These days most directors are molly coddled video village jockeys, who are content to hide behind the monitor and their first AD like scared milksops. Well it wasn't always like that. Werner Herzog used to grab his cinematographer Jorg Schmidt-Reitwein, while he was shooting handheld, and point him bodily in the direction of the action he wanted to film, thereby establishing a very visceral connection between director and camera.
Here's some footage of Max Giwa, harking back to the days of New German Cinema, as he 'helps' SFX legend Bob Smoke get the water party started on Alesha Dixon's video shoot for her forthcoming single 'Let's Get Excited'. Mega LOLz.
Hold Me Closer from I'd Prefer Not To TV on Vimeo.
Tuesday 31 March 2009
Monday 30 March 2009
You make my pee pee go...
Normally the Warner Music spam filter is more steadfast than a Bungalow 8 bouncer. But in recent weeks a series of clandestine, dissident emails have succeeded in infiltrating my inbox; and they are all from a sender called Holly Bush.
"Hey needle dick. Are you sick of women laughing at the size of your cock? Well Penis Growth 2009 can rid you of that bedroom embarrassment. A one week course will guarantee to increase not only the length, but also the girth of your wand, helping you eliminate those unwanted gaps for good".
Initially it's easy to laugh these emails off, but after a while they can start to play on your insecurities, chiseling away at the friable edifice of your confidence. Insidious and conniving they make you start to wonder. Spam. Spam. So in the name of exposing bad science and quackery, In Your Face decided to take on its most dangerous experiment to date and test a course of Penis Growth 2009.
Day One. The box of Penis Growth 2009 boasts that the pills are rich in 'Catuaba', apparently a natural penis growth herb found in Northern Brazil that 'has been used for centuries by the indigenous population of the region'. I pop the blister pack and neck one of the large brown capsules. After 10 minutes I start to experience an intense feeling of euphoria comparable to coming up on a strong E. A few minutes later a violent bout of involuntary teeth grinding kicks in. My jaw remains painfully clenched for the rest of the day.
Day Two. The lockjaw has subsided, but I feel downcast and listless. I'm unable to motivate myself at work and spend the day watching every single game of S.K.A.T.E on The Berrics website, which is kind of what I do everyday, only today I did it apathetically.
Day Three. I haven't taken a shit in two days. My abdomen is diffusely tender and I'm suffering sharp, cramping pains in my rectum. I've also noticed increased hair loss.
Day Four. Urinary retention has now made friends with the constipation. My urethra burns when I try to piss and weirdly my goolies have started to hurt. I finally break down in a Paolo Nutini planning meeting when I'm told I have to shoot his video in a week's time. Barbera Charone comforts me with a cuddle.
Day Five. 3 AM. I can't sleep. Xanax doesn't seem to be working, although it's hard to tell. Spam. Spam. I'm trapped in an appalling waking dream, transported back to my primary school latrine where Tyrone is seeing how high he can piss up the wall and nearly hitting the ceiling as amber urine cascades to the already flooded floor. Sharp yelling claps in my ears. S. P. A. M. The back of my throat feels acidic. I get up and vomit until my eyes stream. Fuck this shit man. I destroy the box of Penis Growth 2009 and flush the remainder of its contents down the toilet.
So after five days of taking Penis Growth 2009 virtually the only part of my body unaffected is my penis. The only conclusion I can draw is: beware of false prophets - by their fruit you will recognize them.
Word.
Video Hype
Check it, here's Max & Dania's finished video for Ironik's 'Tiny Dancer', featuring Chipmunk and Elton John:
Ironik - Tiny Dancer feat. Chipmunk & Elton John from Nikke Osterback on Vimeo.
The video had it's UK television premier on Starz last Wednesday. (Basically Fizz went bankrupt a few weeks ago. The proprietors got all Enron on the paperwork, burnt the offices down and started up again under a new nom de plume - Starz. But don't worry, the formula's the same; they're still robbing £1.50 off children by getting them to text in requests for their favourite videos.)
