Catching Up, And Some Life Lessons

Sooo I pretty much all but abandoned this blog, along with my notion to WRITE MOAR, in the last couple of months. However ever since I posted an old blog on Twitter, I've noticed a wee jump in page views, and as anyone who's ever sat in a orthodontist's waiting room knows, it's nice to have something new to read. (My orthodontist's collection of gossip magazines is still speculating the sex of Kim Kardashian's human/camel hybrid. I expect more).

Kunts.

 

In any case I've been busy, so I've had excuses. I've been dipping a toe in the water of post-production sound (read: DREAM JOB), while making dollah doing location sound trainee work. For anyone unaccustomed to industry ranking, it's like flipping burgers in McDonald's when what you really want is to be a Michelin starred sociopath, screaming at potato peelers and spitting on guests for even daring to want to eat what you're cooking.

Still, all experience is good experience for a floundering freelance masochist like myself. It also meant I got my own digs for a month while working away from home. By digs, I mean 'student halls'. A step up from the halls I lived in aged 17, but halls nonetheless. At least these ones were en suite with a double bed. My old one featured an Oompa Loompa sized mattress and I had to share a prison style bathroom with five other girls. When it came to time of the month, it was kill or be killed.

The days were long, so my time in digs was minimal at best. I also had time to reflect on my trainee life, given that there were only two people living on each floor and I didn't hear as much as another door slam for my first fortnight. I hadn't done such a long term job in a while, and was clearly a teeny bit out of practise. After a month, I was a trainee machine. I could lift several heavy things at once while only breaking a very mild sweat. In the hope of retaining some of what I learned for 'next time', I compiled a list of all some of the lessons I learned along the way. Mostly for my own benefit and reference, but hey, I'm all about sharing information.*

*If I never get another job again and do actually end up asking you if you want to upgrade to a large for an extra £1, please feel free to disregard any of what you're about to read. I won't take offence.

1. There is no such thing as too many jobs at once.
Seriously. It might seem like you're being asked to do a million things at once and you'll never be able to do them all. That's because you are, and you won't. Not at first. When you first start out, the trick is to always look like you're getting on with things. Always stand next to a flight case or floor bag if you feel like a wee doss, but make sure it's not closed over fully. That way, you can slam it shut as someone comes in the room, as if you've JUST finished taking care of some business before you take on the rest.

2. Sleep is for the weak.
It's amazing how little you need once you get into a routine. It almost becomes a game, albeit the least fun game ever. As long as you know the words 'yes', 'no' and 'I'll get right on it' you can usually fumble through your day on autopilot. I usually find this ably supported by an over-dependence on caffeine. Which brings me to my next point...

Pictured above: a lazy intern who hasn't mastered the art of linking several straws so not even sleep can interrupt coffee time.

 

3. If you don't like coffee, you better start.
There's not much else. On-set tea generally tastes like someone's brewed an armpit, and no amount of milk and sugar will disguise it. On-set coffee tastes like brown flavoured water, but it's a vast improvement. It might also help to drink it straight out of the kettle or coffee pot; that way you might hopefully scald your tongue and therefore suppress the taste. For the most part this rule can also be applied to catering and copious sachets of salt.

4. Prepare for all climates by dressing unattractively.
Unless your job involves hair, make up or clothes. For the most part, you don't have much time to preen. As long as you, y'know, wash. Things like hair can slide. In fact it stays in place easier if you can slick it back into a ponytail using a sweet layer of natural oil, thus removing the need for hairspray. As for the face, carting batteries, mics and multiple rolls of carpet will give you a healthy sheen. Delicious!

5. Fill your pockets.
Not in a theft kinda way. Just make sure you always have pens (ball point and mini Sharpie if possible. Mini Sharpies just scream "I don't have room in my busy pockets for full sized pens!"). AA batteries too, just because they're kind of technical and someone will at some point always need one. This way you can creep up like a shadow, batteries in hand, ready to swoop in and save the day. Until you inevitably get in someone's way moments later. If you have room, stuff a copy of your script in there too. Thus should be marked up with a shorthand of your own making: it looks like you've made loads of super important notes super quick, and no one will be able to detect that you've actually just reminded yourself to get Febreze so you can continue to smoke in your room with your head out of the window. If you can remember what it is you've actually written.

