Claire has been busy of late. Her most recent commission is for new Atlantic signing Wolf Gang. The song's called 'The King And All of His Men'. It was directed by Daniel Brereton at Warp Films. Rachel Dargavel produced it. She's the new Tamsin. She'll be producing a lot of videos next year.
The video is already number 7 in the NME TV chart and it got added to 'New Music Plus' on The Box yesterday. Big.
Thursday 22 October 2009
Wednesday 21 October 2009
If a tree falls in a forest...
It's 9.00pm on a Monday and I'm standing by a shitty bar, holding a shitty pint of the numbers, in a shit hole of a venue near Angel, about to watch a band that I'm certain are going to be shit. I will normally go to any lengths possible to avoid going to gigs, ranging from excuses - "I really wanna be there tonight, but I've got to be at a baselight, flame, offline, online session" - to out and out deceit the following day - "Of course I was there dude. I was standing near the front. You just didn't see me."
But occasionally I'll receive a boardroom directive personally instructing me to attend a specific concert. Slap. Three-line-whip-o-clock. You can't wriggle out of these shows. No way. You just have to man the fuck up and deal with the reality that you're going to have to spend an evening listening to live music.
In these situations your sole objective is to make sure that your MD sees that you're there. Nothing else matters.
Monday night. I arrive on my own. The venue is pretty empty. It stinks of piss and spoiled beer. I can't see anyone from the label so I head for the narrow bar situated in the back on a slightly elevated platform. Eventually a surly, dwarfish barman takes my order. I notice his dirty fingernails tapping the rim of the glass as he draws my tawny pint of the numerals. I lean back on the bar and take a few sips. The beer's flat. I mumble the word 'cunt' just for something to do. I can't even summon the energy to look at my crackers. The bar area starts to fill up and I get pushed to the side. At that moment I realize that I've got acute indigestion. Another downside to going to gigs after work is that you never get to eat properly. The beef burrito that seemed like such a good idea half an hour ago, now feels like a cruel alimentary ordeal. My need to fart is only outweighed by my fear of following through and shitting myself.
Suddenly the band start playing. Wait. Hang the fuck on. What do you mean they're on already? Shit. They're fucking on. Actually on. I must have been so lost in my reverie of intestinal discomfort that I failed to notice them take the stage. I look around for my colleagues, but the venue is now packed. I can't see anyone that I know. To make matters worse I'm pressed against the wall to the side of the bar. I can't move. A platinum cougar in leather trousers rocks out beside me, her face lumpy and Botox immobile.
Two songs pass by. And then a third. Oh god. I frantically scan the room, but from my vantage point I'm still unable to see anyone from the label. This is a debacle. I think about the Irish philosopher George Berkley, who talked of objects ceasing to exist once there was nobody around to perceive them. The philosophical riddle reverberates in my mind: "If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?"
I'm sweating. I push through the crowd. My head thumps. The question is now: "If an employee goes to a gig and his MD doesn't see him, was he really there?"
I seriously begin to doubt my own existence. I look at my hand and it seems to be translucent. I'm fucking disappearing like Marty Mcfly in 'Back To The Future'.
And then I find him, standing by the sound desk like an MD angel. I don't think I've ever been happier to see someone I work with. We nod hello and then spend the rest of the gig reading our crackers.
Friday 16 October 2009
Video Hype
The other night David Wilson took home the award for Best New Director at the 2009 UK MVAs. Here's his new one for Little Boots's next single, 'Earthquake'.
Wednesday 14 October 2009
The Deuce
On Tuesday night the Odeon West End cinema in Leicester Square played host to the annual UK Music Video Awards. Adam Buxton presented the show and made me belly laugh. David Knight and Louise Stevens organized the shit out of it.
The night was a personal high for me. I was extremely honoured and proud to have done 'The Deuce'. Big up to anyone that voted for me.
However, reality bitch slapped me the following morning at 8.00am after about three hours of sleep.
Celly starts jingling.
Who the fuck's ringing me at 8.00am? Shit. I don't even know that number. Pure fuckery. It might be the post house though. I'd better answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hi Tim, sorry to call so early, but we've got a bit of a problem. The Flame op's been working on the changes all night, but the original project was in Smoke, a system he's not familiar with, so when he tried to export the additional layers over, they didn't cover the dissolve handles on shots 11 and 13, leaving black holes."
At least this is what I think he said. But he might as well have been talking in alien. After the euphoria of the previous evening, I revert back to my emotional default setting: anxiety.
"So what does that mean?"
"I'm getting someone here at 9.00am who should be able to resolve it. But realistically we won't be able to play out your master for another couple of hours. Sorry."
I could get fucked off. But what's that gonna achieve?
"OK. Thanks for letting me know."
I phone someone in digital.
"Dude, you good?"
"Yeah dog."
"Cool. So look, the master's gonna be a few hours late I'm afraid."
"Oh shit."
"Yeah sorry. It kinda is what it is. Does that fuck up our MSN exclusive?"
"We might miss it."
"Is that bad?"
"Yeah it's quite bad."
"Sorry brother man. There's not a lot I can do."
Whatever anyone else tells you, conversations like this are the basic daily reality of being a video commissioner. Prizes don't mean shit if you miss your MSN exclusive.
On another note, In Your Face fashion editor, Jeffrey De Winter, was supposed to be covering the MVA 2009 red carpet action, but he scored a bunch of shrooms and went missing in Deptford. I managed to leave my gold camera in the office so I had to pick up a disposable in a shop in Leicester Square.
"Hi, do you sell disposable cameras?"
"Yes boss. Do you want Kodak or the other one?"
"Which is best?"
"Kodak boss."
Here are some shots of the homies by the homies.
Iceland.
Mega Force 1.
Navaz.
Tatz.
Nez Nez.
Nathan. Tiddaz. Ross. Biggie.
Biggie. Nez Nez. Who's little head?
Jules et Joc.
Kearns. Biggie. Timmy.
Biggie. Nator. Sweeney
Good times.
Wednesday 7 October 2009
Let's Roll
Neil Gordon, or Neil 'Balls' as he's known to his friends - on account of his long standing involvement in Big Balls Films - is the undisputed heavyweight champion of the video 'making of'. In slightly aggrandizing fashion he often refers to the 'making of' as the 'B roll', meaning the 'B' or second unit camera. This is what they call them in America.
Here he is in action on the video for Alesha Dixon's forthcoming single 'To Love Again'.
There's nothing new about the 'making of'. Ever since the inception of the music video there has been an appetite for watching the film making process unfold from behind the scenes. MTV were of course the pioneers of the 'making of', and for a long time the exclusive 'MTV making of' was something coveted by both artists and labels alike - a sign of approbation, a recognition of hitting the big time baby. 'Yo MTV, welcome to the making of my video. Represent. Yeah, yeah.'
In many ways the lowly 'making of' formed the blueprint for much of MTV's more recent long form programming - 'Cribs', 'Pimp My Ride', 'Meet The Osbournes' - facile, music celebrity led, reality entertainment.
The big change for 'making ofs' occurred in the mid noughties. Like the dot com boom in the nineties, the content gold rush that started in 2004 was just as frenzied, misjudged and unsustainable. The explosion of YouTube meant that suddenly every label had to have 'content'. No one really knew what that meant, but they knew that they had to have it.
And obviously one of the easiest ways for labels to aggregate 'content' was to start commissioning their own 'making ofs'. In an era of relentless promo schedules, the video shoot affords you unparalleled access to an artist. In between takes they are basically loafing in a chair, moaning about being bored or cold, drinking tea and eating Nurofen. So fuck it, you might as well film the shit out of them.
A whole generation of young, opportunistic film makers emerged to meet the demand. Neil, and his colleagues at Big Balls, were among the founding fathers. In those days the going rate to shoot, edit and deliver a 4 minute 'making of' was £1500. Getting set up was relatively cheap - all you needed was a Sony EX 1, a computer with Final Cut, a hard drive and a tinternet connection. The main outgoings were tape stock and taxi fares to shoots, although at the time it was relatively easy to blag the commissioner into getting you cabs on their corporate account. I can attest to this: all our 'making of' guys had the Atlantic marketing department Addison Lee password.
