EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS

…because remember kids, not knowing how to cook is like not knowing how to fu… you get the idea.

Gracias, Senor Rodruiguez, y tambien BoingBoing.

Now, I’m not a football fan in any way, although I express a mild interest in the progress of Reading in the Premiership. In that way, I have had a good season.

My friend Tim is a West Ham supporter. A very West Ham Supporter. He has not had a good season.

Here is a document of Tim, filmed by the mysterious TB, on the last day of the season. They need a win to stay up. They are playing Manchester United.
Witness the pride, the passion, the pileup, of LAST DAY.

The following is extremely NSFW due to the language, Timothy.

I’m three days into a caffeine-free week. It’s been somewhat harder than I anticipated. I’ve been aching, tired and have suffered fairly constant headaches. Now, this concerns me quite a bit. I have a reputation at work for being a bit of a coffee-hound, but I had no idea that things had got to a level where I’d feel like I was going cold turkey from a crack jones. It’s only a cappuccino, ferchrissakes!

I should, of course, know better. Caffeine is the world’s favourite psychoactive substance, very easy to become tolerant to (no I am not using the word addicted. That gives the bean-juice a glamour it really doesn’t deserve) and more difficult to kick than you might think. This is largely because of it’s prevalence in everyday household items. Yeah, we all know about coffee, tea, Coke and so on being full of caffeiny goodness. But most over-the-counter headache pills contain caffeine too, as does chocolate. I’d been wondering where the craving for a Toffee-Crisp was coming from.

So, my drugs of choice are now rooibos tea and Innocent smoothies. I’d love to say I’m bulging with health and well-being. Sadly, not true. I am a black hole of need, and I pass a place to ease the pain on average every 50 yards in Soho.
I know I’ve always said I thrive on a challenge, but this is ridiculous.

Here’s the science part.
Notes from some fellow travellers.
these guys really aren’t helping.
and finally, my hero.

Further:
on the 200 yard walk that takes me from Picadilly Circus to Meard St. in Soho for work, I pass 11 places that sell take-out coffee. And that seems to be the norm around here.
At Reading station there are at least 7 coffee outlets.
That’s a lot of latte.

…and a lot of money, of course, barely any of which makes it’s way back to the growers. I try to buy and drink Fairtrade coffee, of course, but that’s really just a plaster over the squirting jugular wound of the problem. There’s a new movie out soon called Black Gold that gives a wider view of the situation – worth checking out when it hits UK screens this Friday.

If I wasn’t so sleepy, it’d be a wake-up call.

Yes, it’s back. Fodderblog’s been on hiatus while I do the writing novels and Cannes thing, but now it returns.
I’ll start slow, and we may need a few reminders on basic techniques…

thanks to chef Clive for the heads up.

Finally, a Flickr set of my Cannes pics. I’ll try and blag some choice ones from the rest of the Cannes Crew, but for now enjoy this chunk of visual goodness.

Funny thing for a blogger to say but, well, I’m a generous soul.

Here’s a bit of perspective from other members of the Cannes Crew.

Enjoy, please, the Cannes experience as told by Graham and Dave from Oaktree, and Paul, Michael and Cop from Pleased Sheep.

(Fiona, Nick, anything to share with the group?) 😉

…a Romanian film about two women seeking out an illegal abortion.

and there was me thinking Death Proof was in with a chance.

A quick one, before I get back to the silliness of Cannes.

Read this.
Then this.

There’s a reason for the quote at the top of the blog, you know…

Update: I caught the trailers for Captivity and Paradise Lost today as precursors to Zodiac, and both featured beautiful women being tortured. Both at some point in the trailers say “I’m sorry.”
Joss’ point stands out more clearly than ever. Sorry for what?

One experience that was deemed necessary for me to try before I left Cannes was a slice of flan. Flan is a thicker, less sweet version of a custard tart, served in wedges at most of the food kiosks. It’s substantial enough to replace lunch, and sits in your stomach once ingested like a custard flavoured brick.
I asked Clive to document my first encounter with the delight of flan.

I’ve been musing on the viability of the Short Film Corner, and have come to a conclusion. Although we have been lucky enough to garner accreditation through the SFC, I’m not convinced it’s the best showcase for our wares. Here’s my thinking.