And 'Tiny Dancer' is already whipping up a bile storm on Youth Tube. Here's what Aggiestaruk had to say:
'you do realise if u watch this video in detail it is rather nasty like chipmunk is spanking half naked ladys and girls are kissing its like a good song no lie but the video is kinda like off putting'.
That's how I roll. Making UK hip hop and grime videos that instantly alienate the artist's core fan base, but get rinsed on telly and tinternets.
In the words of Wiley as he walked off set on the Rolex video, 'this is white people's vision'.
Ironik - Tiny Dancer feat. Chipmunk & Elton John from Nikke Osterback on Vimeo.
The video had it's UK television premier on Starz last Wednesday. (Basically Fizz went bankrupt a few weeks ago. The proprietors got all Enron on the paperwork, burnt the offices down and started up again under a new nom de plume - Starz. But don't worry, the formula's the same; they're still robbing £1.50 off children by getting them to text in requests for their favourite videos.)
And 'Tiny Dancer' is already whipping up a bile storm on Youth Tube. Here's what Aggiestaruk had to say:
'you do realise if u watch this video in detail it is rather nasty like chipmunk is spanking half naked ladys and girls are kissing its like a good song no lie but the video is kinda like off putting'.
That's how I roll. Making UK hip hop and grime videos that instantly alienate the artist's core fan base, but get rinsed on telly and tinternets.
In the words of Wiley as he walked off set on the Rolex video, 'this is white people's vision'.
Wednesday 18 March 2009
What's Twitter?
On Saturday we took over a suite at the Bentley Hotel in South Kensington and shot the video for Ironik's forthcoming single 'Tiny Dancer', featuring Chipmunk and Elton John. Unfortunately Elton wasn't available to attend the shoot. But Chipmunk turned up, along with three of his management team and one of their girlfriends; we also had a camera crew from MTV base, one from Holy Moly, one from Channel U, a photographer, a journalist from Nuts, one from Zoo, and two reps from Police, who provided sunglasses for the video; Ironik came with his two managers, his mum and his friend Miles - KFC Jerome wasn't there because they've fallen out. Basically there were nuff people in the room. And everyone wanted a piece of the monitor. Von Adams had bodies clambering all over him to get a look.
In the morning I took a moment to film Ironik and Chip talking. For me this clip perfectly sums up the excitement, banality, ennui and utter pointlessness of being on set. Stick with it because the last few seconds prove that Ironik is the Alan Partridge of UK hip hop.
What's Twitter? from inyourfaceTV on Vimeo.
For the record, the Video was directed by Max & Dania of Bikini Films and produced by Scott Clark.
In the morning I took a moment to film Ironik and Chip talking. For me this clip perfectly sums up the excitement, banality, ennui and utter pointlessness of being on set. Stick with it because the last few seconds prove that Ironik is the Alan Partridge of UK hip hop.
What's Twitter? from inyourfaceTV on Vimeo.
For the record, the Video was directed by Max & Dania of Bikini Films and produced by Scott Clark.
Tuesday 10 March 2009
The Dream Factory
With a click and a whir of the DVD player the dream factory spluttered into life. A shrewdness of record company apes in their late 30s huddled around the small LCD screen eager with anticipation for the casting selects had finally arrived.
'Hello my name's Diana. I'm 30 years old and I'm with Storm.'
The smallest but most vocal gibbon, cloaked in a fuchsia sports jacket, started yelping immediately.
"Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat."
This 'monologue' was delivered with the scattergun speed of a teenager suffering from both Tourette's and ADHD, whose poor mother was desperately trying to wean him off Ritalin, thereby exacerbating his condition. A head butting motor tic caused spittle to fly out of his mouth as he spoke.
Someone else piped up.
"She's too fucking old. I mean look at her. She's definitely been in pornos."
Diana then turned to her profile.