So most of the £1500 was profit and if the film maker was a reasonably adept editor, it was possible it churn out a couple of 'making ofs' a week. In busy periods that could amount to a healthy turnover of 12 grand a month.
Simultaneously a young music video director struggling to launch their career in 2005 was getting sent bullshit tracks with 20 grand budgets attached. Their 10 per cent take home should have been two grand; but once their over ambitious idea came in over budget, they were invariably forced to drop their fee in order to get the video commissioned. A vicious cycle developed: the only way for a new director to get sent any of the dwindling number of bigger budget projects was to build and expand their showreel by taking a solid whack in the measures. Four weeks work for a grand or less. And they were lucky if they got to do this four times a year. Her Majesty's Customs and Sexcise don't even bother charging you income tax on earnings of four grand a year. You make more on the job seekers national handbag.
While up coming video directors scratched around, trying to make nickels meet, the 'making of' cartel were rinsing it. This begs the obvious question: why didn't more people get on the b-roll gravy train?
Who knows.
Maybe the answer was slight snobbery? Perhaps directors feared that 'making ofs' were somehow demeaning, that crew members wouldn't take them seriously as 'proper' film makers if they saw them on set in that capacity?
Or maybe they just didn't have the contacts to hustle the work?
Or maybe being ghetto-ass-broke-as-a-joke had a limited romantic appeal? The suffering artist in his wretched Hackney garret. But eventually not being able to afford to leave the house just becomes depressing.
Regardless, these concerns don't seem to trouble Neil as he cheerfully interviews Alesha, who sits in her splitter, arranged over the front seat like a luxurious puddle of Westwood, weave, lashes, liner and gloss. Her glamour squad cackle in the back - no more than folkloric crones squabbling over a shared eye.
Neil has got 'making ofs' down to a fine art. He boasts that recently he cut a 5 minute b-roll out of 19 minutes of rushes - a four to one bang bang shooting ratio. The formula is simple: intro with the artist - 'Hi, it's 7 in the morning and I just got to my video shoot. I'm a bit tired, but really looking forward to it'; a brief montage of each set up, including a shot of the monitor and the clapper board; a longer interview with the artist during the lunch break where they attempt to describe the concept without revealing the fact that they haven't actually read the treatment - 'It's really about my emotional journey from dark to light'; more montage; the 'wrap' call (you can bribe some ADs to do this as a cut away earlier in the day if you want to fuck off before the end); outro with the artist - 'So we've finished. It's been a long day, but I've really enjoyed it. Thanks for watching. I'm going back to the hotel to have a bath'.
Bosh.
Neil's method is leaner than a tuna steak cooked on a George Foreman grill. He knows what we want and always delivers. No extended interviews with the director or the DOP or the SFX boffin. Fans don't wanna watch that shit.
Neil and I laugh about rookie 'making of' filmers who shoot every set up continuously and end up having to capture and then wade through 4 hours of bullshit to find the 4 minutes of gold. It's always jokes to hang out with him on set. We've been on countless shoots together across the globe - Lisbon, Las Vegas, Havana. In the often lonely world of video commissioning, your 'making of' filmer is both an ally and confidant, someone to disappear off to the boozer with when the shit hits the fan on set, someone with whom you can bitch about the artist, and someone who'll tell you honestly whether the footage on the monitor is actually any good.
Without wanting to sound too elegiac, the 'making of' industry is not what it used to be. Budgets have plummeted and, if YouTube viewing figures are anything to go by, public interest seems to have waned. Content has become more sophisticated and increasingly interactive. Kids constantly crave new digital experiences with their favourite artists, and sadly the 'making of' feels like something of an anachronism these days.
I have to leave the Alesha shoot early. I say goodbye to Neil and jump into an Addison Lee - a cash car that I'll have to pay for and then claim back through a hideously convoluted reimbursement process. It'd be easier to fucking walk.
I'm not a big fan of nostalgia, but sometimes it's hard.
Here he is in action on the video for Alesha Dixon's forthcoming single 'To Love Again'.
There's nothing new about the 'making of'. Ever since the inception of the music video there has been an appetite for watching the film making process unfold from behind the scenes. MTV were of course the pioneers of the 'making of', and for a long time the exclusive 'MTV making of' was something coveted by both artists and labels alike - a sign of approbation, a recognition of hitting the big time baby. 'Yo MTV, welcome to the making of my video. Represent. Yeah, yeah.'
In many ways the lowly 'making of' formed the blueprint for much of MTV's more recent long form programming - 'Cribs', 'Pimp My Ride', 'Meet The Osbournes' - facile, music celebrity led, reality entertainment.
The big change for 'making ofs' occurred in the mid noughties. Like the dot com boom in the nineties, the content gold rush that started in 2004 was just as frenzied, misjudged and unsustainable. The explosion of YouTube meant that suddenly every label had to have 'content'. No one really knew what that meant, but they knew that they had to have it.
And obviously one of the easiest ways for labels to aggregate 'content' was to start commissioning their own 'making ofs'. In an era of relentless promo schedules, the video shoot affords you unparalleled access to an artist. In between takes they are basically loafing in a chair, moaning about being bored or cold, drinking tea and eating Nurofen. So fuck it, you might as well film the shit out of them.
A whole generation of young, opportunistic film makers emerged to meet the demand. Neil, and his colleagues at Big Balls, were among the founding fathers. In those days the going rate to shoot, edit and deliver a 4 minute 'making of' was £1500. Getting set up was relatively cheap - all you needed was a Sony EX 1, a computer with Final Cut, a hard drive and a tinternet connection. The main outgoings were tape stock and taxi fares to shoots, although at the time it was relatively easy to blag the commissioner into getting you cabs on their corporate account. I can attest to this: all our 'making of' guys had the Atlantic marketing department Addison Lee password.
So most of the £1500 was profit and if the film maker was a reasonably adept editor, it was possible it churn out a couple of 'making ofs' a week. In busy periods that could amount to a healthy turnover of 12 grand a month.
Simultaneously a young music video director struggling to launch their career in 2005 was getting sent bullshit tracks with 20 grand budgets attached. Their 10 per cent take home should have been two grand; but once their over ambitious idea came in over budget, they were invariably forced to drop their fee in order to get the video commissioned. A vicious cycle developed: the only way for a new director to get sent any of the dwindling number of bigger budget projects was to build and expand their showreel by taking a solid whack in the measures. Four weeks work for a grand or less. And they were lucky if they got to do this four times a year. Her Majesty's Customs and Sexcise don't even bother charging you income tax on earnings of four grand a year. You make more on the job seekers national handbag.
While up coming video directors scratched around, trying to make nickels meet, the 'making of' cartel were rinsing it. This begs the obvious question: why didn't more people get on the b-roll gravy train?
Who knows.
Maybe the answer was slight snobbery? Perhaps directors feared that 'making ofs' were somehow demeaning, that crew members wouldn't take them seriously as 'proper' film makers if they saw them on set in that capacity?
Or maybe they just didn't have the contacts to hustle the work?
Or maybe being ghetto-ass-broke-as-a-joke had a limited romantic appeal? The suffering artist in his wretched Hackney garret. But eventually not being able to afford to leave the house just becomes depressing.
Regardless, these concerns don't seem to trouble Neil as he cheerfully interviews Alesha, who sits in her splitter, arranged over the front seat like a luxurious puddle of Westwood, weave, lashes, liner and gloss. Her glamour squad cackle in the back - no more than folkloric crones squabbling over a shared eye.
