OBI WAN KEN NOBODY

If I fell over Ken Hay in Princes Street, I'd be none the wiser. Who, you ask?

Scottish Screen's new boss, Ken Hay, who took up the job in April, has spent the last six months finding out what his job is. Months ago The Scotsman reported some early rumblings from Ken about how short films don't get seen, don't make money and how filmmakers are to blame. He also thinks the future lies in video virals and even radio (?) and that unemployed writers should be scripting for games. Gee, I had no idea they were hiring...

So why do I feel this is bad juju for film? Possibly because in his recent outing for the press, Ken has pretty much admitted that film is dead.

Wannabe filmmakers, me and people like me, who've done some training and who make their own luck still look to Scottish Screen for support. I'm not alone in making shorts and writing scripts in the hope that one day I and my fellow filmmakers will rise up the queue. If Scottish Screen don't want to make shorts where does that leave us? If they don't want to put money into features either then why are they in charge of zillions of Lottery dosh?

Unless of course they give it to telly companies, but they do that already and there's no point in complaining. TV looks like a safe bet, whether it's Tartan Shorts, New Found Land, This Scotland, Tartan Smalls, New Found Films. But I wish they would just be more honest when they say they want to nurture new talent.

Nurture. Interesting word.

It sounds kind of cuddly and warm but what it actually means in this case is manipulate because anyone with half a brain knows it's about cheapo content. Apart from Tartan Shorts, a long-running scheme with high budgets, the others are risible - 50K for a half hour drama on NFL, 17K for 30 minute documentaries, 300K for features. These are supported by TV - a win-win for both the broadcasters and SS, because their stranglehold on new, hungry filmmakers squeezes out any risk, anything new, anything creative - all the things that telly hates.

But Ken's hedging his bets. By putting out feelers to the media, he's letting us know what he wants to do. But he won't announce anything concrete until the New Year. Eight months of sitting on the fence is sure to leave a dent somewhere. Me, I envy him. There can't be many jobs where you can get paid a high five figure wage for doing eff all...

AN A-Z OF SCOTTISH FILM

Electric Soup:
What passes for wine at the wrap party.

Electrician:
Highly paid guy with balls of glass.

EPK:
Crap home movie sold as an extra on a DVD.

Editor:
A computer-cruncher who can only cut what you haven't shot.

EDL:
Editor's Dinner List, otherwise known as a menu.

Eject Button:
Door policy at Chinawhites.

Elbow room:
Elusive element in most interior locations.

Edinburgh Film Festival:
Excuse to bump up ticket prices in August.

Ewan MacGregor:
Actor with wide range of accents, as heard in Trainspotting.

To be continued...

THE WOOD AND THE TREE

Let's get serious here for once.

The other night while watching the underexposed but excellent movie, The Woodsman, I was struck by a profound truth about the business of film. Though it has to be said The Woodsman, judging by its nine or so producers - executives, associates - wasn't the easiest sell. No wonder. Kiddy fiddler Kevin Bacon gets paroled and tries to live a 'normal' life while battling with the urge to revisit his old habits. Even worse, his new apartment looks onto an elementary school.

What makes the film exemplary - apart from its courage in taking on a fiercely uncommercial premise - is the veracity of its performances, the tight, don't-spell-it-out script and the discreet direction by Nicole Kassell. Its prosaic, blue-collar world is beautifully photographed and the sound mix is amazing. It's exactly the type of film that should be getting made in Scotland. Why? Because it's on a scale that we could just about manage on our measly budgets, the kind of story that could equally happen here, making it universal and maybe more important, relying on people, ordinary folk battling with their crises. No cheap shots, no striving for effect, no pratfall humour.

So what if The Woodsman was made outside Hollywood - in fact it has a real European feel to it. Then it hit me - when you compare Tinseltown to what passes for film here - not just Scotland but the entire UK - it's obvious that studio films are the high class hookers compared with our skanky streetwalkers. High class hookers cost a lot of money, just like blockbusters. They're high maintenance, they like to look good. No freezing on street corners for these babies - it's five star suites or no deal. Even if the commodity's the same.

Here meanwhile we fumble in the dark and get paid shit for our efforts. Maybe because we're having to deal with such low-rent, low calibre clients - impotent public funders, distributors who steal your takings, sadistic broadcasters who invite you in and can't decide if it's full sex they want or a hand job, who tell you how to do them while trying to cut your rate. In other words, a bunch of hard-ons. Just like the poor streetwalkers our movies look bad, maybe because we feel bad. And when we feel bad, we begin to feel and act like victims.

It's not a bad analogy, probably because it's true. I can't imagine any filmmaker in Scotland pitching a film like Woodsman and getting a shot at it. Which is a shame, because if it had been made here it would be winning awards all over the place and maybe for once Scottish film might seem worth a punt, we'd get paid and the punters would get some satisfaction.

SOAP TO NUTS

How the eff did Shakespeare do it? Doth he scribe on spec?

It's the question I ask myself as I sit here trying to write the first draft of my sauna script. It's based on real stories about girls who give soapy wanks - and more - in skanky Edinburgh dives, the kind of places run by the less successful brothers-in-law of restauranteurs and pub owners.

