Instead of a Moldy Rutabaga: A Reprise

Okay, yes, the ultimate in lazy blogging is re-posting an old blog. But since me, with the new found expertise reading my blog stats, has concluded only three people ever actually read this one, I don't feel so bad out the re-post 'cause it is one of my favourite rants and I'm in a ranty sort of mood but too pooped to work up the fresh head of steam required for a truly fabulous original shellacking. So here's hoping one or two more of you enjoy this, the inaugural Friday Rant.

Really I crack myself up sometimes. I mean seriously, who am I to have such strong opinions about writing and story. Me with my one and only option cheque for 1$ stuck up on my book case with a bit of sticky tape. After a morning spent giving notes for favours it seems particularly hilarious that I’m still, at 7 pm at night, fuming over the issue of voice over in film scripts.

Just in case you’ve never heard me say it out loud before, here it is. "Voice over is the refuge of the lazy writer." Or the addition of a spectacularly insecure director or producer who doesn’t trust the very expensive team of artists and craftspeople they’ve hired to express the story in the glorious visual aural literary medium that is film.

I read this same sentiment once in one of my hundred books on screenwriting and I do so wish I could remember which A-list screenwriter to attribute the quote to, but, I don’t. Which is sad because sometimes I feel like I’m standing alone, screaming it into the teeth of a hurricane force wind with fellow writers and film business folks lined up like pilgrims in front of a pilloried (your word for the day) harlot chucking rotten root vegetables at me chanting the names of successful and highly touted films that use the medium. And I don’t care if that is a dreadful run-on sentence that needs an editor. Get your own blog.

You really think you are Robert Redford and your script the next A River Runs Through It? Okay, maybe you are but if you’re going to get the voice over by me man you better be chucking the Oscar or Golden Globe at me instead of a moldy rutabaga.

You see the great glory of film is when the music, words, acting, visuals, camera movement, casting, costuming all become a greater synthesis – you know the whole becomes greater than the sum of their parts. It is possible. Just layering good acting and nice visuals with a poetic voice over is self-indulgent crap. Sorry too harsh. It is what I call “young man” writing which is actually separate and distinct from “young woman” writing which has its own pitfalls.

Young man writing is self-indulgent and masturbatory while young woman writing tends to innumerable cups of tea and tedious descriptions of the actions of other people not on the screen to trustworthy confidantes. Certainly a place for both voices in the cannon of our craft, but really people. Look at not only what you are writing but how you are writing. Go ahead and chuck the moldy rutabagas if you must but be brave enough to have the tosser taunt me in his own voice.

Just a random type What?

So, someone tell me what's the deal with the facial hair? Movember is over boys. I'm pretty sure. I'm just askin'. I met yet another lovely young lad on the wrong side of thirty who was really cute, but what's with all the scruff? Is is a fashion trend thing? A phase that all men must try their beards on? cause you know, I'm all for that self-expression nonsense but I do get tired of the heavy scruff. It hides your lovely faces.

It makes me work too hard to see your hotness. Know what? I need all the help I can get right now in terms of seeing what is right in front of me. Just way too much going on in the big giant noggin. Please don't make it harder with all the excess fur trimming.

Now, fair enough, you could come right back at me with why am I hiding MY hotness under an extra set of radial tires round the central body mass. But I am working on it, really I am.

In interests of both of us contributing to the beauty of the universe, how bout clearing off some cheek space so that when I give you the double diva cheek kiss my lips actually touch some flesh and I promise to keep going to the gym in an effort to improve what assaults your eyeline from my direction. Whaddya say?

I'm not sayin' I don't appreciate the rasp of 2 days unshaven because we've been having too much fun in bed, cause I do. But more than that really hurts and more than that is just a bit...nope.

I’d rather say in my cocoon thanks

Hey. Yah. It is a bit cramped. Certainly dusty. So what if I know the landscape of every freaking inch down to the last micron. It is mine God damn it and no one has dominion in here but me. Not that I have the slightest clue how to be good ruler of the universe. But I am safe and I am warm. Mostly. And when the cold winter wind blows I put on a Canadian Tenors CD and let myself pretend that out there, somewhere my True Love awaits.  Hmmm, there is a song there I think. Never mind. Not creating now. Ranting now.

I mean seriously suddenly I am thinking about romantic love all day every frackin’ day and I am getting really cranky about it. The thing I avoid most is now the frackin’ desktop on my computer. Seriously I haven’t even had a “real” boyfriend since I was in my late twenties. Cause I’m pretty sure you can’t count the married men or the dudes stepping out on their live-in girlfriends, or the gay couple and if any of you guys are reading this. Shame on all of us. But I’m thinking I paid the penance for us now twice over. Enough.

You may wonder whether I gave up on Love or whether it gave up on me. Tough call. Depends on where you sit I think. From where I sit, it gave up on me. Since, at the height of my physical attractiveness and personal joy I was sucked under the  riptide of my first and only “Kill or Die for” love. Yes. I would have killed or died for him.  I wonder if his wife would have? No matter, it was all so tragic and accidental.  I have superior worship from afar skills. Really top notch. Still do as a matter of fact. But when the object of your adoration turns around one day and pulls you into his arms. There is no defence for that. No defence. Only oceans of tears and eight years of therapy.

Fast forward. Today. Me. Tricked into writing a romantic comedy. Okay, not actually tricked. But it sounds good and is truer than you can know. Hey? It’s going to be brilliant and successful beyond all your wildest dreams. But for the four of five of you that actually read this blog? Please be prepared to squeeze me tight on opening night because it will have come out of the darkest places of my despair, and there is still a chance that I will dissolve into a dew before all is said and done. Love, bah humbug.

So fine. I can’t fit back into my cocoon anymore because my new wings are all sticky and awkward and won’t fold up small enough. But I am going to go wash the tears off my face and get a big glass of ice with just a little water. I’ll play the guitar for awhile and go to bed early. Teresa and Elliot and their quest for True Love will be waiting tomorrow. Right now? I’m taking the rest of the night off.