Neil has got 'making ofs' down to a fine art. He boasts that recently he cut a 5 minute b-roll out of 19 minutes of rushes - a four to one bang bang shooting ratio. The formula is simple: intro with the artist - 'Hi, it's 7 in the morning and I just got to my video shoot. I'm a bit tired, but really looking forward to it'; a brief montage of each set up, including a shot of the monitor and the clapper board; a longer interview with the artist during the lunch break where they attempt to describe the concept without revealing the fact that they haven't actually read the treatment - 'It's really about my emotional journey from dark to light'; more montage; the 'wrap' call (you can bribe some ADs to do this as a cut away earlier in the day if you want to fuck off before the end); outro with the artist - 'So we've finished. It's been a long day, but I've really enjoyed it. Thanks for watching. I'm going back to the hotel to have a bath'.
Bosh.
Neil's method is leaner than a tuna steak cooked on a George Foreman grill. He knows what we want and always delivers. No extended interviews with the director or the DOP or the SFX boffin. Fans don't wanna watch that shit.
Neil and I laugh about rookie 'making of' filmers who shoot every set up continuously and end up having to capture and then wade through 4 hours of bullshit to find the 4 minutes of gold. It's always jokes to hang out with him on set. We've been on countless shoots together across the globe - Lisbon, Las Vegas, Havana. In the often lonely world of video commissioning, your 'making of' filmer is both an ally and confidant, someone to disappear off to the boozer with when the shit hits the fan on set, someone with whom you can bitch about the artist, and someone who'll tell you honestly whether the footage on the monitor is actually any good.
Without wanting to sound too elegiac, the 'making of' industry is not what it used to be. Budgets have plummeted and, if YouTube viewing figures are anything to go by, public interest seems to have waned. Content has become more sophisticated and increasingly interactive. Kids constantly crave new digital experiences with their favourite artists, and sadly the 'making of' feels like something of an anachronism these days.
I have to leave the Alesha shoot early. I say goodbye to Neil and jump into an Addison Lee - a cash car that I'll have to pay for and then claim back through a hideously convoluted reimbursement process. It'd be easier to fucking walk.
I'm not a big fan of nostalgia, but sometimes it's hard.
Sunday 27 September 2009
Video Hype
The video for 'Broken', the debut single from Asylum's new signing Mclean, is finally up on youth tube. It was directed by Nick Bartleet at Pixelloft. We shot it a while ago, but the marketing specialists decided to hold it back in order to build some heat at radio first.
As I've said in the past, sometimes you've just got to make an 'elements' video.
bl0tty09 seems to like it:
"never herd dis till da other nite wen dis girl i woz with woz playing it on her fone... FuCkIn BiG TuNe!!!!! plus dat girl in da vid got 1 nice ass boiiii!!!"
Mclean used to go under the nom de plume of Digga and was originally signed to The Schizofreniks, a loose collective of music producers, one of whose founding members reportedly underwent a transsexual transformation from female to male.
Mclean was in the studio with Tinchy last week. Bob Harlow was on hand to capture this 3 chip gold.
He will also be on the Sun sponsored Brrap pack tour alongside Ironik and Chipmunk this October.
As I've said in the past, sometimes you've just got to make an 'elements' video.
bl0tty09 seems to like it:
"never herd dis till da other nite wen dis girl i woz with woz playing it on her fone... FuCkIn BiG TuNe!!!!! plus dat girl in da vid got 1 nice ass boiiii!!!"
Mclean used to go under the nom de plume of Digga and was originally signed to The Schizofreniks, a loose collective of music producers, one of whose founding members reportedly underwent a transsexual transformation from female to male.
Mclean was in the studio with Tinchy last week. Bob Harlow was on hand to capture this 3 chip gold.
He will also be on the Sun sponsored Brrap pack tour alongside Ironik and Chipmunk this October.
Corin
A couple of weeks ago we shot the video for Paolo Nutini's forthcoming single 'Pencil Full of Lead'. Corin Hardy from Academy directed it and Liz Kessler was the producer. Chris Massey managed to pap this picture of Corin cotching outside the location - the Stephen Street Studios, just off Tottenham Court Road, where incidentally they used to film the Gloria Hunniford show.
Unfortunately In Your Face fashion editor, Jeffrey De Winter, was in New York at the time covering fashion week. I did however manage to catch up with him briefly on the phone.
"Hey Jeffrey."
"Wussup homie?"
"Why are you whispering?"
"I can't really talk dude. Check it. I'm in a fucking suite at the Bowery. Shit is off the chains. Hedi's outside slavishly polaroiding this 18 year Michelangelo. The kid's nekkid except for a Boy London cap. And Karl's just sitting on the fucking couch eating baby food. It's some fin de siecle shit, I'm telling you brother."
"No way. You OK?"
"Yeah I'm fine. I've just been smoking hella cush weed and I'm horny as hell. I came into the bathroom to jerk off."
"Jesus dude."
"What?"
"Hey, did you get that picture I sent you?"
"Yeah. Who the fuck is that guy?"
"Corin Hardy. He just directed a P-Lo video for us."
"Well he's triple OG. Punk as fuck brother man. Homeboy doesn't care. That's what directors should look like. I love it. Kubrick parka and offie bags on his feet. Chic. Tell me he had a can of Special Brew in his back pocket? He should come and hang out on the drunky bench in Dalston. That's what it's all about. Tramp style. Fuck all those other plimsole wearing bitches. That's director realness. Shit dude, someone's knocking. Gotta go."
Unfortunately In Your Face fashion editor, Jeffrey De Winter, was in New York at the time covering fashion week. I did however manage to catch up with him briefly on the phone.
"Hey Jeffrey."
"Wussup homie?"
"Why are you whispering?"
"I can't really talk dude. Check it. I'm in a fucking suite at the Bowery. Shit is off the chains. Hedi's outside slavishly polaroiding this 18 year Michelangelo. The kid's nekkid except for a Boy London cap. And Karl's just sitting on the fucking couch eating baby food. It's some fin de siecle shit, I'm telling you brother."
"No way. You OK?"
"Yeah I'm fine. I've just been smoking hella cush weed and I'm horny as hell. I came into the bathroom to jerk off."
"Jesus dude."
"What?"
"Hey, did you get that picture I sent you?"
"Yeah. Who the fuck is that guy?"
"Corin Hardy. He just directed a P-Lo video for us."
"Well he's triple OG. Punk as fuck brother man. Homeboy doesn't care. That's what directors should look like. I love it. Kubrick parka and offie bags on his feet. Chic. Tell me he had a can of Special Brew in his back pocket? He should come and hang out on the drunky bench in Dalston. That's what it's all about. Tramp style. Fuck all those other plimsole wearing bitches. That's director realness. Shit dude, someone's knocking. Gotta go."
Monday 21 September 2009
What?
The other day I was lost in such a hate-hole during a label meeting that I wrote the following gibberish in my daybook under the heading, 'Notes on the slow death of the music industry from inside the fart chamber'.
*****************************************************************************
The room smells of ego and fear. Verbal jostling. What? Scores on the doors. Midweeks. Middle weeks. Numbers. Single sales down. Albums up 34%. Vera Lynn. This World War 2 thing is really working. Album churn. Two hit message. Posters. Ad spend. X Factor slot. Slot it. Second phase tent poles. Jonathan Ross. Jools Holland. Alison likes it. GMTV. What's the ship? Tescos are saying 70 thousand. Sainsburys have lost confidence. Asda don't want it. What? They're the rock supermarket. They sell more copies of Kerrang than any other retailer. What's our competition? Gonna be hard at Radio 1. George hates it. The gatekeeper. Zuul. We need Rick Moranis up in this piece. Shouting. Shouting. What? iTunes bundles. Murder murder murder. 360. Expanded rights rape. The show sold out in 10 seconds. D2C. Direct 2 Consumer. Ass 2 Mouth. Sync opportunities. What? What? What?
*****************************************************************************
Hmmmmm. Mr Ahmed, who is my spiritual advisor and a keen follower of this blog, is sure to have something to say about this when I next have a session with him.
Anyhow, you all need to peep this - essential viewing in confusing times:
You can see the rest here. And here. And here.
