“Only unhappy people are bad dancers…” June 29, 2010

I had a craving to re-watch “9 Songs” and I followed through with it. It’s a love/hate film with me obviously being a part of the former. For me it sums up the decaying relationship, the heartache, the pain and the tedium with all the good bits inbetween of how love manifests itself. Or lust. A heady combination of the two. And let’s be honest here, sex is part of love.

 

 

(Personally I think this trailer is a bit of a hash job, the audio is horribly clipped and heavily cut in places, but you get the idea.)

My other passion is music and, after spending an eternity on my dissertation which was about the use of music as a form of narrative in the moving image, I only wish this had come out earlier. For me it encapsulates the passion and rhythm of sex and music and merges the two. Visceral, raw and honest and painfully frank the fact that they’re having real sex in front of you on a screen is not the point. The point is that you’re parry to their intimacy and it’s not porn it’s a love story. If you get off whilst watching this film you’re wanking to someone’s misery. But hey, whatever floats your boat.

 

There is something that film cannot capture or recreate when it comes to simulating sex on screen. And it’s this (and I too shall be brutally frank). It’s the first groan a woman makes as a man enters her. This noise that erupts slowly from the back of her throat, the signal of things to come. It completely takes over the body and ripples through her limbs, her body parting the way and embracing her lover. Physically and emotionally we’re reduced to sounds, touch – it’s a sensory overload when it comes to making love/fucking/whatever you wish to call it. No amount of fakery can match that. A sound that is heightened by the silence that follows it. A sound that I can imagine makes a man’s cock twitch with delight and drench him with a euphoria so much so that his ears swallow themselves. It’s a sign of pleasure and in that single aural sensation we as the singer of such a note or the inducer can derive the craziest, wildest awareness of our position in a clinch.

 

Which is why “9 Songs” for me is a rare honest portrayal of a relationship and its impact emotionally and physically. Told through the eyes of the male it contrasts the ice landscape of the Antarctic of his profession with that of the scolding furious passion of his home-life. The undulating growth of this relationship over a year is punctuated with the live music they go and see and really hones in to the hedonistic lifestyle the couple indulge in. Told in a vignette style we see the fragmented memories of what’s left to remember of this year long relationship. Intense and unsettling at times we see the pair set out on a path of discovery and push boundaries sexually and the mundane small moments that once we’re in a relationship we can crave and cling to, but to the outsider are meaningless.

 

“Exploring the Antarctic is like exploring space. You enter a void, thousands of miles, with no people, no animals, no plants. You’re isolated in a vast, empty continent. Claustrophobia and agoraphobia in the same place, like two people in a bed”.

 

For me the repetition of small private jokes really are a measure of where the relationship is or is not going (“You look ugly” “I’m trying to look ugly”). They delved into this in “500 Days Of Summer” (the tap sequence in IKEA). And I think it’s an all too familiar wound that I recall from my own experiences – where you know in that isolated incident if a joke lovingly formulated between two lovers, who are the only two people to understand, falls flat or fails to lift you feel shunned and instantly out of place.

 

I think the reason why I appreciate and hold a special place for “9 Songs” is because it strikes too familiar with me in all of its painful glory. That’s not to say my last relationship panned out the same or we had the same problems, but it’s the solemn promise that we offer to another human being that more than often goes tits up. Which is why I always defend this film when it crops up in conversation. The sex is much apart of the narrative as the flitters of dialogue between the couple and the live music. The gradual decline of their relationship is mirrored in their sex life and the intensity of the music reflects their differences.

 

Personally I think the biggest lie you could tell is that of a relationship. Sombre as that sounds it takes a lot to offer yourself up to someone as you are and for someone to accept it as a given. I think this is why I end up writing a lot about relationships and the effects of them. I had a big ol’ conversation today about how insulting it can be for people to assume that all writers projects are direct formulations of their experiences. Don’t get me wrong I do put a lot of myself into my writing but they’re moments, sayings, trivial meanings, observations – they are not my life stories out for all to see and digest. And even if they were I would never highlight that fact unless I wanted to. The point is writers have an imagination and they have the creative ability to flex it. After writing “The White Room” I had people coming up to me saying I had nailed the complexities of a strained marriage and motherhood as well as post-natal depression. This pleased me so because:

 

a) I am not married and have never been.
b) I am not a mother so subsequently…
c) I have not experienced post-natal depression.

 

It goes to show the ultimate ability of a writer is to create lives that people can relate to. I have a perfectly wonderful supportive family, but there’s nothing I like better than writing a family that is the complete opposite. Because it’s a challenge and they exist. I take pride in the fact that I can still hark back to what a relationship is like even though it’s been a while since I’ve had one. I realise I’ve been quite open about a lot of stuff in this post but hey, it all happens and trust me I’m honest which is how I am. Which means I should maybe tie this back to why I like, no love, “9 Songs”… It’s because it forces me to look back to memories I have myself which have formed who I am today. Not 100% depressing I can assure you.