6. And at the end of it all, SPEND.
SPEND LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW. You've worked for it. You've put your life on hold. And you've been really good not spending anything and squirrelling money away buying 10 fags and two pints of milk while on the job. Who cares if the next job isn't lined up right away? You've always got to look your best in case such an occurrence comes along.

Prior Preparation Prevents Poor Performance

It appears that I've broken through the first hurdle of legitimate job hunting. The first stage, applying to whatever I carefully select regardless of suitability, usually results in outright 'naw's. They tell me it's nothing to do with me but they went elsewhere anyway. Which is not entirely reassuring, but they've mind-banged me into thinking that it kind of is.

The second stage is where you liberally throw all of the shit at all of the walls, and actually start to get some feedback. This stage is features the occasional interview, which for me is a welcome relief. Unfortunately the danger here is that you forget what you've applied to, therefore are completely unaware of what shit has stuck.

Last week, I found myself being invited along for a cheeky last minute interview for what I assumed was a bar job. I was brimming with confidence. This is, after all, a job I can do in my sleep. (Sometimes I have. I dreamed I was doing a day shift and slept in for my actual day shift). I went along safe in the knowledge that I'd be at least qualified for the punting of swally.

As it turned out- and I instantly learned- you should ALWAYS KNOW WHAT YOU APPLIED TO when you go for an interview. Here is a rundown of mistakes that can possibly be made (that is to say, I actually made them), how humourless grey suited managers will interpret them (judging by the look in their eyes) and how to save face. In hindsight. Always in hindsight.

1. "Tell us about your friends and family, social activities etc".
What I said: "Umm my best friend lives in Aberdeen and I'm on Jobseeker's so I don't do much in the way of social actitivies, thank God for prepaid Cineworld Unlimited cards eh?"
What I SHOULD have said: "I enjoy a wide range of activities, such as running children's arts and crafts groups, baking, knitting, developing business strategies for funsies based on what I watch on the Stock Market channel and taking elderly people out for walks and stone skimming as they talk about yesteryear as if anything post 1960s had never happened. I have friends of all colours, races and creeds and my life is a sparkling rainbow of diversity".
What I might as well have said, judging by the reaction: "I like to skin cats. Sometimes I don't even kill them first. I make the owners watch. After a while they just... stop screaming".

                                                                                      (Source: videoflavour)

Relax, kitty. I'm more afraid of you than you are of me. For serious.

2. "Tell us about your most prolific role and what your duties were"
What I said: "Ehh barmaid, but it was in a rock bar so I got to pick all the tunes which was cool, nothing worse than being stuck somewhere with rubbish music ahahahahaha! Umm apart from that I kind of done, y'know, like, everything. Table serving and stuff".
What I SHOULD have said: "As a supervisor my duties could include anything from daily set up, training staff, serving customers, counting all the pennies, totally not pretending to mishear orders so I could have a cheeky wee double Jack sitting in the wee dookit where we wash the glasses".
What I might as well have said, judging by the reaction: "I totally pretended to mishear orders so I could have a cheeky wee double Jack sitting in the wee dookit where we wash the glasses".

3. "Can you give us an example of when another colleague has ever looked to you for support?"
What I said: "yeah man when I lived in town I picked up all the extra shifts when folk phoned in sick 'cause I lived round the corner. Easy money and I could get there in like, 6 minutes if I smoked really fast and didn't stop for oncoming traffic".
What I SHOULD have said: "I acted as a liaison between staff and management, a smiling face of the proletariat but one with the unbridled trust of the greater hierarchy. I was a woman of the people, addressing complaints and not minding when someone couldn't lift more than one box at a time from the stock room".
What I might as well have said, judging by the reaction: "People always came to me when they wanted good skag. I made more money from that in a day than I did in a week of underpouring shots".

