PUFFED OUT

Now the ash has crashed north of the border due to the smoking ban, we're facing a greater risk to our well-being thanks to the toxic fumes emiting from the mouths of politicians who seem to think it's their business to make art imitate life as well.

Personally I don't object. After all, look at Ireland, where smirting (smoking/flirting) has become the national pastime. Love in a cold climate indeedy. And I'm sure decommissioned ashtrays have their uses - like candle holders, tapas dishes or handy weapons, for instance.

But it's a fine hypocrisy when ciggies - and the addicts that make up a third of Scotland's population - are relegated to class C status. Funny, the last time I looked, Marlboro Lights were still on sale, even in pubs, presumably to sub the NHS, illegal wars and nuclear waste disposal in Caithness. No, my gripe here is that the ban brings yet another nail in the coffin for film and TV now that all representation of the evil weed is to be banned from our screens.

Apparently ITV has ordered smoke-free revisions on three scripts of the current 'Rebus' series, no doubt pissing off the writers and the originator, Ian Rankin. Likewise John Byrne, Scotland's most profilic roll-up smoker, is threatening to emigrate, bemoaning the fact that every one of his plays features fag action and no, I'm not talking about the cast's sexual preferences.

The Scottish Executive goes one further than their Irish counterparts. Actors, be they on stage or screen, aren't even allowed the use of those foul herbal substitutes you buy in health shops. This week a play, Nighthawks, opened at Glasgow's Oran Mor. Loosely based on the iconic Edward Hopper painting of the diner, it features the cast awkwardly fiddling with unlit fags for the entire duration. The Alan Carr Method of Acting? Where in Dublin, an actor can still smoke the part, Scottish thesps are reduced to showing off their nicotine patches, presumably as evidence of their inner torture as they try to quit.

Bad law makes for madness, if not confusion. For instance, when is a private space not a private space? When you bring in a film crew it seems, because a film crew makes a private space - even your own living room - a place of work, meaning Health and Safety rules kick in. Even real-life exemptions, such as lighting up in the back of a police car or in jail won't be allowed on the screen. So while it's okay to show somebody shooting up in the pub toilets, getting stabbed in the groin or being gang-raped in the local swingpark, a quick puff's strictly out of bounds.

What I want to know is how will we tell who the bad guys are in movies anymore? Weren't they the ones pulling on their Embassy Illegals while explaining how they plan to torture the good guys? Are we looking at a future ban on Bette Davis movies? And worse, if governments have their way, what's next on the list? Representations of excessive biscuit munching? Gratuitous falling-down-drunk jokes? People not separating their rubbish properly? Superfluous body hair? At this rate, there won't be enough room on the poster or DVD cover to caution the unwary viewer of the sins of the filmmakers - I can just see it now - this film contains mild swearing, perilous car-parking and way too much Red Bull.

THE MISSING HALF MILL

Big pat on the back for yours truly, being first on the block to predict (Making Hay, Feb 24th) that none of the half million doled out to Scottish Screen by the Scottish Executive will be coming to a screen near you any time soon.

Today's allmediascotland.com reports that 'an industry source' claims the dosh will be allocated to 'other areas of the industry such as distribution'. What's to distribute? The Tartan Shorts back catalogue on DVD? They'll be queuing up for that and I don't think, unless you like films about weans, the staple subject matter for most of these wee Scottish films. Or maybe, just maybe the money will (ho-hum) subsidise TV companies, now that everyone and their dog with a doco or a comedy series to their name is breaking into DIY DVD.

See, distribution's a confusing term. It used to mean sending big cans of film to a cinema. These days it's just as likely to mean mobile phone downloads, podcasts, online movie downloads (doomed to fail) and not forgetting those low-cost, high margin DVD releases. But one thing's for sure. Scottish Screen will make it mean anything it wants it to mean.

So I don't know why 'industry sources' are in a stushie. You only have to look at the revamped Scottish Screen site to find that development and production funding has all but ceased to exist. It's ironic too that the single image used on their site (see above) - invites all of us struggling filmmakers to draw our own conclusions about where SS would like us to go. And it won't be to Cannes.