I'm also now the proud owner of this:
*****************************************************************************
The room smells of ego and fear. Verbal jostling. What? Scores on the doors. Midweeks. Middle weeks. Numbers. Single sales down. Albums up 34%. Vera Lynn. This World War 2 thing is really working. Album churn. Two hit message. Posters. Ad spend. X Factor slot. Slot it. Second phase tent poles. Jonathan Ross. Jools Holland. Alison likes it. GMTV. What's the ship? Tescos are saying 70 thousand. Sainsburys have lost confidence. Asda don't want it. What? They're the rock supermarket. They sell more copies of Kerrang than any other retailer. What's our competition? Gonna be hard at Radio 1. George hates it. The gatekeeper. Zuul. We need Rick Moranis up in this piece. Shouting. Shouting. What? iTunes bundles. Murder murder murder. 360. Expanded rights rape. The show sold out in 10 seconds. D2C. Direct 2 Consumer. Ass 2 Mouth. Sync opportunities. What? What? What?
*****************************************************************************
Hmmmmm. Mr Ahmed, who is my spiritual advisor and a keen follower of this blog, is sure to have something to say about this when I next have a session with him.
Anyhow, you all need to peep this - essential viewing in confusing times:
You can see the rest here. And here. And here.
I'm also now the proud owner of this:
Friday 18 September 2009
Oh dear
In Your Face fashion editor Jeffrey De Winter is back this week to dicuss what video commissioners shouldn't be wearing this fall.
"When I first saw this picture, I was like 'What the fuck? Is this a joke?' Later I thought that maybe it was a 'so wrong, it's right' situation. But then I realised that it was just plain wrong. What was he thinking? Damn. He must have borrowed his little brother's football training track pants for the day. I love how the gold stripes accent the wee wee yellow on that nasty plaid shirt. What is that like Primark or some shit? The thing that really threw me off though was the brown leather thong sandals. Oh. And the weird red Manchester United beanie. He kinda looks Moroccan. You know, you're standing outside a Souk in Tangier: 'Tsk, tsk, tsk. Hey. Hello my friend. You want guide? Please my friend.' Shit is mad off-key."
Thanks to Nez for papping this.
"When I first saw this picture, I was like 'What the fuck? Is this a joke?' Later I thought that maybe it was a 'so wrong, it's right' situation. But then I realised that it was just plain wrong. What was he thinking? Damn. He must have borrowed his little brother's football training track pants for the day. I love how the gold stripes accent the wee wee yellow on that nasty plaid shirt. What is that like Primark or some shit? The thing that really threw me off though was the brown leather thong sandals. Oh. And the weird red Manchester United beanie. He kinda looks Moroccan. You know, you're standing outside a Souk in Tangier: 'Tsk, tsk, tsk. Hey. Hello my friend. You want guide? Please my friend.' Shit is mad off-key."
Thanks to Nez for papping this.
Wednesday 16 September 2009
Rushing mate
Sally has been producing a Mika video for Nez. They shot it last night. This morning she asked if I could drop the rushes off at The Mill as my cycle route takes me through town. I haven't even touched rushes in over 10 years. I hate rushes. My palms were sweating for the whole ride. I couldn't concentrate. It was like an appalling flashback to my earliest days in production. There's no more chilling task as a runner than dropping off the rushes. None. The burden of responsibility weighs upon you; all that endeavour, effort, stress, talent and money - acres of money - are condensed into a few cans of film that rest in your hands, waiting for you to transport them safely to the lab.
Now of course the rushes are, more often than not, stored on a hard drive.
But back in the late '90s it was always 35mm film.
A freelance runner that I worked with in '97 told me a good rushes story. He'd been working on an unending beauty commercial in Ile Noire studios. Day after day after interminable day of the same shit: Linda Evangelista in a shift dress flicking her hair about. Tedium gave way to ennui and finally turned to disgust. "I mean she's a supermodel. But by the seventh day I couldn't even fucking look at her. It was so boring."
After eight days the shoot finally wrapped and it was my man's turn to drop the rushes. The loader packed them into two boxes for him. He rolled out to his car and put them on the roof while he took off his coat. He got in, cracked open a can of coke, turned on the radio and found Powerjam, kicked it for a minute and then billed up a zoot for the journey. Fuck it. Whatever. He sparked it and drove into Soho. Homeboy pulled up on Wardour Street and hopped out of his car. Sitting on the roof were the two boxes of rushes. Mother fucker. "The mother fucking rushes were still on the roof. I was doing like 80 down the fucking Westway. I still don't know how they didn't fall off. Straight up magnet roof." He then threw up into the gutter.
One time in '98 I dropped some rushes off at Soho Images. The shoot wrapped late and I had to stay on to collect the walkies and sweep the location. It was about 2.00am when I eventually got into town. At that time Soho Images had a late night drop box because the delivery office shut at midnight. I walked up Meard Street feeling sketchy - I always felt sketchy when I knew I had to fuck with the drop box. I pulled the first tin out of my stash bag, opened the hatch and slid it in. But nothing happened. It just stuck, teetering on the lip. What the fuck? I reached my arm in. The chute was backed up with rushes. Jammed. Jesus. I pulled the tin out and carefully put it back in, making sure that it slipped over the other resting mags and hit the bottom. Scrape. Thunk. I did the same with the rest of the cans. One by one. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Then it dawned on me. I put my arm back in, grabbed one of the lodged cans and pulled it out. Scribbled on a bit of camera tape was the following: Mercedes. DOP Ivan Bird. Gorgeous Enterprises. Fuck me. Fuck me. Yo chill. Chill for a second. I put it back and walked around the block. I was already composing the ransom note: if you wanna see the safe return of your missing rushes you need to meet me outside Corniche Video on Frith street at midnight tomorrow with three grand in cash. Three gees. That wouldn't have even touched the sides of a million pound commercial. But it would've paid off my credit card bill. I was stoned and paranoid about CCTV. So I took my coat off and pulled my hood up. I quickly glanced around. No one was coming. Safe. I shuffled back up Meard street, lugged three tins out of the chute and put them in my bag. My heart was pounding; I thought my legs were going to give way beneath me. I managed to walk to the corner of Meard and Dean street before I stopped dead. That's when it hit me. I'm a fucking pussy. And I'll always be a pussy. I'm not cut out for a life of crime. What am I? PLO? No way. I can't kidnap these rushes. This is retarded. I'm a retard.
I dumped the canisters back in the drop box, trudged over to the moody cab office on Cambridge Circus, bought a 10 bag of dirt weed and got a boss chops home, dejected and full of self-loathing at my cowardice.
Now of course the rushes are, more often than not, stored on a hard drive.
But back in the late '90s it was always 35mm film.
A freelance runner that I worked with in '97 told me a good rushes story. He'd been working on an unending beauty commercial in Ile Noire studios. Day after day after interminable day of the same shit: Linda Evangelista in a shift dress flicking her hair about. Tedium gave way to ennui and finally turned to disgust. "I mean she's a supermodel. But by the seventh day I couldn't even fucking look at her. It was so boring."
After eight days the shoot finally wrapped and it was my man's turn to drop the rushes. The loader packed them into two boxes for him. He rolled out to his car and put them on the roof while he took off his coat. He got in, cracked open a can of coke, turned on the radio and found Powerjam, kicked it for a minute and then billed up a zoot for the journey. Fuck it. Whatever. He sparked it and drove into Soho. Homeboy pulled up on Wardour Street and hopped out of his car. Sitting on the roof were the two boxes of rushes. Mother fucker. "The mother fucking rushes were still on the roof. I was doing like 80 down the fucking Westway. I still don't know how they didn't fall off. Straight up magnet roof." He then threw up into the gutter.