4. "What's your availability regarding notice period and hours?"
What I said: "I live in Cumbernauld and my buses finish pretty early so I might not be able to hang around after like, 12. maybe 11 just to be safe".
What I SHOULD have said: "I'm available immediately and I can do any hours. I'll take out the last bin and mop up the last puddle of sick. I'll get taxis or rent a room in the Eurohostel if need be even if it means I'm not actually making any money".
What I might as well have said, judging by the reaction: "NEVER! (MANIACAL LAUGH)!!!"

5. "Do you have any questions about the job? How much do you know about it?"
What I said: "To be honest I've been applying for so many jobs lately that I'd actually forgotten what the job was... umm, I mean, until I got the phone call the other day".
What I SHOULD have said: "I am [insert job advert here] who is also [select from keen, enthusiastic, self motivated, team player, customer focused, driven by the best representation of the brand] with a can do attitude".
What I might as well have said, judging by the reaction: "I put the buffet out whenever there was a birthday party on. I didn't care how it went as long as there were spring rolls left".

                                                   (Source: menuism)

I REGRET NOTHING. NOTHIIIIIIINNNNGGG!!!!

They said they'd get back to me at the end of next week. Fingers crossed!

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Sit Ups

Like 975,000 others of my kind, my days are spent glued to a laptop effectively infertilising myself with the amount of time I spend with this machine on my lap. Technically I'm a freelance sound assistant, but in the eyes of the government and my mum, this lack of sustainable income translates as the less creative sounding 'unemployed'. Still, if the time I spend on the internet pretending to no one that I'm applying to all the jobs has taught me anything, it's that for every dark cloud of rejection there is a silver lining in the form of inspirational memes. I've mentioned them before but they seem to have exploded in number. Much like bunnehs. On a side note, who doesn't like bunnehs?

                                                  (source: omgsocute )

They say if you look at this photo adoringly for long enough you cry tears made of rainbow diamonds and all conversations are conducted in song, like in the Disneyverse or that episode of Buffy.

 

Awwhh. Well I feel better. In any case I still have some of my favourite ever inspirational memes stashed away in a photo folder, just in case I become hardened to the sight of tiny fluffy smooshy BUNNEHS.

 

I truly hope that day never comes.

 

                                                       (source: tumblr )

Sometimes I do actually in a non sarcastic sense think on how I'm actually pretty lucky in having a place to stay. Because if I were to be maintaining the foolish impression that I could keep up with rent that 'someone' would be a rancid tramp who'd be trying to share his last splashback riddled bottle of White Lightning with me and I accept because I ran out of mouthwash. Sometimes it's the umm, little things.

                                                       (source: tumblr )

If that person is in fact wearing scaffy looking white boxers standing next to an unkempt and possibly stained looking not-quite-double bed, they're probably called Travis and you're in a motel. Travis is paying you $100 for the night and he's even splashing for the room. He's calling you an angel but he's also calling himself Daddy Bear. He probably has Dorito dust under his fingernails.

                                    (source: tumblr )

I decided I didn't want to feel like a human anymore. I wanted to feel like a mermaid. I filled my pockets with boulders and walked into the ocean fully clothed, assuming that it'd be like the reverse of The Little Mermaid and would totally work as long as I sang about how I wanted to be where the fishies are. In hindsight it's lucky that I'm a strong swimmer because this was a horribly misjudged idea based on terrible advice.

                                                        (source: tumblr )

It's like that time I was late for the train because I'd left my lighter in the house and I was damned if I was paying for another one AGAIN. I got to the station as the train pulled up but I was still smoking so I let it get jogged on. I got the next train instead which didn't stop anywhere before town. I felt like I had been given the Gift Of Time, which I then squandered deciding which shade of red hair dye to spend my Boots Advantage points on before opting for the same one I always do.

 

                                                       (source: tumblr )

With all my time off I've been working on Plan X. I was inspired by the £3 copy of X Men: First Class I bought when I went to Tesco's to buy cigarettes and milkshake. I plan on putting a fork in the microwave so it explodes and sends nuclear waves into the kitchen and myself, giving me super cool radiation powers and qualifying me for a place in Magneto's gang. I've been practising stabbing Nazis in the hand and everything.