 

Maybe I should have watched Mamma Mia*.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(*I will never watch Mamma Mia.)

On Her Majesty’s Site Specific Service

I’ve been approached by St. Albans Arts via Abbey Theatre to write a site specific piece for an their upcoming Big Project in September. The idea is that the Old Town Hall will be taken over by local talents ranging from filmmakers, writers, artists, musicians and each room will be fully utilised for maximum impact.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been given the challenge of writing a 20-25min piece specifically for the court room – a space that is magnificent as it is imposing. Awe-inspiring to say the least I got given a tour yesterday to go suss it out and I cannot wait to get my hands dirty with this piece. It’s often used by the BBC because of its authenticity and the fact that it has not been disrupted at all. The acoustics leave much to be desired (tall ceilings and endless bouncing) but using trained actors will help a great deal.

 

Presently I’m up to date with all the Shakespeare adaptations I’m doing for Theatrix so can give my full attention to this piece as it’s going to require a lot of research. Going to sort out sitting in on some court cases tomorrow at the Crown Court in St. Albans. So far I know what the premise is and I’ve cast a few of the parts but have yet to put pen to paper. That’s what my plan is to do for the rest of this week.

 

 

Eager, excited and equally terrified. I’m liking it.

Being Brutally Honest With Myself June 16, 2010

I’ve always been a busy person, always taking on more than I can manage but it’s the way I am and the only way I know myself to be. Thinking back to as far as I can go I’ve always managed to juggle a lot more than thought capable from one person. As my boss said to me when I started a fair few years ago, “if you want something done, give it to a busy person“.

 

 

It’s times like these when I think back to my secondary school and detest the days I had PE, my violin lesson and cookery on the same day. Not just metaphorically would I be juggling but actually swinging stringed instruments and masses of boxes and bags (which normally contained eggs and milk). I’d be cramming them on to the school coach fighting for a seat and heavy with the burden of the day ahead. That’s not to mention the rehearsals I’d have at school, in other schools and groups in other towns – the social life I had as a child which I now crave as an adult – the dance classes – the acting exams – the writing of plays as a small child – the voracious reading habit I conjured as a child which I’ve now lost – the cinema trips which now put me to shame … the list goes on. I’m oddly melancholic and miss my childhood because for some reason I seemed to have more direction back then. I wanted to be an actress and I did everything I could to say I was. I barely stood still long enough for people to ask me to do something, I was already there and doing it.

 

Recently I’ve found myself doing a lot of running and not standing still. Almost running on the spot and I look back at the week and wonder what the fuck I’ve been doing. The time zones of the weekend slow right down and I have to wallow in my royal blue uniform and serve people with a smile which 90% of the time is genuine for both Saturday and Sunday. I get so motivated and intensely engrossed in my own work that I falter in other areas. As a consequence I do fall into the trap of being emotionally retarded at times. Having such a lack of social life and concentrating on my own work with no one to forcibly make me do nothing and relax can make for a dull Katie. But once again it’s the trap I’ve fallen into. Being in a creative field where the only person to put you up for something is yourself can prove tricky because I always feel like I’m never doing enough. And I know I am, to a degree, paving the way for better things. But with no real sense of time and accomplishment the nights get longer and the fingers tap faster.

 

 

I was discussing with a close friend the other day the notion that I’ve worked Sundays for the past seven years. For me the weekend denotes a strong sense of work because it’s the boring job I have to do to get me a bigger jar of pennies. People look forward to the weekend and I look forward to the week. It’s painful and tedious and all other expletives but it gives me the money which doesn’t last long. At uni if I wasn’t working one job on the Saturday/Sunday it would be one of the others that took its place (Ann Summers/Decadence/Ryman/Other job…). I’m a self confessed workaholic, I fully admit it. Whilst at university studying hard for my degree I held down five jobs to keep me afloat in money terms.

 

And once again I find myself in a position where I’m holding down five jobs most of which I love and cherish and still that one that gives me more pounds lingers around. Because financially it’s keeping me doing something, I wouldn’t say comfortable as I’ve not seen the black since before I went to university. Recently I made a big decision which has taken me over a year to reach. I’m going to be claiming my Saturdays back from the clutches of retail and giving myself a whole 24 more hours to work. Like I say, a workaholic. Although I’d love to stamp out Ryman completely I’d be foolish to give up the Sunday that gives me the more money. And I’m very much a person who has to keep looking back self-referentially to understand how far I’ve come. So come back round a year I’m hoping this will be one of my wise decisions and that I’ve been brutal enough with myself. It’s not a complete scrub out, but it’s a start. One that I’m equally sickened and excited by.

 

Random Sighting June 14, 2010

I was introduced at a wedding the other day by someone whose opinion I trust, who I admire and who has helped me in many ways with my writing (whether he thinks he has little impact or not). And he introduced me as a playwright. This is something that made me feel quite giddy because I’ve never heard him introduce me like that before. It seems that words can express how you feel, just sometimes they’re from someone else’s mouth.