That's not the point. The sex is the sizzle. The meat's what the story's really about. It would be easy to write a po-faced, finger-pointing script. Nobody would buy it. And if I went the other way - a comedy-farce with tarts with hearts? Nobody would buy it.

So I'm still thinking about it.

It's every writer's dilemma. How do you ever know what a producer or a TV company is looking for? You don't. Because they don't know either. But if they had paid for it upfront, they might love it to bits - and they'd still want changes. It's the soapy wank. The customer's always right. Faster, slower, a bit more attention round the balls.

Which is fine by me if they pay upfront.

But that's the trouble. With scripts they don't. This leaves struggling young (even old) writers in a bad place because their only option is to write 'on spec'. But in Scotland that route's even more of a dead end. I doubt there's a single independent producer capable of paying for a script even if they loved it. It's not their fault. How can they have money if they don't make anything? If they work in telly they're on a slave wage that barely covers their mortgage and if they're an indie they're broke anyway because they love making shit so much they do it for free.

So instead of feeling sorry for writers I should feel sorry for producers. Writing's fun and you always learn something when you do it. It's not boring. Unlike producers, who do the same thing day in, day out - waiting on the phone to ring and when it does, having to talk to idiots to get a meeting. Sounds pretty much like the soapy wank business. Only it's the poor old producer who does the wanking and gets hee-haw for their effort. I'll bear this in mind next time I meet one.

Forsooth I'll enscribe the myth wherein mine weary state resides, warts, wanks, willies, wet-wipes and all...

EXTRA HELPINGS

A girl has to earn a crust. Though I'd much rather be behind a camera (even if I deserve to be in front of it) I'm thinking of signing on with a extras casting outfit, partly to get the goss and partly to see if there's anything being made in Scotland apart from Taggart and High Times, although judging by the budgets on HT, the lead actors are already on walk-on fees. Or tape and food.

A bit of digging soon turns up the facts. Like the rest of Scottish film, it's not about the money, that's for sure. By the time the agent takes their cut and you get yourself to the location - either in the back of beyond, or bang in the city centre with ridiculous parking charges - you're lucky to walk off as a walk on with forty or fifty quid for ten hours of headnip, not including the two hours of travel. Which is okay if you enjoy loitering in freezing, condemned buildings - old factories, decommissioned hospitals, manky pubs and minging clubs. And putting up with the weirdest bunch of people outside the Big Brother set. What motivates them, I wonder?

Well, a lot of them are already unemployed. Some are redundant and enjoying the break from a day job. Others are borderline schizos - you know the type - a wee bit of am-dram, a fondness for musical theatre and small parts in a couple of their mate's shorts. Convinced they're too good to be third suit in the bar, it's only a matter of time before their talent gets recognised.

Good luck to them I say. Without them, our films and telly would look as empty as Kelly Cooper Bar on a Monday night. Or a Tuesday. Or a Wednesday.

SCOTCH MISSED

Am I the only one who noticed? Well, quite possibly. Scottish Screen's website, down for a week, has been replaced with a noticeably unadorned version, ie. one page listing a bunch of pdf files for their various schemes. No news, no roughcuts, no list of who does what - but I guess they must wonder that themselves. Considering it's the only game in town for screen business in the entire country, I think we should be told what, if any, troubles are brewing on the corner of Blythswood Square.

The recent Cultural Commission thinks getting rid of the quango is a good idea, but I didn't think politics could work that fast. But there's no telltale signs of a super-duper new site coming our way soon, so maybe it's down to cutbacks. No bad thing, but it's still no excuse, since they spend millions of taxpayers and Lottery dosh and hire a massive amount of people, if the delegates list at the Edinburgh Film Fest is to be believed - my headcount put it at around 20. For what exactly? Making up the audience numbers at the Tartan Shorts screenings?

So the mystery goes unsolved. Maybe in a couple of weeks we'll be treated to a flashy new site, packed with all the news about the latest awards dished out to telly tarts and how games are the future of our non-existent industry blah, blah de blah.

Yeah, and I'm up for an Oscar.

PAUSE AND EJECT

Once upon a time in a faraway place, a wee, tiny film agency with no money had a big dream: to help filmmakers, especially those who had made shorts but who needed a leg up the greasy pole to make a big feature. But the wee, tiny agency couldn't do it alone, so they asked their friends in the big world of television and cinema distribution to help out. And what joy there was when the friends agreed!! To celebrate, they all went to a foreign land where all the world's filmmakers gathered and threw a party, so they could tell them all about their BIG IDEA. And many people, including politicians, marvelled at the initiative and generosity of it all. Next year, said the wee, tiny agency, we'll make a big announcement of the first of these films, for there would be three, three being the magic number. Over three years.

But was time was short so the wee, tiny agency needed to be quick. They had to find all of those sad little filmmakers who needed help. But they needn't have worried because before they could say 'contractual obligation', many hundred of people arrived, freely offering their very best ideas for wonderful and beautiful films. Which was good, because the wee, tiny agency didn't want films that were nasty or wicked. Their watchword was 'upbeat', a good word, a word that kept evil at bay. It also pleased their friends in the big world of television and cinema distribution, who also hated the dark and miserable films made in this faraway country.