I Like My Coffee Black (With A Wee Straw)

If I were to calculate the amount of money I've spent in Starbucks over the years, I'd weep. I'd weep for the corporate stooge I'd become, hating myself for the meth-like grip the evil empire had over me. I used to go in every day when I was at college. In fact, we'd quite often be late just to ensure we got our daily fix. I'm not entirely sure anyone cared. You can't be a dark, brooding art student without coffee. And a copy of The Catcher in the Rye that you don't actually read.

I wasn't aware that the South Park goth kids were supposed to be some sort of ironic piss take. In fact I applauded them for creating characters I could actually relate to. Was my face red!

 

Anyway. Starbucks and I have enjoyed a healthy fruitful relationship. We both have a laissez faire approach to paying the Government. They've now decided that a multinational corporation needs to be seen as 'friendly', and 'approachable', and have some kind of human connection. After all, shops are closing every day. People need somewhere familiar. Somewhere they can forget about their financial woes while paying as much for a single coffee as they would for a jar. In order to do so, they've come up with the idea of taking names. Now, my name is apparently quite easy to get wrong. All of it. I never order taxis under my own name, there's just no point. So when I'm shouting it over a counter, surrounded by noisy buzzin' bean junkies, the results are always going to be... umm... mixed at best...

 

This was the first attempt. Before now, I just thought they were selective with who they asked. The last time I'd went into Starbucks, the girl in front of me had been asked her name. She was very classically pretty, like she'd waltzed out of American Apparel. She looked like she would smell nice, and her hair was swooshy. By comparison, I didn't get asked for my name. I wasn't wearing eyeliner and I'd had a long day at uni. The girl behind me didn't get asked for her name either. She looked like Hatchet Face from Cry Baby.

 This is the most common misspelling/mispronunciation of my name. For years all I got was, "is your name Adrian 'cause yer maw's pure intae Rocky?". In protest I didn't watch Rocky until I was about 18; old enough to be over the embarrassment and to also know that no, I was not named after Rocky's girlfriend. I mean I'm sure my folks liked the film, but naming your child after a supporting character is a pretty bold statement. An opinion my future son, Wayne Gale Magneto Peter Venkman Calgie, will undoubtedly share.

 

 I'm embarrassed to admit that the only time my name has ever been spelled correctly was on a non-black coffee related product. I'd smelled some Jack Daniel's in someone else's glass the night before, and it had left me feeling a bit worse for wear. I couldn't face my usual black tar, and I wanted something sweet that was also non-food based. Have you ever ordered a Frappucino? It's impossible to do so without mentally giving yourself the 'wanker' gesture. And also shouting 'wanker!' at yourself, in your own head. Damned if it was tasty though, but next time I might give a fake name. Just so, y'know, if said cup is found it can't be traced back to me. I've got a reputation to maintain.

 

And we're back. I've never had a correct spelling of my name since that first time. Usually I just stop being a wanker and say 'Ada'. It's easier. It's three letters. Sometimes I get 'Ava', but you know what, I wouldn't mind if that was my name, so that's OK too. Most times I remember I actually have none of the money I did at college and bypass it. However, yesterday I needed some perking up after facing town on payday Friday. That's a tough shift, I'd earned it. The one thing I do like about my name is that no one else has it. OR SO I THOUGHT. The guy in front of me had been sent on the office coffee run. He was getting BAGS full of coffee based goodness. He was rhyming off the names for everyone's drink. I was pretty agitated as he was taking FOREVER, and my caffeine supplies were running low. My ears perked up when I suddenly heard him ask for a "mocha, that's for Ada, A-D-A". I was too embarrassed to be seen having the same name as someone who'd drink a mocha. I didn't want to be associated with this impostor and her lack of commitment to one thing. Is it hot chocolate? Is it coffee? At least a Frappucino is self-consciously flamboyant, like a peacock. It doesn't try and masquerade itself as a legitimate coffee option. Boo you, mocha, and boo you Fake Ada for tarnishing the reputation I only just got away with after the Frappucino incident.

