of heaven. It won’t be as strongly flavoured as cooking in stock, but it’ll have a certain something that’ll make you want to wolf it by the forkful. We had hake with a herb crust and tomato sauce with our Tanglefoot rice, but to be honest it’ll go with anything.

A 160ml measure gives plenty for 2 as a side, or one if you’re greedy. I recommend doubling the amount* so you have spare to fry up with a spring onion and a beaten egg. It’ll catch a bit more in the pan than normal cooked rice, but to be frank extra crunchy bits are one of the joys of yer egg-fried rice.

The possibilities are endless. I’d be wary of cooking rice in an insanely strong Trappist beer. Otherwise, all bets are off. What would Old Peculiar Rice be like? What would Newkie Brown Rice be like?

Holy smoke, what would Guinness Rice be like?

*Yes, yes, I know, doubling the amount means throwing more or less a whole can/bottle of beer into your rice. You have my permission to crack open a fresh one. The rice is worth that minor sacrifice.

All of a sudden, everyone behind the bar stopped what they were doing, and poured out a line of shots. The music was cut. A solemn toast was pronounced, and when the music came back up it was the Beastie Boys, played boneshakingly loud.

I took a moment to lift a glass, as I had just seen the news that the bar staff at the Ship on Wardour Street had needed to mark. Adam Yauch, MCA of the Beastie Boys, had just died of cancer. He was 47. His sandpaper-and-whiskey voice had made him my favourite, and he was a prime mover of the Beastie’s shift to a more conscious, if just as funky, lyrical stance.

His loss is a kick in the nuts. MCA was a richly talented musician, a rapper with a unique flow, a generous and intelligent presence. This shot is for him.