One time in '98 I dropped some rushes off at Soho Images. The shoot wrapped late and I had to stay on to collect the walkies and sweep the location. It was about 2.00am when I eventually got into town. At that time Soho Images had a late night drop box because the delivery office shut at midnight. I walked up Meard Street feeling sketchy - I always felt sketchy when I knew I had to fuck with the drop box. I pulled the first tin out of my stash bag, opened the hatch and slid it in. But nothing happened. It just stuck, teetering on the lip. What the fuck? I reached my arm in. The chute was backed up with rushes. Jammed. Jesus. I pulled the tin out and carefully put it back in, making sure that it slipped over the other resting mags and hit the bottom. Scrape. Thunk. I did the same with the rest of the cans. One by one. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Then it dawned on me. I put my arm back in, grabbed one of the lodged cans and pulled it out. Scribbled on a bit of camera tape was the following: Mercedes. DOP Ivan Bird. Gorgeous Enterprises. Fuck me. Fuck me. Yo chill. Chill for a second. I put it back and walked around the block. I was already composing the ransom note: if you wanna see the safe return of your missing rushes you need to meet me outside Corniche Video on Frith street at midnight tomorrow with three grand in cash. Three gees. That wouldn't have even touched the sides of a million pound commercial. But it would've paid off my credit card bill. I was stoned and paranoid about CCTV. So I took my coat off and pulled my hood up. I quickly glanced around. No one was coming. Safe. I shuffled back up Meard street, lugged three tins out of the chute and put them in my bag. My heart was pounding; I thought my legs were going to give way beneath me. I managed to walk to the corner of Meard and Dean street before I stopped dead. That's when it hit me. I'm a fucking pussy. And I'll always be a pussy. I'm not cut out for a life of crime. What am I? PLO? No way. I can't kidnap these rushes. This is retarded. I'm a retard.
I dumped the canisters back in the drop box, trudged over to the moody cab office on Cambridge Circus, bought a 10 bag of dirt weed and got a boss chops home, dejected and full of self-loathing at my cowardice.
Wednesday 9 September 2009
Every other day my whole dress code switch
Deciding what you're going to wear on set is invariably hard - especially as the decision is often made at 5.30am, 15 minutes before your Addison Lee is due to pick you up and drive you to the shoot. You haven't had coffee. You haven't smoked. Your hair's still wet. And your lucky pants are in the washing machine. Celly starts ringing. Fuck. Hello. I know the driver's waiting outside. I got the text. What are you funny now? Look, another slug of Red Bull's not gonna hurt him. Gimme 5 minutes. Fuck.
If you're shooting outside on location in November in England then the decision is pretty much taken out of your hands. Wet weather gear. Thermals. And a balaclava. But what if you're filming in the relative warmth of Ile Noire Studios in September? Well that's a whole different story.
Thankfully the In Your Face fashion editor, Jeffrey De Winter, has identified a few key crew looks that might act as inspiration and help you to arrive on set feeling good about your steez this autumn.
Rigger, grip, best boy bum bum chic:
This is definitely one of my favourite looks for this season. Steel toe-capped safety boots, heavy woolen socks rolled down, khaki combat shorts belted high and a threadbare, blue Arri Media T-shirt. Accessorize with a '95 limited edition 007 'GoldenEye' insignia bomber jacket. I think this ensemble works really well on plus size guys, but it also suits butch lesbians.
Rudeboy spark bruv:
Again this is a really versatile fall look. Box fresh white Stan Smiths - throw them away if they get scuffed - straight leg Armani jeans and a lairy Ralph polo shirt with a Stone Island jacket thrown on top. You might want to accent this with a box cutter in your back pocket. This look is perfect if you're also interested in drug dealing and football hooliganism.
Camera department baller:
Now this look just screams authority and aplomb. Nike Airmax, re-issue big E Levis with turn-ups and a white Haines T-shirt, preferably V-neck. Your top layer needs to be all about North Face. North Face windcheater. North Face neck gaiter. North Face ear warmer. North Face hair. Do North Face make Mag-Lites? If so get one. This look is guaranteed to get you laid at the Take 2 Christmas party.
Ball breaking producer:
This is a timeless classic. Ugg boots, J Brand jeans and a cashmere sweater or a little something from Top Shop. If you wanna take it back to 2001 you could also sling on a body warmer. Wear your hair up and accessorize with a MacBook Pro, open on an excel spreadsheet of your budget actuals. While this can be a unisex look, it's worth pointing out that Ugg boots on men can attract the wrong kind of attention.
Partizan runner:
Very hot right now, particularly amongst younger crew members. Elf shoes, spray on Dick Whittington stretch jeans, vintage T-shirt and a black leather French exchange jacket, sourced from a thrift store in New York. Best worn with a wide-eyed look of enthusiasm - the streets of London really are paved with gold. Don't attempt this look if you're a fatty boom boom though. There's nothing worse than a beer gut hanging over your jean leggings. Irregular meals and cocaine abuse can help with weight control.
Record company ding dong:
If you've ever shopped in Whole Foods on Kensington High Street, then you'll already know all about this look. Sperry boat shoes, Nudie jeans, button down shirt and a Barbour jacket. Swing a Billingham bag over your shoulder and you're ready to roll. A Blackberry is as essential as a clutch with this one; you'll need to be able to update your Facebook status while pretending to work. Big willy player.
Second AD D-bag:
This is definitely a more conservative look for those lacking a little in self-esteem. Caterpillar boots, baggy G-star jeans, firetrap T-shirt and a Diesel zip up hoodie. The great thing about this style is that it's so indistinct that no one will actually notice you - perfect if your job entails telling people to be quiet on set.
In the end my advice is just have fun with it. And do what works for you. Who cares what people think?
Jeffrey will be back next week with more fashion tips for y'all.
If you're shooting outside on location in November in England then the decision is pretty much taken out of your hands. Wet weather gear. Thermals. And a balaclava. But what if you're filming in the relative warmth of Ile Noire Studios in September? Well that's a whole different story.
Thankfully the In Your Face fashion editor, Jeffrey De Winter, has identified a few key crew looks that might act as inspiration and help you to arrive on set feeling good about your steez this autumn.
Rigger, grip, best boy bum bum chic:
This is definitely one of my favourite looks for this season. Steel toe-capped safety boots, heavy woolen socks rolled down, khaki combat shorts belted high and a threadbare, blue Arri Media T-shirt. Accessorize with a '95 limited edition 007 'GoldenEye' insignia bomber jacket. I think this ensemble works really well on plus size guys, but it also suits butch lesbians.
Rudeboy spark bruv:
Again this is a really versatile fall look. Box fresh white Stan Smiths - throw them away if they get scuffed - straight leg Armani jeans and a lairy Ralph polo shirt with a Stone Island jacket thrown on top. You might want to accent this with a box cutter in your back pocket. This look is perfect if you're also interested in drug dealing and football hooliganism.
Camera department baller:
Now this look just screams authority and aplomb. Nike Airmax, re-issue big E Levis with turn-ups and a white Haines T-shirt, preferably V-neck. Your top layer needs to be all about North Face. North Face windcheater. North Face neck gaiter. North Face ear warmer. North Face hair. Do North Face make Mag-Lites? If so get one. This look is guaranteed to get you laid at the Take 2 Christmas party.
Ball breaking producer:
This is a timeless classic. Ugg boots, J Brand jeans and a cashmere sweater or a little something from Top Shop. If you wanna take it back to 2001 you could also sling on a body warmer. Wear your hair up and accessorize with a MacBook Pro, open on an excel spreadsheet of your budget actuals. While this can be a unisex look, it's worth pointing out that Ugg boots on men can attract the wrong kind of attention.
Partizan runner:
Very hot right now, particularly amongst younger crew members. Elf shoes, spray on Dick Whittington stretch jeans, vintage T-shirt and a black leather French exchange jacket, sourced from a thrift store in New York. Best worn with a wide-eyed look of enthusiasm - the streets of London really are paved with gold. Don't attempt this look if you're a fatty boom boom though. There's nothing worse than a beer gut hanging over your jean leggings. Irregular meals and cocaine abuse can help with weight control.
Record company ding dong:
If you've ever shopped in Whole Foods on Kensington High Street, then you'll already know all about this look. Sperry boat shoes, Nudie jeans, button down shirt and a Barbour jacket. Swing a Billingham bag over your shoulder and you're ready to roll. A Blackberry is as essential as a clutch with this one; you'll need to be able to update your Facebook status while pretending to work. Big willy player.