THE PLOT THICKENS

Picture the scene - you're walking down the street when you're suddenly seized with a bolt of searing pain in the chest. You think - maybe I shouldn't have wolfed that kebab so fast - then blam! Next thing you know you're being hurled in a gurney, ER-style, to be told, don't panic, your cardiac arrest's about to be sorted by the house plumber, just as soon as he pulls his arm out of the S-bend.

It's a well-known fact that anybody can be a screenwriter. Go ask the Script Factory, who seem to think the nation's screen scribblers are fighting off offers, so much so that they're on the look-out for underemployed playwrights and novelists for their Writer's Circle scheme. Noble as their initiative appears, I ask myself - what does this say about all those screenwriters already out there trying to scratch a few quid? Most of us wannabes are hardly in it for the cashola, at least not by the time we get ripped off by producers, our rights grabbed by public bean-counters and sundry TV Tarts and if we're really lucky, mugged by our agents to boot.

Unless you're Harold Pinter, (who can pick and choose his gigs) to claim a novelist or playwright can automatically write a decent film script is wishful thinking. Transferring skills is all very well, but schemes like this show a woeful but all-too-typical up yours for the craft of writing for the screen. Welcome to UK film, Britain's biggest not-for-profit business where with enough 'training', anybody with two fingers can toss off a great script.

To be sure, the road to Hollywood has long been littered with the corpses of literary hacks lured by filthy lucre, but that's Hollywood. Back in Blighty, where the notion of cinematic writing is an alien concept (oh, is it not a tad short on dialogue?) you're lucky to get your bus fare home and a cheese sandwich - and that's after turning in a free draft.

And there's the rub-a-dub. Cash-starved UK producers constantly bemoan the fact there's no scripts out there worth wiping their arse on. Trouble is, they can't get their mitts on the Lottery dev pot unless they produce the goods, which means some hapless, unwaged screenwriter has to give it away. And if the script's rubbish to start with, it's only bound to get worse by the time a coven of so-called development execs get their claws into it, an ordeal on a par with a bikini wax and surely an eye-opener for pampered playwrights unused to having their work ritually shredded.

We all know the story of Robert Riskin, a Hollywood hack who once threw 120 blank pages on Frank Capra's desk, declaring, try giving that the Capra touch. And he was on the pay roll, which is more than you can say for the average UK scribbler. Personally I wouldn't dream of having my fillings done by a plasterer or my hair dyed by a car mechanic. Scriptwriting's a hard enough game without the open season, thank you. Gosh, I'm beginning to sound like a writer. Maybe I should write a book...

FEAR AND LOATHIAN ROAD

Edinburgh has a lot going for it, being possibly one of the most attractive cities in the UK. But I guess if I lived in Niddrie I wouldn't be so quick to say this. So this may not sound like much of a gripe but I have to ask. Why isn't there a half decent arthouse cinema? Me I'm more of a multiplex girl. Cineworld (ex UGC) at Fountainbridge suits me fine, you get to park, the seats are comfy, the projection's good and you can eat yourself obese on the overpriced concessions. But even with 13 screens Cineworld doesn't always deliver the goods. There's usually the odd film that slips through the net - like the Dardenne Brothers Palme D'Or winner 'L'Enfant'.

To see it, I was forced to go to The Filmhouse, an experience less like a night at the pictures than a lecture from some vinegar-veined, finger-wagging old crone. There's something deeply unwelcoming about this grim grey building, puffed up with itself because it's a main venue for the Edinburgh Film Festival. God knows why. It charges more than Cineworld for a start. The staff are snooty as fuck, with an air of genteel poverty about them, like they resent having to deal with the punters but they have to because that mortgage in Stockbridge is killing them. But who can blame them when you check out the clientele - the kind of people who don't go to the flicks for entertainment, oh no, they're cinephiles. The kind of people who wear sensible shoes, subscribe to Sight and Sound (the world's most earnest filmzine) and think what Peter Bradshaw writes is gospel.