There are 1700 films in the SFC this year, and getting to see any of them involves a complex procedure, knowing the code of the film you want to see, then booking a booth to view it in. You provide your own advertising, and the only place you can put it is up in the SFC. The only people that can get to the SFC have to have accreditation, and they have to fancy a trip to the arse-end corner of the Film Market to view anything.

In other words, we’re in a ghetto, with no chance of getting our wares out to a wider audience.

I have a couple of suggestions. Firstly, use the screens dotted around the Corner to show some short films. There seemed to be one or two shorts, presumably with some kind of funding deal, showing on permanent rotation. That was it. Surely it would make more sense to show a random selection of the wide range of shorts on offer, or even just excerpts, complete with a ticker or overlay giving the reference number.

Second, give the public a chance to see the shorts for themselves. Set up a booth outside the Palais, or in the lobby of a hotel, and let the public check out some films. The technologies are there, and it’s in everyone’s best interest to give the huge amount of material (which must by definition have some worth as it’s been selected in the first place for Cannes) the exposure it deserves. And who knows, it might give a film-maker the break they’re asking for.

It was a slow last full day for me in Cannes. Once again, Graham and Dave’s great plans to get an early start were scuppered by the need to get more than 4 hours sleep. Clive’s invitation to a seminar at the UK tent at 11 went unanswered as I was still in bed. So, once again it was 2 in the afternoon before we got into town.
I meet Clive, check the emails (ooh, Facebook invites! Hello Amy, Alexander and Steve! Be my friends!) and amble back to my new secret favourite restaurant for lunch. I have a salad. I need some vitamins. I have a beer with it. I didn’t say I was on a health kick.
The plan for the rest of the year is starting to coalesce. As a creative unit Sick Puppy Films is now a two-headed dog, which means we need to talk seriously to the non-active third member about where we take things. Worse case scenario: we walk away from the brand and start again with a new identity. I hope that doesn’t happen, but I’m not that sentimental about the red-eyed woofer not to let him go if nudge comes to yank. Meanwhile, we both have projects to write and develop, including the dormant Roleslay. It’s a good idea that deserves to be brought out into the world.
We spend the afternoon hitting the Film Market, targeting distributors with horror films in their catalouges. There’s a lot there. Then to the Short Film Corner for free drinks and finally, finally, I meet up with Flemming Jetmar, a friend who I’ve been cancelling on since Friday. A good move, as it’s his fast talking that gets us into the New Producer’s Association bash later that night. More shmoozing, more networking, more free booze.
Time to get a move on. It’s John Wayne’s birthday. In celebration, me and Clive are getting tuxed up and off to a 3D screening of the 1955 western Hondo. I dash back to the car and change. The sleeves of the jacket are way too short, the trousers are flapping round my ankles. I picked up Dave’s tux this morning, and believe me we are not physically similar.
I swear for a while, then change back into my jeans.
I meet Clive, who is looking extraordinarily dapper, the scumbag, and we scoot to the Palais.
Hondo is 85 minutes of pure entertainment. Utterly un-PC, and a joy for it. The Duke is made for 3D. His presence spills off the edge of the screen even without the stereoscopic assistance. It’s a simple story of the adventures of a half-breed despatch rider during the Apache wars, but told with charm and a poetic grace. It’s a spankingly clean print, and the 3D is nicely done – the audience ducked out of the way of arrows at least twice during the climactic battle. Well worth the effort.
I finally meet with the rest of the Cannes Crew at the Grand, where they swap stories of seeing Roman Polanski, Quentin Tarantino, Rosario Dawson and Sam Allerdyce at the Martinez Hotel.
Yes, you read that right. Roman Polanski.
The early night I could have done with simply didn’t happen. 4AM to bed, after packing.

Presenting a portrait of the author. I’m writing on the terrace of the American Pavilion, within sight and sound of the sea. I’m sipping a Perrier, and trying not to think about the 4 hours sleep I’ve managed. Things feel a bit woozy and frayed, but in a good way. I’m going to check a screening of Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, then bundle into the Cannesmobile to Nice airport. Home and the embrace of my wife await. Back to the real world tomorrow.