THE SANITY CLAUSE

Here's a wee cautionary tale for all of you hard-working filmmakers out there.

A mate of mine (yes, I have a life, thank you) emailed me recently to say he's been offered a deal on his latest short - a slick, stylish and funny self-financed work of genius. What kind of deal? I ask. Oh, some satellite TV thing, he replied, a bit unsure. So he sends me the contract.

Now I'm no lawyer but even an empty crisp bag could tell this is a scam. For a start the 'contract' was badly laid out, mispelt, didn't have the parties listed, didn't have the actual company doing the deal listed, wasn't actually obliged to screen his movie, or state how many times it would screen it, didn't mention payment, and worse, asked for a fee of £49 to just look at my friend's film. All they wanted was my pal's autograph, being too shy to sign themselves.

Two minutes of googling threw up some answers. An outfit called Propeller TV invites you to submit, the contract is with another outfit, REM, loosely connected - according to what I found - to another venture, Real Shoppe, which, according to Digital Spy was pulled off channel 600-something on Sky. They have multiple addresses, multiple identities and no doubt multiple bank accounts.

This is hailed as a paragon of enterprise by none other than Skillset, that self-appointed, self-serving body that claims to 'enable' filmmakers. Shame on them. My mate worked hard to save for his own film, put it together with no support, gave breaks to other people, saw the whole thing through and the final result is brilliant. No help from Scottish Screen, because they don't return his calls. Now all he wants is a chance for other people to see the movie.

So where do outfits like Propeller get off, demanding money with empty promises, if not menaces? The answer's simple - they prey on aspiring filmmakers to build libraries of content. They don't give a fuck about my friend's film - or your film. They'll happily bank your £49 and your film and conditionally promise you 'exposure' to an audience. And the worst of it is, it won't happen. The Guardian reckons that audiences below Channel 200 sink to maybe 500 if you're lucky. All these robbers want is to say to some suit - we have a library of 5000 films - and float the company on the back of your unpaid labour. Then retire when they sell up to some conglom.

Fuck 'em, I say.

The moral of this? Burn your DVDs - not your fingers - sell them yourself, kids and long may your creativity advance capitalism in the direction of your own bank accounts, not theirs.

ONLY EBAYING ORDERS

So Joan Collins no longer signs autographs, after having a piece of paper shoved under the toilet door in the middle of a pee. Ditto Anthony Hopkins, saying he's fed up seeing bits of him for sale on Ebay. Angelina Jolie's hairbrush selling for a reputed $36,000? The list grows...

Celeb memorabilia is big business these days. Pre-Ebay, you'd be lucky to buy the odd film poster. But when Britney's pregnancy test kit (yep, positive) comes up for auction, you have to ask yourself, are people really that stupid?

I'm kind of on the fence on this one, because actors have a contract with the audience, the people who cough up for the cinema ticket, the DVD, the magazine with your face on the cover. Okay, it can be annoying when some eejit demands a snap while you eat your egg white omlette. Or baring their arse for you to sign in a public place. They're the ones picking up your tab.

When your toe nail clippings/used tissues/prozac packet can fetch $40,000 in an online auction, it gets a bit creepy. Which makes me wonder - isn't it time someone invented the lockable trash can? Or a garbage alarm?

I don't doubt there's a growing trade in recycled waste, though I suspect most of these celeb sales are media stunts planted by desperate PR companies. I just feel sorry for the poor, underpaid news-grazers who spend hours of their lives scrolling through E-bay tracking the latest sucker sale - Julia Roberts' dental floss, say, or Keanu Reeves' skid-marked Calvins, which if you look closely enough in a certain light, reveal the face of Jack Nicholson.

ONE TAKE WUNDERKINDS

At twenty-something, I'm too old for this game, judging by the rise in film schemes aimed at nippers. In my last blog I had a go at short films getting shorter, so maybe it's all part of an evil scheme that the industry's cooked up to skip a generation of filmmakers by creating a bunch of initiatives for kiddies. You know, for the kids?

I guess it makes sense for governments to look to the future. Now that we don't make anything anymore in this country, the term 'creative industry' looks attractive, suggesting a world where people are not just productive (= industry) but even better, forward thinking and innovative (= creative).

Somewhere near you there's a scheme for 'young' filmmakers, such as First Light, who claims to have supported 5-year-old filmers. There's also One World, who funds young doco makers to go abroad. Oh, and First Writes for 11-16 year-olds.

Makes sense I suppose - after all, they work for a lot less than grown-ups. You might even get Huggies to sponsor them.

WHO WEARS SHORT SHORTS?

Looking at the Ideas Factory site, I'm stunned by the number of film schemes and competitions. Surely a good move, some would say. But am I wrong in thinking that the rise in 'opportunities' is linked to the duration of these movies? Because if anything, shorts are getting shorter.