Rant Like You Mean It

I have become something of a hermit lately. Not quite a full on, beardy, keeping jars full of urine under my own bed kind of hermit, but definitely not as active or keen to venture outside as I usually am. The worst thing about not having a job is the lack of need to go anywhere, and it starts to filter horribly into every other aspect of life.

I haven't been out of work since I was 16. My mum had me applying for jobs before I even had a National Insurance card. All through college and uni, I had part time bar jobs and always had my own money. I gave up bar work in my final year at uni, and managed to score a sweet voluntary film festival gig. I got my first paid film job a week after I graduated and since then it's... it's been quiet. I've had the odd job here and there. I've done some unpaid 'hings. But the nagging feeling creeping up on me is that perhaps the last three years have been a total waste.

I haven't worked in a shop since my first job, so apparently am not qualified to fold clothes or stack books. I haven't worked in a bar for over a year, which for employers reads "I have forgotten everything about pouring a pint or being around other humans therefore am not a valid candidate for a job I could do in my sleep". Actual film jobs are.... well, they're pretty much non existent. I keep stumbling across internships which I'm 'too old' for, and in any case they pay less than minimum wage. Which isn't great.

So what are people supposed to do? I can't get super top jobs because I don't have experience, but I can't get experience because I can't get a job. I get angry, and frustrated, and throw 'hings (mostly tantrums, because of course I still 'temporarily' live with the parents and they wouldn't be too happy with 'hing shaped dents in the wall). I get annoyed thinking of all the decisions I should've made instead of the ones that I did, and wonder at what point I actually went wrong.

Part of me thinks I'm being stupid. I'm healthy enough, I have a home and friends and a boyface with apparently all the patience ever. I was lucky enough to get into uni not once, but twice (despite attending both for possibly all of the wrong reasons, and not getting a huge amount out of it). I know that somewhere down the line this whole experience will be a tiny blip on the overall horizon, or so everyone seems quick to tell me anyway.

It's not what you want to hear in the middle of a drought of good creative jobs, but it's... something, I suppose. In any case it beats motivational Tumblr memes. Reason number 28363 why I need to get some kind of life-shape in order: I'm actually starting to take them seriously rather than mock them endlessly like I used to. Also I'm actually starting to 'get' the trick behind Rubix cubes that doesn't involve picking the stickers off and re-applying them to make all the sides the same colour.

IF ONLY I'D SEEN THIS SOONER I WOULDN'T HAVE BROKEN MY RUBIX CUBE.

I've Had Worse Sundays, But Needs More Gosling

It must be a sweet life being Ryan Gosling. Really. He makes super cool films, in which he even portrays head-stomping loners or shiftless alcoholics as being sympathetic and strangely likeable. He is also awesome in these films. Ryan Gosling literally does not make shit films. (I say this as I've never seen The Notebook. Apparently by admitting to this, I am waiving my right to a vagina).
From what I can tell this film is about Ryan Gosling's relationship with a giant face eater who has no regard for umbrellas.
After a distinctly indistinct reaction to Lords Of Salem, I was keen for something a bit more chewy. Maybe a bit of gritty realism, some character turmoils, Ryan Gosling in some kind of vehicle, emotional growth, Ryan Gosling seething, a densely plotted story, Ryan Gosling sans shirt...

At first glance The Place Beyond The Pines promised all of these. It was from Derek Cianfrance, helmer of ambivalence-fest Blue Valentine. I wanted to love Blue Valentine, and after a second viewing I did... not... hate it... but I couldn't quite feel the love that everyone else seemed to have for it. Still, I felt somewhat for our protagonists. They'd gotten a bit of a shitty deal. There was even an abortion scene for good measure. Because it's not a serious relationship drama without an abortion scene.