Then there's the theatres - clapped out, with the world's most arse-numbing seats this side of a bus shelter. But The Filmhouse, for all its arty pretensions isn't averse to a dose of corporatism. Their adverts run longer than Cineworld's and their trailers - usually for some slice of French guff - are about as enticing as Charlotte Rampling's oxters (look it up). The projection's not much chop either.

There's also the ongoing rivalry with the Cameo up the road, Edinburgh's alternative arthouse cinema, under threat by its owners who want to turn it into a pub. The Filmhouse has long looked down its nose at the Cameo - a fleapit admittedly, but a far friendlier venue. In the recent campaign to save the Cameo, the chill wind of schadenfreude was felt in Lothian Road as The Filmhouse, rather than side with its wee cousin, issued statements about its own position as the pre-eminent arthouse cinema of the city.

So there, glad I've got it off my tits. Oh, and no popcorn either.

KENNOMEAT PIECES

Straight after my last blog, guess what? Scottish Screen has finally put up a new website. And a sorry thing it is to behold too. Gone is the naff wee dug - no loss there. But also gone is the idea that film and TV makers have anybody looking out for their interests.

One of the reasons I put myself through a media course was because I believe, in a delusional way, that film and TV is an exciting, dynamic, creative, thrilling, rewarding area to be involved in.

Here's an extract from the new SS site. And I'm not making this up.

"Priority Objectives. Scottish Screen has identified the following six priority objective areas. They are interrelated and mutually supportive and strengthening. They provide an integrated development strategy that embraces and clearly demonstrates the links, relationships and opportunities across these..."

Enough! Ken Hay, why bother with a gun when you can bore us to death? Or into submission at least. Make what you will of this:

"The nurturing and support of talent and creativity applies not just to production and not just to film and television, and should be seen across a range of formats and platforms."

Which is longhand for - eff off, filmmakers, hello virals.

This site is more fitting to, say, the planning department of a local council. It's an utter disgrace and a total disincentive to anyone thinking about a career in the screen industries. Reading between the lines, what Scottish Screen's actually doing is - as I predict - cosying up to the Scottish Executive before Creative Scotland kicks in.

And no sign of a forum either. Which makes me think not only don't they know who they're representing but worse, they're representing themselves to keep a few pen-pushers employed, self-preservation being the name of the game. Two thumbs down, guys.

I wonder if they had a party to launch this mingy site? If they did, I bet it was warm half-pints of shandy and Kennomeat pieces all round. Man, I definitely need that bar of chocolate now.

THEY CANNAE TAKE OUR FREEDOM

Always read the small print, I say.

But you'd need a microscope to find - lurking at the bottom of Scottish Screen's non website - a tiny link called publications. A swift click takes you to a .pdf file relating to (yawn, I know) their take on the Freedom of Information Act and a declaration of how Scottish Screen prides itself on transparency. Which is all very well, but their information's duff. So much so, I'm thinking of launching a campaignette to get them to correct their wrongs.

For instance, no way can SS claim that their list of grants awarded, three year corporate plan, annual operational plan and budget, organisational structure blah blah are available online. Believe me, I've hunted and they're not. Nor can I find any information on who's on the Board or their many committees. They claim a staff of 45, but who are they? There's no direct contacts listed - which, as the publicly funded 'lead representative of the screen industries' for an entire country is a total scandal. If they really want to claim that status among their constituents - by which I mean all the TV companies, production outfits, cinemas, educational bodies and lone filmmakers like me - producers, directors and writers, then they need to earn it.

If SS really wants us to know what they're up to, they could start by putting up a decent site with all the information listed, rather than make us beg for it. Even better, they could set up a forum - something they've never done in the past - to let them know who we are and what we think. But they won't. And I can think of plenty of reasons why they won't. I've heard too many stories from disgruntled filmmakers about how their emails and calls go unreturned, scripts don't get read - or if they do, it's by the pishiest of the staff's pals, generally out-of-work actors with a short script to their name who attended some seminar or other. Films that get mangled by hydra-like interference, usually because some BBC numpty's involved. There's even films that don't get watched, because somebody decided at the rough cut stage they didn't like it, forgetting the fact it's not their job to like it. It's their job to watch it and promote it - something else Scottish Screen fails at miserably.