"And look at her arse. It's kinda cellulite-y."
"Yeah it does that weird thing where it pinches in and then goes baggy at the bottom. You know that thing? She's out mate."
To most observers Diana's figure was of course perfect. At that moment someone from sales walked in, his face red with hypertension.
"Alright lads. Fuckin' hell. You lot call this work? Are you sure you don't wanna do a job swap with me? Honestly I'm telling you there's some right sorts down the Tesco's head office. I'll go on the video instead."
A chimpanzee with particularly long arms slapped him on the back with affected bon homie.
"Mate, if you can ship us 20 thousand albums you can come to the shoot, the edit, the grade, whatever you fucking want."
After a few snorts of laughter they all went back to their leering.
'Hello my name's Diana. I'm 30 years old and I'm with Storm.'
The smallest but most vocal gibbon, cloaked in a fuchsia sports jacket, started yelping immediately.
"Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat."
This 'monologue' was delivered with the scattergun speed of a teenager suffering from both Tourette's and ADHD, whose poor mother was desperately trying to wean him off Ritalin, thereby exacerbating his condition. A head butting motor tic caused spittle to fly out of his mouth as he spoke.
Someone else piped up.
"She's too fucking old. I mean look at her. She's definitely been in pornos."
Diana then turned to her profile.
"And look at her arse. It's kinda cellulite-y."
"Yeah it does that weird thing where it pinches in and then goes baggy at the bottom. You know that thing? She's out mate."
To most observers Diana's figure was of course perfect. At that moment someone from sales walked in, his face red with hypertension.
"Alright lads. Fuckin' hell. You lot call this work? Are you sure you don't wanna do a job swap with me? Honestly I'm telling you there's some right sorts down the Tesco's head office. I'll go on the video instead."
A chimpanzee with particularly long arms slapped him on the back with affected bon homie.
"Mate, if you can ship us 20 thousand albums you can come to the shoot, the edit, the grade, whatever you fucking want."
After a few snorts of laughter they all went back to their leering.
Friday 6 March 2009
D D D D D D D Days
On Wednesday we shot the video for The Days' forthcoming single 'Never Give Up' at the John Owen Sports Centre in Bushey. Mike Baldwin from Flynn was directing, Mikey Levelle produced it and Chris Sabogal was the Director of Photography. Sabogal. Young Money. Apparently this was his sixth shoot in the space of 10 days. Damn. There's no doubt that he's the go to filmer right now.
The In Your Face content division was also on hand to capture some behind the scenes footage. Filmed strictly on Flip-o-Vision, with a kaleidoscopic, Hi-Jinx, Mega-Mix edit, In Your Face TV presents The Days 'Never Give Up' OFFICIAL Making Of. Bang Bang.
DDDDDDD Days from I'd Prefer Not To TV on Vimeo.
The In Your Face content division was also on hand to capture some behind the scenes footage. Filmed strictly on Flip-o-Vision, with a kaleidoscopic, Hi-Jinx, Mega-Mix edit, In Your Face TV presents The Days 'Never Give Up' OFFICIAL Making Of. Bang Bang.
DDDDDDD Days from I'd Prefer Not To TV on Vimeo.
Sunday 1 March 2009
Jordan's baby
On Friday one of our U.S signed acts, 3OH!3, was in town to support Katy Perry at Koko. It goes without saying that I hate gigs and normally do everything within my power to avoid going to them. However, earlier in the day my MD had specifically asked me to attend, so I was left with little choice but to spend a precious Friday evening in Camden, my least favourite part of London, if not the world.
