The Sharklette

Aged twelve I watched Gone with the Wind for the first time and lapped it up. The heaving bosoms, the bryl cream and moustaches, the fiddle-de-dees and the severe corsetry.


But unlike the rest of the world, the most memorable phrase for me from the film was not Rhett's pithy:

Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

What lodged itself in my 12 year old memory was this. Melanie after tending to Scarlett in labour for god-knows how long (did they have epidurals in those days. I think not), announced:

The best days are when babies come.

Quite why this phrase resonated with me remained a mystery for many years. I was and am not a clucky type. Babies seemed like little wrinkly aliens that cry constantly and made a lot of mess.

Then three years ago my best girlfriend-soul-sister gave birth to a baby girl. When I crept in to see this newborn for the first time, something happened. This wee little thing stared at me and I stared at her and something passed between us. And in that moment, I got it.

Hello, I thought. You were in my friends' belly a minute ago and now you're here. That's really something.

A few years have passed since and my mate and her fella have done it again. Another little wrinkly person arrived today and I can't wait to meet her. The Sharklette.

You were right Melanie Wilkes. The best days really are when babies come.

New Moon

Vampires. Werewolves. Forbidden love. Robert Pattinson. It should work.

My name is Lavendar and I am a Twilight fan.

Last night I gathered with several hundred fellow cult members to watch the eagerly awaited second filmgasm of the franchise.

New Moon.

My hopes for this film were not high. They were stratospheric. But as gravity or sod's law dictates, such high hopes have only one place to go. Down.

As my hopes fell, my temper rose.

WTF was Chris Weitz thinking?! Did he not go to film school? What is the holy grail of Film-making 101 people?

Show. Don't Tell.

So what did he and the scriptwriters do?

Tell, tell, tell. Long, turgid dialogue used repeatedly to set the exposition which was unexcusable and lazy. This was matched with poor pacing, as if each script page was written on A3 resulting in interminable scenes which desperately needed editing.

Whilst the production budget was clearly higher on this film (Edward's skin was much sparklier), it feels as if it all went into the action sequences; the only parts of the film I think Weitz was genuinely invested in. Weitz failed to invest in the creation of a dramatic narrative tension and as a result the film lacked atmosphere, nuance and longing. The only longing evident was my own for the film to end.

Chris: Now Kristen, I want you to say your sixty lines of dialogue as slowly as possible so we can make the scene really long for no good reason.

Sat amongst rabid Twilighters who were devouring every flickering second onscreen, the film cinema last night was a lonely place. Locked in my own hellish disappointment, I compared New Moon to Twilight as such. If Twilight was Gone with the Wind on film, then New Moon felt like Days of our Lives on TV.

It's not that I thought Catherine Hardwicke's Twilight was a filmic masterpiece but it was a damn sight better than New Moon. It was sexy and edgy and had a great score and was well cut. With Hardwicke you also felt that she lived and breathed the film; the characters and their emotions. With Weitz, it felt that it was just another job with a few cool action set pieces for him to play with.

To add to my devastation, I found myself agreeing with the film critic from the Daily Mail. The Daily Mail for godssakes!

My downfall is complete. Come get me Twilighters. Kill me now.

The London Korean Film Festival 2009

A friend of mine works for a Korean animation company which amongst other projects is well known for Pucca, as in pucca up and give me one! Here is the little starlet:



The company have just sold a new animation called DreamKix which is about about footballing furries to French television. My mate has been kept busy with meetings in Paree and attending French film festivals. What a slog. Ooh la la!

Back in London, she is attending the London Korean Film Festival at the Barbican this weekend as DreamKix features in the program. Also featured is the opening gala of Park Chan-wook’s vampire flick, Thirst which apparently kicks some Twilight ass. I'm dying to see it (did you get that, dying to see it. Oh never mind)


If you are free you should get down there and see what those crazy Koreans are up to. After Old Boy, what could possibly be next?

Tanya Gold Chose My Birthday Present

I'm a Guardian reader which apparently, according to the English love for classification makes me a middle-class leftie snot. That said I also read the Daily Mail on the weekend for its trashiness and I buy the Times on a Sunday but read the mags only. If I'm bored I may delve into the Independent and if I'm desperate, I’ll browse the Telegraph.

My loyalty to the Guardian and Sunday Observer is not for its news reportage. I read it because I like the style of writing found within its pages and also for the topics the paper covers. I always keep an eye out for pieces written by Hadley Freeman or Tanya Gold as their writing almost always engages my interest because of the way they say things. As a fledging writer of short opinion pieces (a.k.a blogging), I admire the force of personality and voice behind their words. So much so that sometime in the past year I decided that if I were to write professionally, that these two would be my role models. And then didn’t think anymore of it until two days ago.


Tanya Gold. Role model.

It was my birthday. I was celebrating in an overheated bar in central London with friends. I'd had too much to drink and was trying to be a birthday host which was not going so well. At some hot, foggy point in the evening my mates, Renata and Cassandra sat down next to me. Cassandra had a book on her lap.

This is your birthday present, she said, But first I have to tell you a story.

Ok. I instantly felt more alert. I love a good story.

Do you know who Tanya Gold is?

Yes, I replied, I love her writing.

This was clearly not expected as my mates started squealing in that hyper way that only women and queens can do. I’m a joiner so I squealed:

Why? Why do you ask? She's one of my favourite Guardian writers!

She chose your birthday present! She chose it! Cassandra squealed back.

What?! How did you manage that?!

I didn't know why we were all so excited but we were. Tanya Gold’s ears must have turned purple.

It turns out that Cassandra had gone to Daunts in Belsize Park to buy my birthday present. Browsing the shelves she overheard a conversation between a woman (Tanya) and the bookshop assistant and got the impression that Tanya was someone who knew books. Cassandra is one of those naturally affable people who could chat to stone and get a reply so she sidled up and asked:

Excuse me but I'm trying to buy a birthday present for my friend and you seem to know a lot about books. Would you mind suggesting something?

Tanya to her credit went right along with it.

What kinds of things does your friend like?

Oh, erm. Travelling. New York. Books. Writing.

(note here that Cassandra might have added: She’s also stunningly intelligent, will work for peanuts and needs a writing break. Can you help?)

Has she ever been to Venice?

I don't know. I don't think so.

Well if she's never been, this will make her want to go. It’s the best book about Venice ever written.

And with that Tanya pulled Jan Morris', Venice from the shelf and started to read aloud:

If you take an aircraft over Venice and fly low above her mottled attics, you will see her canals thick with an endless flow of craft, like little black corpuscles.


Maybe it was the word corpuscles but Cassandra was sold. When she went to pay the shop assistant whispered to her:

That was Tanya Gold you were speaking to.

Oh. Was it? Who's Tanya Gold?

Cassandra, not being a Guardian reader it seems, applied the powers of Google and forthwith was regaling me with this tale several hours later.

Renata her accomplice leaned over and looked me seriously in the eye. Well eyes.

You must write to her. This was meant to be.

To say what? Thank you for choosing my birthday present?

Yes. You must. Something has happened.

At that point all that had happened was that I had turned thirty-six and was drunk. But I knew what she meant. Synchronicity is one of life’s random, strange and delightful gifts. It’s always good to acknowledge it.

So thank you Tanya for Venice and the journey ahead. And thank you C & R for brewing up some magic for me on my birthday.