And so a shortlist was duly drawn. Only the very best ideas were welcomed by the wee, tiny agency. And only the very best people. So generous was the wee, tiny agency that they even allowed ideas with only a writer involved. This, they decided, was only good and just. And the filmmakers rejoiced. The chosen were given bags of money and more valuable, the good counsel of the wee, tiny agency, helped by their television and cinema friends. And so the scripts were written. And to protect the poor filmmakers, the wee, tiny agency kept all the rights, in the unlikely event that a savvy and well-funded producer might come and steal the best script and make the beautiful film.

Time passed. And the scripts were written. But sadly some were not as good or wonderful or beautiful and had to be banished. This left only a few scripts, but this was good because it meant that more time, love and wisdom could be poured into them from the good people in the wee, tiny agency because it was only the very best script with the very best people that would win the golden prize.

And more time passed. And the wee, tiny agency made an even shorter list, to be certain that only the best script was chosen. Even the script with no people involved survived, to everyone's surprise. The only problem was that time conspired to pass even quicker than anyone realised. They had promised to announce the winner in that foreign land exactly a year from the date they made their first joyous declaration. Oh no!! But they need not have worried, because their friends from the big world of television and cinema kept their secret. Surely it was better to wait until a truly deserving winner could be announced? And so it was decided but in the end it didn't matter too much because the foreign land, with its many filmmakers didn't notice the wee, tiny agency's unfulfilled promise. And so much embarrassment was avoided.

Then, disaster. The wee, tiny agency's friend in cinema distribution had problems and in the wink of a press release, vanished from sight. Oh no!! What would happen now? All too soon, the wee, tiny agency was worried - and worse than that - the beautiful scripts began to look a little tired, ugly even. Now they were down to only three contenders and none was good enough for the friend in television, on whom they relied for money as well as invaluable creative support. What to do?

Acting fast, the wee tiny agency had an idea. Let's bring in more filmmakers, they said, even the ones who had already made big features. Because, they reasoned, they have the knowledge and experience we seek and we know they want to help for the good of these beautiful, wonderful, upbeat scripts, so they will be happy to work for free. And if they rise to the challenge, we will reward them handsomely with the chance to make the films.

The only flaw was that only one film would be made, so they knew they would be asking two wise and experienced filmmakers to work for free. Not a problem!! the wee, tiny agency decided, because we know these good but poor filmmakers will be pleased to sacrifice their time and effort, for if they succeed they will earn more than they will by working as a sales associate in TK Maxx. Everyone, they concluded, should welcome this opportunity for good and beautiful films are priceless. But many of the wise and experienced filmmakers said no, they would not rise to the challenge, for they were indeed wise, knowing that a call centre pays seven pounds an hour, riches greater than those offered by the wee, tiny agency.

And more time passed - almost two years - and sadly no film has yet been made, for it must be more wonderful and more beautiful than any other film. Sure of its aim, the wee, tiny agency repeated its plea for good, upbeat scripts this year, certain of it's quest to help filmmakers. It may not have reached its destination yet, for the road is rocky and long indeed. And as the poor filmmakers gather to watch as the wee, tiny agency struggles on its journey, they all wave and bid it a fond farewell.

AND THE WINNER IS...

In the local video shop the other night while perusing the shelves for a piece of entertainment, I was struck by the number of 'Scottish' films on offer. Not that anybody's seen most of them - One Last Chance, Ae Fond Kiss, Mandancin', Sixteen Years of Alcohol, The Magdalene Sisters, Young Adam - none of which can be classed as truly homegrown, since it's nigh on impossible to make a movie with local money alone.



Which makes Scotland look as if it's got a happening film industry but is maybe a tad misleading.

Not wishing to throw a turd in the punchbowl, if nothing else this trend justifies the annual round of local film award ceremonies - BAFTA Scotland, Balmore Awards, Glenfiddich Spirit of Scotland, Scottish Students on Film, Reel to Real - blah, blah, blah. I guess if you were to count them, there must be an award do for every film made in Scotland, including all the shorts.

There's two ways of looking at this. First, since it's so hard to make films here sooner or later a filmmaker will give up, the bottom feeders are ready to replace them. This keeps the talent pool replenished and the awards circuit in business. It gives everybody a fair crack at winning something, small consolation for the fact you're unlikely to ever make another movie. The other way of looking at it is wish-fulfillment - the idea that if you create awards then filmmakers must surely have some motivation, by operating under the delusion that an award win is a surefire way to attract big bucks to the next project.

But don't be fooled. Awards are great. And a bit more of a legit achievement than say, putting up laurels on your poster just because your flick was selected for the Celtic Film Fest. But when you live in a country that makes fewer films than Iceland, these dos are really just code for a boozy night out, a chance to bitch with your peers about why no-one can get anything made and to throw up on Brian Cox on your way to the taxi.

That none of the films listed above has made it to my DVD player speaks volumes about their entertainment value. I mean, why watch nuns being cruel when you can have Brad Pitt with no clothes on? For the same money? Case closed.