Second AD D-bag:
This is definitely a more conservative look for those lacking a little in self-esteem. Caterpillar boots, baggy G-star jeans, firetrap T-shirt and a Diesel zip up hoodie. The great thing about this style is that it's so indistinct that no one will actually notice you - perfect if your job entails telling people to be quiet on set.
In the end my advice is just have fun with it. And do what works for you. Who cares what people think?
Jeffrey will be back next week with more fashion tips for y'all.
Tuesday 1 September 2009
Universal Wine
Last weekend the Notting Hill Carnival provided me with my annual opportunity to sod West London with wee wee. As soon as I hit Chepstow Road I found the nearest offie and played Red Stripe roulette. Two for a fiver? Are you joking? Bank holiday cuz. Mans gotta make paper. The first one tasted of gold. The second one was like flat, warm hops water mixed with urinal splash back. What the fuck's up with Red Stripe? So fickle. I switched to the numbers and headed for Powis Square and the Rampage sound system.
The MC hyped the crowd.
"Oggie oggie oggie."
"Oi oi oi."
And then he introduced Egypt who did a live PA of her big tune, 'In The Morning'. People went wild in the dance. I saw two rudeboy congas as yoots battled to get to the front. A monstrous, steroid inflated pit bull started baying. Horns blared. The police surveillance teams looked on from their rooftop Babylons. The sweet perfume of skunk weed made me feel hungry. Mmmmmm. That barbecue smells so nice. Maybe I should get some jerk. Yeah. And plantain. And maybe a Twix.
Once these prandial needs had been met, I made my way to All Saints Road to check out the CMC stage, Carnival's only pure drum and bass sound system.
It was messy. The Special Brew sun burn crew were already repping. Dusty, skeletal ravers were gurning, trying to hold whistles between their rotten teeth. Limbs flailed. Western Union bandannas flapped. And then out of the haze he emerged; a diabolical rave man-child, moulded in his father's image - an anthropomorphic nightmare.
Suddenly there were raving children everywhere.
Jesus. This isn't right man. They must be dwarfs. But they weren't. I was surrounded by a whistle posse of infants grinning hopelessly, blitzed on beans, frantically lurching back and forth on their dads' shoulders.
"Make some noise."
The nippers started screaming. This is horrible. I've got to get the fuck out of here.
I finally got back to Dalston at around midnight only to discover that Best Kebab had run out of doner meat.
As Jamal explained with a shrug:
"Bank holiday cuz."
Thursday 27 August 2009
R.A.P.
Of late we have noticed a spike in the number of brands inquiring about advertising on In Your Face. In order to meet the demand we have decided to hire an ad agency. Moving forward all advertising requests should be directed towards R.A.P.
Beeper number coming soon.
On the subject of advertising, Sally spotted this in our street the other day:
And...
Claire commissioned a video for Boy Crisis. It shot out in Brooklyn a few weeks ago and is nearly done.
This isn't actually a picture from the Dos and Don'ts section of Vice. It's a snap of the video playback operator. You've gotta love Williamsburg. Imagine if Von Adams came to set dressed like that. He'd get beats from the sparks.
Beeper number coming soon.
On the subject of advertising, Sally spotted this in our street the other day:
And...
Claire commissioned a video for Boy Crisis. It shot out in Brooklyn a few weeks ago and is nearly done.
This isn't actually a picture from the Dos and Don'ts section of Vice. It's a snap of the video playback operator. You've gotta love Williamsburg. Imagine if Von Adams came to set dressed like that. He'd get beats from the sparks.
Monday 24 August 2009
The Day
Back in the late 90s Chad Muska had 'The Day' while skateboarding in Arizona, a feat immortalized in the Transworld 'Anthology' video.
Well on Friday 21st August I too experienced 'The Day', albeit one of a very different kind.
The week had started inauspiciously: single changes, offline changes, bothersome unsigned content contracts, prevarication, and finally a cancelled video shoot - all of which pointed to a painful without prejudice Friday, trying to negotiate abrogation costs with a disappointed production company.
Then on Thursday evening I took a phone call from my boss.
"Do you wanna come to the cricket with me tomorrow?"
"What?"
"Do you wanna come to the cricket with me tomorrow?"
"Are you fucking joking? I would love to come to the cricket with you tomorrow. I'd give up limbs to come to the cricket with you tomorrow. I can't believe it. Thanks dude."
We arrived at the Brit Oval the next day, eagerly took our seats and then watched England toil for most of the morning session. They added only 25 to their overnight score - bowled out for 332 - before the Aussies serenely progressed to 61 for no loss at the lunch interval despite some tight bowling by England.
I necked a gourmet burger from the Fine Burger Company stall. Nasty. It made me wonder what a raggo burger would taste like from the Raggo Burger kiosk next door. Happily I didn't get the time to find out as I was then too busy getting on the turps. Pint of Pimms please sir. Hold the cucumber. And the mint. Fuck it. Just give me a shot of Pimms. A light shower broke out. But it didn't last long and before we knew it the sun was out, the umpires were back on the field, and play was due to resume at 2.30pm.
Much to the surprise of the Vauxhall end, Strauss tossed the ball to Stuart Broad for the second over after lunch.
"What are you doing? Broady? He's a pie chucker. Fuck me. We're fucked."
And then it happened. With the last ball of the over Stuart Broad trapped Shane Watson LBW with an off-cutter. Stone dead. Four overs later he got Ricky Ponting to play on. Death rattle. Then Mike Hussey padded up to a straight one. Plumb LBW. Two overs later Michael Clarke flapped at a wider outswinger and was snaffled by Jonathan Trott at short extra cover. Jonathan Trott. On debut. A man so South African that he makes Kevin Pietersen sound like Henry Blofeld. What's not to love about English cricket.
Suddenly Stuart Broad had 4 wickets in 21 balls. Punter. Mr Cricket. Pup. Australia's much vaunted middle order were all back in the Pavilion. The Vauxhall end went ape shit. Broad got a standing ovation every time he walked down to fine leg.
"Broady, Broady give us a wave."
Every movement got a cheer.
"Look at Broady. He's like a gazelle."
He took an isotonic drink out of a cooler on the boundary.
"Get it down ya lad. Get that Pimms down ya lad."
In an epic spell he bowled unchanged for the entire afternoon session.
"Someone give Broady an energy bar."
By the time he cleaned up Brad Haddin with a fuller ball that pitched on leg, swung and pegged back off stump, the crowd were in delirium. Stuart Broad had his Michelle-five-for. The Aussies had produced a batting collapse of English proportions. And the balance of the Ashes series had tipped inexorably in England's favour. Make no mistake, as any seasoned observer of English cricket would agree, this was tell your grandchildren stuff. And I was fucking there. The day.
The Australians were eventually bundled out for 160 after tea and I was bundled out of my mind on Pimms. And wine. And Fosters.
Here's what my Flip camera saw as the fans celebrated the key dismissals of Ricky Ponting, Mike Hussey and Michael Clarke. Unbelievable scenes.
Well on Friday 21st August I too experienced 'The Day', albeit one of a very different kind.
The week had started inauspiciously: single changes, offline changes, bothersome unsigned content contracts, prevarication, and finally a cancelled video shoot - all of which pointed to a painful without prejudice Friday, trying to negotiate abrogation costs with a disappointed production company.
Then on Thursday evening I took a phone call from my boss.
"Do you wanna come to the cricket with me tomorrow?"
"What?"
"Do you wanna come to the cricket with me tomorrow?"
"Are you fucking joking? I would love to come to the cricket with you tomorrow. I'd give up limbs to come to the cricket with you tomorrow. I can't believe it. Thanks dude."
We arrived at the Brit Oval the next day, eagerly took our seats and then watched England toil for most of the morning session. They added only 25 to their overnight score - bowled out for 332 - before the Aussies serenely progressed to 61 for no loss at the lunch interval despite some tight bowling by England.