I didn't actually know anything about The Place apart from the blurb I'd read in the GFF programme. It really didn't give anything away and I decided not to read anything further about it. I'm glad I did; the film took several directions I wasn't prepared for, including an end-of-first-act finale that fully shocked me. R-Gos plays Handsome Luke, a stunt bike drivin' carnie covered in rubbish chicken-scratch tattoos. Obviously this makes him entirely more appealing for me (I worry sometimes). He catches up with last year's carnival flame Rowina (Eva Mendes, given a scraggy hair job and puffy eyes so you know she's doing serious acting). She now has *drum roll* yup, a baby.

Me and Ryan Gosling are meant to be because we have the same terrified expression when faced with a tiny human. Also nothing says "Mr Right" like a tiny knife face tattoo.
Handsome Luke decides the best way to provide for his child is to bluster in as though he's never been away, despite Rowina having a new man. One who has a home, car, money and is in every way a better choice of father figure. Still, it's to R-Gos's credit that you can't help but feel for Luke; his ham-fisted attempts at makeshift parenting are deeply flawed but there are some very sweet moments. All he wants to do is provide for the baby he feels he's neglected (despite not knowing he was a father in the first place).

It ticks all the boxes of indie relationship drama so far, huh? The film then takes a turn into Bradley Cooper's story. After Silver Linings Playbook I was fully prepared to get as involved in this as I did with Handsome Luke. After all, Luke was a 'bad egg' yet still adorably likeable. Cooper's Avery Cross is a husband, father, cop and comes from a good family. He's clearly the one we're supposed to be rooting for, right? Wrong. His story drags, his character comes across as utterly underhanded and unlikeable. Poor Rose Byrne is shoehorned into a tiny role which gives her no room to breathe. She's referred to as being a ball-buster by Avery's cop pals, because she shows concern over his premature return to work. That's it.

There's also the dreaded tacked on end section, thrusting the film 15 years into the future. It does this without any sort of character development; except that Avery's son AJ is a massive jock douchebag, and Luke's son Jason is a loner stoner at odds with his disjointed background. There were several points before this where I felt the film should've ended, but didn't. It was a nice touch, but slightly unnecessary. The leap forward would, I feel, have worked better if the film was in fact not a film, but a serial drama. There's alot of good ideas here, but it almost feels like too many.

As a character study, it has plenty of potential but there's so much going on that there's no wiggle room or space for anyone to develop fully. Characters such as Avery Cross seemed so single minded with their own agenda, it was hard to care for them. Even Handsome Luke's characterisation wasn't as rounded as it could've been, and the supporting cast are underdeveloped too. Female characters don't come across well; the contrast between Eva Mendes and Rose Byrne could've been far more interesting had they been given more than just sideshow roles.

This is by no means a bad film. It's a very well made film. It looks good, the buzzing neon of the carnival, the dusty streets of backwater upstate New York, the glorious stretch of green horizon of the title. There's no shortage of ideas on show, I just wish they'd been a little more selective. Blue Valentine's study of a relationship breakdown felt a bit claustrophobic at times but the closeness at least allowed us an insight into the characters' motivations (or lack thereof). At 140 mins it's already pretty lengthy and still there's alot that could've benefitted from some extra padding. Maybe I'll give it the benefit of the doubt and rewatch. Maybe I'll imagine how much more expansive and engaging it could've been as say, a three part drama. Maybe I'll remember that I'm not just a female in anatomical terms and actually get round to watching The Notebook. Stranger things have happened...

My First Frightfest

After some serious panic-writing at uni, when I'd leave blogging or writing 'til the absolute last minute, I swore I'd never again find myself writing about all the things at once. It's not as if I even took notes. I'd literally be relying on my sketchy memory alone, which was evident more so in some things than others.

Thanks to Google Image and sweet improv skills, no one will ever know I totally fell asleep before the end of The Searchers. Perfect. Crime.
In between a couple of trips to Glasgow Film Festival and a midweek cinema trip with Mama Calgie (thank you Orange and Cineworld Unlimited cards for making it easier than ever for mother/daughter bonding times), I also made a wee trip to some museums, celebrated boyface's birthday and terrorised the roads. Sooo it's been relatively busy round these parts and yes, I fell behind in my attempts to blog. Boo me. Still, I'm nothing if not really, really unemployed so thankfully my Mondays are pretty empty, giving me time to catch up in between Four Weddings (shut up) and Come Dine With Me (I bet more people watch this than admit to it).