Maybe I'm missing the point here. The point is Scottish Screen, desperate to carve a slice of the Creative Scotland action, is too busy complying all over the place to the powers that be to have the energy to do what they were set up to do. Too busy playing politics to stick to their declared aims. For instance, if you read their statement on 'Talent and Creativity' - it says - 'To ensure that Scotland's creative talent is nurtured and supported at appropriate levels in appropriate ways'. Can anybody tell me what this means? Because going on the evidence and from where I stand it means bugger off, bunch of losers.

Getting back to my theme of freedom though, maybe it's better not to look to anybody for handouts - or bad information. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees as a filmmaker.

And poor wee 'Badgered' lost out at the Oscars. Boy, do I hate Mondays. But Crash? And I'm not against the poof cowboys flick, but Capote should've won. At moments like this I need chocolate.

SOD ALL LAW

While the roof caves in at the Scottish Parliament, the bottom falls out of democracy. While it's okay for the government, police and local councils to make TV stars of us all as we go about our business - without release forms, I might add - what I want to know is why can't I stand in the street with a camcorder without being hassled?

It's happened to me a few times now. One night in Glasgow's Central Station, I was innocently shooting the grand Victorian interior and the weary travellers, no doubt just off the London crate. Within five minutes I was huckled - not by the cops but by a private security outfit. The two guys, in donkey jackets, looked sheepish and so gormless they wouldn't get a gig at Jumpin' Jaks, which is saying something. So I tell them I'm a filmmaker. Light blue touchpaper and retire. It takes a while but they get all excited and one of them starts on about how he's a martial arts expert. Could I use a stunt man? Sure, you can start by throwing yourself under that train on platform 2. So he offers me his business card, a sorry looking thing that looked like he'd just printed it on one of those machines you get on platforms. As I took it, you could have lit a fag on his beaming mug.

Then comes a slight caution - it's just that we answer to the Transport Polis, says his mate, we're only here to turf out the scum, y'know? I think, you pair of James Blunts, shame on you. You're on minimum wage and dangerously close to scum status yourselves. Oh really? I say, widening my eyes and noticing Other Guy has his eyes locked on my 34Ds.

Right on cue two burly, fluorescent-jacketed cops sidle up, looking like a couple of Weebles. Aye, aye, says one, and what are you filming? I'm not, I say, with a sad little pout, they beat you to it. She's a filmmaker, says Martial Arts, adding, she's here on a recce - loving his newfound movie parlance. Oh is she? gives it the other Weeble, turning to see my eyelashes doing overtime. Then it clicked - I knew this guy - just as a flicker of recogition crossed his face too. I've seen you somewhere, no? he asks, where was it? Then I remember - he's a punter from where I used to do my dancing. Suddenly my recall kicks in - this guy, out with his rugby-playing pals, called my pal, Danielle, to their table one night and he was so gassed he cheekily demanded change after accidentally slipping a twenty in her thong when he was only in for a tenner. She was affronted, well, as much as you could be, standing topless and smiling and in desperate need of the cash to clear the credit cards, the wee soul (32B).

Armed with this knowledge, I smile at the cop, straighten myself and say - sure! Can you give me two ten spots for that, darling? Oh, I remember!! How you doin'? Have you scored lately?

The long arm of the Law suddenly turns greyer than Glasgow, birls on his heel and him and his pal weeble back to where they came from. By now Martial Arts and Other Guy are practically on the floor. There's the tits, I tell them as we watch them go, my arse is out of here. Oh but it's a nice wee arse, says Martial Arts, affirming why I'm still single. See you later, if I'm unlucky.

Defeated but not down, I take my trusty camcorder and walk out the Hope Street exit.