I necked a gourmet burger from the Fine Burger Company stall. Nasty. It made me wonder what a raggo burger would taste like from the Raggo Burger kiosk next door. Happily I didn't get the time to find out as I was then too busy getting on the turps. Pint of Pimms please sir. Hold the cucumber. And the mint. Fuck it. Just give me a shot of Pimms. A light shower broke out. But it didn't last long and before we knew it the sun was out, the umpires were back on the field, and play was due to resume at 2.30pm.
Much to the surprise of the Vauxhall end, Strauss tossed the ball to Stuart Broad for the second over after lunch.
"What are you doing? Broady? He's a pie chucker. Fuck me. We're fucked."
And then it happened. With the last ball of the over Stuart Broad trapped Shane Watson LBW with an off-cutter. Stone dead. Four overs later he got Ricky Ponting to play on. Death rattle. Then Mike Hussey padded up to a straight one. Plumb LBW. Two overs later Michael Clarke flapped at a wider outswinger and was snaffled by Jonathan Trott at short extra cover. Jonathan Trott. On debut. A man so South African that he makes Kevin Pietersen sound like Henry Blofeld. What's not to love about English cricket.
Suddenly Stuart Broad had 4 wickets in 21 balls. Punter. Mr Cricket. Pup. Australia's much vaunted middle order were all back in the Pavilion. The Vauxhall end went ape shit. Broad got a standing ovation every time he walked down to fine leg.
"Broady, Broady give us a wave."
Every movement got a cheer.
"Look at Broady. He's like a gazelle."
He took an isotonic drink out of a cooler on the boundary.
"Get it down ya lad. Get that Pimms down ya lad."
In an epic spell he bowled unchanged for the entire afternoon session.
"Someone give Broady an energy bar."
By the time he cleaned up Brad Haddin with a fuller ball that pitched on leg, swung and pegged back off stump, the crowd were in delirium. Stuart Broad had his Michelle-five-for. The Aussies had produced a batting collapse of English proportions. And the balance of the Ashes series had tipped inexorably in England's favour. Make no mistake, as any seasoned observer of English cricket would agree, this was tell your grandchildren stuff. And I was fucking there. The day.
The Australians were eventually bundled out for 160 after tea and I was bundled out of my mind on Pimms. And wine. And Fosters.
Here's what my Flip camera saw as the fans celebrated the key dismissals of Ricky Ponting, Mike Hussey and Michael Clarke. Unbelievable scenes.
The Day from I'd Prefer Not To TV on Vimeo.
Tuesday 18 August 2009
Video Hype
I clean forgot to post Dan & Julian's finished video for Paolo Nutini's 'Coming Up Easy'. But luckily last Wednesday's edition of the current bun jogged my memory.
Sorry that it's such a shitty scan, but the final sentence reads:
"I'd imagine Paolo spends quite a lot of time in the company of giant, colourful animals, given his love of ale and Funky Cigarettes."
For once they said it and not me.
Anyhow here's the finished video:
Sorry that it's such a shitty scan, but the final sentence reads:
"I'd imagine Paolo spends quite a lot of time in the company of giant, colourful animals, given his love of ale and Funky Cigarettes."
For once they said it and not me.
Anyhow here's the finished video:
Paolo Nutini - Coming Up Easy from Nikke Osterback on Vimeo.
Tuesday 11 August 2009
You gotta read the label
Yes cuz. This week In Your Face turns its attention to the thorny issue of directors' treatments. Now I don't intend this to be an exhaustive study of the art of video treatment writing. I'm sure there's a combined GNVQ in video scripting and applied painting and decorating in the media studies department at Richmond college that already covers it. No. This is purely an arbitrary, subjective and extemporaneous diatribe about video treatments - and what I hate about them.
"And the lifetime achievement award for most played out photographic reference in a treatment goes to... Gregory Crewdson."
Enough fucking Crewdson already. The apogee of Crewdson mania undoubtedly came in 2008 when I received at least 15 treatments that referenced his work. Each of his photographs costs in the region of a million dollars to produce. So how the fuck are you gonna re-create his heavily stylized, art-directed look on a £15k video for a shit indie band? How? Talk to me. Crewdson's consumables budget is probably more than £15k. I bet Crewdson spends £15k on making it rain in Hooters at his wrap parties. And anyway if I did have to commission a million dollar video, I can guarantee you that the artist wouldn't want to spend it all on one portentous Crewdson-esque set-up. They'd wanna spend it on lots of shit like this.
Same goes for David Lachapelle.
It doesn't matter what lighting package you've blagged off AFM, you will never emulate a Lachapelle picture by filming on location in East Ham with a bunch of munters from Durham. Apologetic whine: "Yeah but we're shooting on the Red camera. This is the perfect format with which to explore the hyper-real - the plasticity of contemporary culture if you will." What? What? Do you wanna say that again to my face? No? Then get the fuck outta here before I cold cock you.
Yep. If I see Crewdson or Lachapelle staring out at me when I open that PDF, it's getting shit-canned immediately, which is fine because it means less reading for Timmy.
And don't get me started on animal masks.
There were other films made in the 1970s aside from 'The Wicker Man'. Can't you copy them instead?
What else. Oh yeah. That MGMT video was really good. But if I get any more ideas featuring 'so bad it's good' hipster, blue screen post, I'm gonna come round your house and paint it chroma key azure and see how you fucking like it.
I understand that in this unscrupulous era of 20-treatments-per-track commissioning gang rape, directors might have to recycle some of their ideas from time to time. I get it. I also know how hard directors work to perfect their concepts. The sheer volume of treatments that they have to write makes it unfeasible for them to come up with something original every time. It's cool. Just make sure that you're careful with the 'find and replace' function on your puter. There's nothing Paolo Nutini hates more than mysteriously turning into James Morrison half way through a treatment. It's bad for his self-esteem.
And while I'm on the subject, the standards of treatment proof reading have plummeted in the past few years. Fucked spelling. Inconsistent capitalization. Insane verb conjugation. Punctuation that wouldn't look out of place in a demented Chris Farley Blackberry message, sent one handed from the wheel of his Ford Excursion, while battered on speedballs at dawn.
I know most video directors went to St Martins and therefore probably spent their formative years looking at books containing pictures rather than words, and bunking off the extra after school remedial writing classes. SShhhhh. It's not your fault sweetie. Mummy doesn't think you're stupid. You're just different. But there's no excuse for confusing 'there' and 'their', particularly when your humanities degree wielding rep should be checking this shit for you.
I also appreciate that much of the music sent to directors by labels isn't especially inspiring, and that as a result sometimes there's no option but to fall back on an 'elements' idea. For example: the band's performance is so intense that their guitars catch fire, before a curious wind blows them over; the singer songwriter's delivery is so emotive that it starts raining and he jumps off a cliff; the female solo artist's dancing is so fierce that the ground starts to shake and a big dance earthquake spreads out across the world. You know what I'm talking about. Earth, water, air and fire - the video maker's redeemers. Everyone's had to either write or commission an 'elements' idea at some point. Some of the greatest videos ever made are 'elemental'. That's not the problem. The problem is that people don't call me up before hand to discuss what the 'element' should be. I can't have Alesha standing in a deluge of fucking rain. After about 2 minutes her weave's gonna be somewhere down the back of her neck and her eyes are gonna be filled with nasty wig glue. We don't want our artist to look like she's starring in your favourite bukkake video.
Without wanting to sound like been-around-the-block guy, I've worked in music videos for over 12 years: firstly as a runner, proof-reading treatments, then as a directors' rep, helping to write and develop them, and finally as a video commissioner, deciding which ones to make. Over my career I estimate that I've probably read on average 12 treatments a week. That's 600 hundred every working year. And like I said, I've been doing this shit for 12 years. That makes 7,200 treatments. Most treatments are about 750 words long. That leaves a grand total of 5,400,000 treatment words imbibed during my working life. Let me put that into some kind of perspective: I could have read 'In Search of Lost Time' by Marcel Proust, 'War and Peace' and 'Anna Karenina' by Leo Tolstoy, 'The Count of Monte Cristo' by Alexandre Dumas, 'Les Miserables' by Victor Hugo, 'Clarissa' by Samuel Richardson and 'A Man Without Qualities' by Robert Musil instead and still have had plenty of word change from my five and a half milly.