Friday saw my first ever trip to FrightFest, a weekend long embarrassment of gory riches. I've always wanted to go for the full weekend, but our trip was for one film and one film only... Rob Zombie's Lords Of Salem. I saw a trailer for it at the Twins Of Evil tour in November, and was super disappointed that I'd have to wait until April for official release. Thanks to my good pal beewaits I managed to sneak in early and get tickets for the film's UK premiere and have been counting down the days since January. Rob Zombie's last two offerings (Halloween and Halloween 2) have been nothing short of a bit rubbish. That said, House Of 1000 Corpses and The Devil's Rejects were hardly masterpieces, but they were shlocky and inventive enough to hold my attention.

The real gem, however, came before the main feature. Squeezed up in the nosebleed seats, we were introduced to the first episode of Norwegian comedy/thriller/whatever, Hellfjord. I was a bit squeamish when the words 'dead horse' were mentioned, but no way was I going to wuss out in a room full of horror fans. I have since tried to decsribe the sublime joy of Hellfjord using the words 'dead horse', but no one's buying. Trust me, it's so much better than that suggests. And I'm a vegetarian. You can find the trailer here. You won't regret it. Especially as it's Norwegian without subtitles therefore gives nothing away, apart from amusing Norwegian pronunciation HELLFJOOORD.

I was almost disappointed when it ended and up rolled Lords Of Salem. I'd kind of forgotten that's what we were there to see. Still, we'd been waiting for it long enough, and I had a wee gingerbread man, so I was pretty easily placated. In actual fact it wasn't as terrible as I thought. Even a terrible film can be saved if it's enjoyably terrible, but Lords captured my attention for the most part. (In no small part thanks to the fact that RZ thinks his wife is super hot and should wear as little clothes as possible at all times. I don't disagree).

Thank you, RZ, for slow tracking shots and liberally applied face paint.   The plot is simple enough: radio DJ and recovering addict Heidi receives a weird vinyl addressed from the cryptically titled 'Lords'. The music has a creepy effect on her, as well as several other women around Salem. Her super overfriendly landlady may or may not be involved (given that the landlady's sister is played by Dee Wallace it's easy enough to make an educated guess). Some super in depth research by local writer Francis Matthias (Bruce Davison) uncovers some 'surprising' truths about Heidi's bloodline and a link to Margaret Morgan, local coven leader and victim of the Salem Witch Trials.

The film trundled along until the last twenty minutes, after which any semblance of plot was discarded in favour of Sheri Moon Zombie riding a goat. Because of course. There was an onslaught of fake blood and gory imagery, a quick summation at the end and that... was really that. I kind of felt robbed of a payoff. We even stayed 'til the lights went up, in the hope of a wee somethin' somethin' at the end, but no. I'll no doubt make a return trip to see this when it opens on general release in April, but until then I'm actually kinda undecided how I felt about it. I did kind of love everything SMZ wore, but that's just my inner mini-mosher talking, she likes stripy 'hings and skull make up. I WILL NEVER GROW UP.

Saying that Lords Of Salem is better than the Halloween films is kind of a backhanded compliment, like saying having a cold is better than straight up dying. It's not game changing but if you like your gore in your face and a lax approach to storytelling, it's not the worst. I wish I'd been able to catch at least one more flick at FrightFest for comparison, mostly because I kinda really want to see another delicious episode of Hellfjord. I'd been hoping to catch The ABC's Of Death and Byzantium, but alas was too slow off the mark. Ah well. There's always next year. Until then, at the very least I've learned not to trust kindly faced women bearing cake. And that if I ever go under a pseudonym, it's a good idea to ensure my real name can't be found by typing said pseudonym into Google. Simple things, but valuable nonetheless.

Incidentally, just for once I'd love to see a film which deals with heroin without using a Lou Reed track. Seriously. Rather than actually shoot a heroin scene (no pun intended, for once), I'm surprised most films don't just cut to black and play a few bars of Venus In Furs.