Take your pick - Pocket Shorts, First Light, Every Object Tells a Story - inviting 30 second films, as does the CNN Infommercial Competition. There's even the Ten Second Film Festival.

The point of these schemes I suppose is to sharpen up filmmakers' thinking - to dream up snappy little ideas that tell a story faster, getting rid of the flab, then chop the movie into teeny weeny bites. This might work for attention-deficit donkeys, I suppose. But hey, aren't we forgetting that video tape's dirt cheap and now everybody and their dog has a camcorder, what's with shorter shorts? In fact, what's the point of any of this, if it's not to keep non-filmmakers in admin jobs?

Unless there's a conspiracy to turn the next generation of filmmakers into blipvert makers. For all the yakking about new media - the web, mobiles, even telly - and the endless demand for content - will the future of filmmaking be sixty second movies? How much narrative and depth of character can you pack into ten or fifteen seconds?

Considering the budgets on offer for these schemes - usually a low five-figure amount - it's impossible to pay the cast or crew a decent wage. Plus, funding comes with a lot of strings, dictating the kind of story you make and censoring anything remotely subversive.

Wasn't subliminal editing banned way back in the 60s? The way short films are heading, you'd better not blink.

AN A-Z OF SCOTTISH FILM

Glasgow Film Office:
Run by Crooks. Lenny Crooks. Lovely man.

Grips:
As in: what's the difference between a grip and a rigger? The grip takes the dishes out of the sink before he pisses in it.

Gaffer:
Uses the toilet.

Goffer:
Cleans the toilet.

Grading:
Mysterious practice available only in London.

G-Mac:
Refuge for the unwaged.

Gaffa Tape:
Indispensible item of kit; useful for enhanced cleavage.

Gregory's Girl:
Seminal Scottish film that gave whimsy a bad name.

Gold:
What camera ops pan for.

Gibson, Mel:
Only actor/director to make Ireland look like Scotland.

Grad:
Filter to make Scottish weather look more appealing.

Graduate (Media):
Four years to learn how to make tea.

To be continued...

TAKING AN EARLY BAFTA

They're letting off fireworks all over town but not, I suspect, to celebrate the BAFTA Scotland nominations, which have just been announced.

That's not to say anything against it. Scottish filmmakers need the odd night out and some kind of recognition. There's so little made here that you need to shout about it. But it would help if the makers were Scottish. In the film category sadly there's only three features, two of which were directed by non-Scots (okay, so Annie Griffin adopted the country).

Perhaps even sadder is the acting categories where only two actors and two actresses warranted a nomination, which speaks volumes about the state of Scottish acting on screen. Boy, I'd love to be a fly on the toilet wall when Shirley Henderson and Daniella Nardini touch up their lippy.

In an earlier blog I commented on the absurdity of film award ceremonies in Scotland. Good on BAFTA Scotland that they've managed to keep afloat by pumping up TV, shorts and new media. After all it's about film and television. But my worry is that come 2006, with film in the dire state it's in and if Scottish Screen get their way, they might have to rebrand it as BATA.
You know, like the shoe shop...

RIP.

THE PLAY'S THE THING

If I had a fiver for every time a producer or TV tart bleats on about how there's no scripts out there or how much they love new talent, I wouldn't be writing this - I'd be in Harvey Nicks.

The National Theatre of Scotland has just announced that its first-ever production will be an adaptation of a twenty-odd year old TV show, Tutti Frutti. Just how low can we go, I wonder? The NTS, which is costing us £7.6 million a year, seems to think that chucking a cheque at John Byrne for a recycled script is a great idea. The announcement comes in the very same week that the boss of Scottish Screen says he plans to 'put film in context' - ie. consign it to the dustbin, along with the careers of so-called screenwriting tutors, film theorists and sundry chair polishers, no doubt.

Is this an attempt to bring popular theatre to the masses? If so, then it's condescending pish of the worst kind. Can this be the same National Theatre of Scotland who complained about being banished to Easterhouse for want of a skinny latte? Besides, popular theatre can look out for itself, judging by the queues at The Pavilion, The King's and The Playhouse. The NTS obviously don't know this one - what's got a hundred legs and no teeth? The front row at a Sydney Devine concert.

What next? Taggart: The Musical? River City Dance? Rab C. Nesbitt sings Wet, Wet, Wet?

AN A-Z OF SCOTTISH FILM

Focus Puller:
The guy who gets all the girls. In fuzzy close-up.

Freeze frame:
A nightshoot in a Castlemilk bus stop.

Flightcase:
The bane of every trainee's life. Usually comes in a set of twenty.

French flag:
A fiddly device designed to keep sparks awake.