On route I got waylaid by The George on Wardour Street. 'A pint of Lech please sir?' I inquired. The barman shook his head dolefully, tears seeming to well in his broken, alcoholic eyes. I settled for a French lager, the one that makes you violent, but not domestically so. Luke Taylor from Big Balls joined me. We ate a few pints and then relocated to an austere boozer off Charlotte Street. I overheard one of Luke's friends abusing someone he knew. 'You do know you look like Jordan's baby don't you?' A peal of vicious, braying laughter resounded. I looked up and saw the man in question. He really was a terrifying simulacrum of Harvey Andre; the same half-sighted, drooling, shapeless, angelic face stared ahead, only 20 years older and infinitely more forlorn. The poor cunt. I thought how intolerable it would be to live with an insult so cruelly accurate. And funny.
By the time I arrived at Koko I had managed to miss both 3OH!3 and Katy Perry. I was now on my own and drunk. The venue had completed its transformation into club N.M.E and was packed with young people wearing elf shoes. I started to feel anxious. Where's my crackers? Fuck. Fuck. I eventually found it in my shirt pocket. The glow of the screen illuminated my swollen beer face and immediately soothed me. SShhhh. It's O.K. I'm here. I pretended to read some emails. A band came on, led by a podgy singer wearing a sequinned waistcoat, sunglasses and a quiff. They played comfortably the worst music I've ever heard - aural gonorrhoea. I lasted 5 minutes before the purulent synthesised notes inflamed my ear drums and my temper. Images of extreme violence came swimming into my mind. Hey. Hey. Take it easy. Just go to the bar and get a beer, cooed my blackberry.
'Can I have a can of Lech please?'
'What?'
'Lech. It's a beer. Polish.'
'We've got Carling or Red Stripe mate.'
'But I want Lech.'
'Well I'm afraid we don't have it.'
'Listen you objectionable little cunt, get me the manager. I want to talk to the fucking manager.'
Soon I was being escorted out onto the street by a bouncer with Bluetooth in both ears. A forty quid mini boss took me here, where I dined for the second night in succession:
Well at least it wasn't here, where I ate on Tuesday:
On route I got waylaid by The George on Wardour Street. 'A pint of Lech please sir?' I inquired. The barman shook his head dolefully, tears seeming to well in his broken, alcoholic eyes. I settled for a French lager, the one that makes you violent, but not domestically so. Luke Taylor from Big Balls joined me. We ate a few pints and then relocated to an austere boozer off Charlotte Street. I overheard one of Luke's friends abusing someone he knew. 'You do know you look like Jordan's baby don't you?' A peal of vicious, braying laughter resounded. I looked up and saw the man in question. He really was a terrifying simulacrum of Harvey Andre; the same half-sighted, drooling, shapeless, angelic face stared ahead, only 20 years older and infinitely more forlorn. The poor cunt. I thought how intolerable it would be to live with an insult so cruelly accurate. And funny.
By the time I arrived at Koko I had managed to miss both 3OH!3 and Katy Perry. I was now on my own and drunk. The venue had completed its transformation into club N.M.E and was packed with young people wearing elf shoes. I started to feel anxious. Where's my crackers? Fuck. Fuck. I eventually found it in my shirt pocket. The glow of the screen illuminated my swollen beer face and immediately soothed me. SShhhh. It's O.K. I'm here. I pretended to read some emails. A band came on, led by a podgy singer wearing a sequinned waistcoat, sunglasses and a quiff. They played comfortably the worst music I've ever heard - aural gonorrhoea. I lasted 5 minutes before the purulent synthesised notes inflamed my ear drums and my temper. Images of extreme violence came swimming into my mind. Hey. Hey. Take it easy. Just go to the bar and get a beer, cooed my blackberry.
'Can I have a can of Lech please?'
'What?'
'Lech. It's a beer. Polish.'
'We've got Carling or Red Stripe mate.'
'But I want Lech.'
'Well I'm afraid we don't have it.'
'Listen you objectionable little cunt, get me the manager. I want to talk to the fucking manager.'
Soon I was being escorted out onto the street by a bouncer with Bluetooth in both ears. A forty quid mini boss took me here, where I dined for the second night in succession:
Well at least it wasn't here, where I ate on Tuesday:
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