I feel bad enough about this as it is, so please don't make me read more than a page of writing. And I'm the least of your worries. The poor cunts in marketing are stuck in back to back meeting oblivion all day. When have they got time to read more than a page? Artists spend most of their time sleeping, flying, driving, doing promo, playing shows, drinking booze, putting drugs in their faces and banging groupies. Have they got time? No one's got any time. In fact directors should take a leaf out of Nez's book and just film themselves describing the idea and intercut it with references. Vaughn Arnell was of course the originator of this steez. It works. I would estimate that a director is 90% more likely to win the job if they present their idea in this manner. Click and play. Even the busiest mother fuckers out there have got time to watch shit on the tinternet. Just remember to get a stylist, because first impressions count. And if you're ugly, you'd better be funny.
It's all love.
"And the lifetime achievement award for most played out photographic reference in a treatment goes to... Gregory Crewdson."
Enough fucking Crewdson already. The apogee of Crewdson mania undoubtedly came in 2008 when I received at least 15 treatments that referenced his work. Each of his photographs costs in the region of a million dollars to produce. So how the fuck are you gonna re-create his heavily stylized, art-directed look on a £15k video for a shit indie band? How? Talk to me. Crewdson's consumables budget is probably more than £15k. I bet Crewdson spends £15k on making it rain in Hooters at his wrap parties. And anyway if I did have to commission a million dollar video, I can guarantee you that the artist wouldn't want to spend it all on one portentous Crewdson-esque set-up. They'd wanna spend it on lots of shit like this.
Same goes for David Lachapelle.
It doesn't matter what lighting package you've blagged off AFM, you will never emulate a Lachapelle picture by filming on location in East Ham with a bunch of munters from Durham. Apologetic whine: "Yeah but we're shooting on the Red camera. This is the perfect format with which to explore the hyper-real - the plasticity of contemporary culture if you will." What? What? Do you wanna say that again to my face? No? Then get the fuck outta here before I cold cock you.
Yep. If I see Crewdson or Lachapelle staring out at me when I open that PDF, it's getting shit-canned immediately, which is fine because it means less reading for Timmy.
And don't get me started on animal masks.
There were other films made in the 1970s aside from 'The Wicker Man'. Can't you copy them instead?
What else. Oh yeah. That MGMT video was really good. But if I get any more ideas featuring 'so bad it's good' hipster, blue screen post, I'm gonna come round your house and paint it chroma key azure and see how you fucking like it.
I understand that in this unscrupulous era of 20-treatments-per-track commissioning gang rape, directors might have to recycle some of their ideas from time to time. I get it. I also know how hard directors work to perfect their concepts. The sheer volume of treatments that they have to write makes it unfeasible for them to come up with something original every time. It's cool. Just make sure that you're careful with the 'find and replace' function on your puter. There's nothing Paolo Nutini hates more than mysteriously turning into James Morrison half way through a treatment. It's bad for his self-esteem.
And while I'm on the subject, the standards of treatment proof reading have plummeted in the past few years. Fucked spelling. Inconsistent capitalization. Insane verb conjugation. Punctuation that wouldn't look out of place in a demented Chris Farley Blackberry message, sent one handed from the wheel of his Ford Excursion, while battered on speedballs at dawn.
I know most video directors went to St Martins and therefore probably spent their formative years looking at books containing pictures rather than words, and bunking off the extra after school remedial writing classes. SShhhhh. It's not your fault sweetie. Mummy doesn't think you're stupid. You're just different. But there's no excuse for confusing 'there' and 'their', particularly when your humanities degree wielding rep should be checking this shit for you.
I also appreciate that much of the music sent to directors by labels isn't especially inspiring, and that as a result sometimes there's no option but to fall back on an 'elements' idea. For example: the band's performance is so intense that their guitars catch fire, before a curious wind blows them over; the singer songwriter's delivery is so emotive that it starts raining and he jumps off a cliff; the female solo artist's dancing is so fierce that the ground starts to shake and a big dance earthquake spreads out across the world. You know what I'm talking about. Earth, water, air and fire - the video maker's redeemers. Everyone's had to either write or commission an 'elements' idea at some point. Some of the greatest videos ever made are 'elemental'. That's not the problem. The problem is that people don't call me up before hand to discuss what the 'element' should be. I can't have Alesha standing in a deluge of fucking rain. After about 2 minutes her weave's gonna be somewhere down the back of her neck and her eyes are gonna be filled with nasty wig glue. We don't want our artist to look like she's starring in your favourite bukkake video.
Without wanting to sound like been-around-the-block guy, I've worked in music videos for over 12 years: firstly as a runner, proof-reading treatments, then as a directors' rep, helping to write and develop them, and finally as a video commissioner, deciding which ones to make. Over my career I estimate that I've probably read on average 12 treatments a week. That's 600 hundred every working year. And like I said, I've been doing this shit for 12 years. That makes 7,200 treatments. Most treatments are about 750 words long. That leaves a grand total of 5,400,000 treatment words imbibed during my working life. Let me put that into some kind of perspective: I could have read 'In Search of Lost Time' by Marcel Proust, 'War and Peace' and 'Anna Karenina' by Leo Tolstoy, 'The Count of Monte Cristo' by Alexandre Dumas, 'Les Miserables' by Victor Hugo, 'Clarissa' by Samuel Richardson and 'A Man Without Qualities' by Robert Musil instead and still have had plenty of word change from my five and a half milly.
I feel bad enough about this as it is, so please don't make me read more than a page of writing. And I'm the least of your worries. The poor cunts in marketing are stuck in back to back meeting oblivion all day. When have they got time to read more than a page? Artists spend most of their time sleeping, flying, driving, doing promo, playing shows, drinking booze, putting drugs in their faces and banging groupies. Have they got time? No one's got any time. In fact directors should take a leaf out of Nez's book and just film themselves describing the idea and intercut it with references. Vaughn Arnell was of course the originator of this steez. It works. I would estimate that a director is 90% more likely to win the job if they present their idea in this manner. Click and play. Even the busiest mother fuckers out there have got time to watch shit on the tinternet. Just remember to get a stylist, because first impressions count. And if you're ugly, you'd better be funny.
It's all love.
Wednesday 5 August 2009
Video hype plus Mr Ahmed
Here's David Wilson's Little Boots 'Remedy' video. It's already getting rinsed on youth tube.
I went to visit Thami on Ridley Road for a re-rub.
I discussed my recent video travails with him over a cup of mint tea and a hash spliff. He suggested that perhaps I should consult a spiritual advisor and recommended his friend Mr Ahmed (who incidentally has been treating Jamal for depression following Michael Jackson's demise). As I turned to leave, Thami pressed a large, embossed business card into my hand. It read as follows:
I have an appointment with Mr Ahmed next week. As far as I'm concerned this can't happen soon enough, because I definitely need help with playing the game.
But remember kids: don't hate the player, hate the game.
Little Boots - Remedy from Nikke Osterback on Vimeo.
I went to visit Thami on Ridley Road for a re-rub.
Little Boots - Remedy (Wideboys re-mix) from Nikke Osterback on Vimeo.
I discussed my recent video travails with him over a cup of mint tea and a hash spliff. He suggested that perhaps I should consult a spiritual advisor and recommended his friend Mr Ahmed (who incidentally has been treating Jamal for depression following Michael Jackson's demise). As I turned to leave, Thami pressed a large, embossed business card into my hand. It read as follows:
I have an appointment with Mr Ahmed next week. As far as I'm concerned this can't happen soon enough, because I definitely need help with playing the game.
But remember kids: don't hate the player, hate the game.
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