Freelance:
Unemployed; burger jockey; bar worker; call centre worker.

Fast lens:
What happens to your gear if you shoot east of the Trongate.

Fridge:
Switched off by sound, forgotten by location manager. Invoice to producer.

Follow Focus:
Camera crew says: invaluable. Line producer says: no.

Fluffer:
Alternative name for actor, as in fluffing your lines.

Filmflam:
The best Scottish film blog.

Food:
50% of a film crew's fee, the other 50% being tape.

F-stop:
Unit swear box.

Franchise:
Two corporates for Reid Furniture.

FilmFour:
Mythical source of finance in Scotland; see Rosslyn Chapel.

Finance Plan:
Six weeks at the call centre, credit card and dead rich auntie.

To be continued...

THE LADY VANISHES

They say you can't be too rich or too thin. I see it the other way. You can't be too fat or too poor. No, really. You just can't.

Last week at the hairdresser I read the latest issue of Heat. Or was it OK? Closer? Spot the difference. The cover, not for the first time, showed a parade of terracotta skeletons with the heading - SHOCK!! Actress eats peanut and chucks it.

Surely not a set-up by some C-lister's publicist?

The hypocrisy of the mags never succeeds to amaze me. But I still get a warm glow from seeing pictures of Ann O'Rexic and her pals and hearing their excuses - I'm small boned. No dear, you're just small brained. And what little you had has already been to the dry cleaners.

I'd hate to be in their Jimmy Choos, because how much fun is it to be constantly judged for the size of your arse, fat or thin? Is there such a thing as the perfect size? In the end it's a lose-lose game for these girls because in the meat market that passes for casting, what chance for a lovely, fresh-faced, healthy young lassie who has a hard enough time getting parts without hearing the words: keep sucking. Or drop a few stone.

I read recently that if sizes keep falling, most of Hollywood's actresses will soon disappear. Because if a 6 is too big, and you drop to a 4 then a 2, say, surely it can't be much harder to be a zero. The sound that zero makes is total silence. A sound like death, without the rattle. Which might be good news for all those British soap actresses we read about who go off to La-La land to try their luck, because - although equally talented I'm sure - they look like wrestlers in comparison to the US competition, so somehow I doubt it's worth the jet-lag.

Shame on a business that thrives on this trash. Because it's hard for a girl to complain about a lack of decent roles when women's magazines are the first to bitch about a patch of cellulite, a sweaty armpit or a stray bra-strap. God forbid you weigh more than a stick of balsa wood. Even no-hopers like crazee Gail Porter have publicly complained about eating nothing but tomatoes. I'd be more worried about the hair, Gail. And as for A-list actresses, those at the top of their game, it's a bigger tragedy. Does Nicole Kidman really need to be a size 6 when she's got about 6 billion in her bank account?

These are women whose careers depend on being permanently ill. Meanwhile the rest of us can't compete. We sit in our offices, in call centres, in shops, lounging in bars and restaurants on our downtime. What place are we in when we want to be these women, at the same time hating them because their lives and looks are better than ours?

Yeah, yeah, I'm sounding like a hairy old dyke. Being thin makes you live longer - so says all the nutritional and health research. But here's the thing - in lots of ways Madonna might be a candidate for Auschwitz the way she's heading - great bod, Madge, you worked for it. Let's face it though - you're crowding 50 and in your latest clip, your heavily-lit and filtered close-up lasts about 12 frames. No doubt created by some tightly briefed, idea-castrated directorbot whose 'radical' choice to put you in an ethnically-exotic video just made you look weird, thin or not.

So give it a rest, girls. Have a plate of chips.

THE X FACTOR

No, not the TV talentless show. I'm talking about film certificates and the sad loss of the X-rated movie. Long before the days of U, 12, PG, 15, 18 and R18, the filthiest films were labelled X. I mean, what could be more enticing, more grown-up and dangerous than going to see an X? It's almost daring you to queue up.

In its quest to look friendly, in 1984 the British Board of Film Censorship changed its name to BBFC - the c-word standing for classification - but it all comes down to the same thing - too much sex, violence or horror earns a film an 18 rating or, if it's really bad, R18 - about 6% of all the films submitted, usually porn but sometimes 'mainstream' movies like Baisse Moi or The Pornographer. Maybe there should be a special case - C - for crap, which usually means French.

Okay then, merde.

But it's not the same as X. Or XXX. Classics like Last Tango in Paris or The Exorcist. See, the trouble with 18 is that it conjures up pizza faced teenagers, not grown-ups. People don't get excited anymore when a film gets an 18. The latest hoo-ha over Harry Potter and the Eternal Merchandiser which just scored a 12 is just tosh - every 8-year-old on the planet will see it anyway.

So bring back the X. It hits my spot.