meanderings of self-help

Ostensibly, things are going well. But I've had a really unpleasant foreboding feeling for about 2 weeks now. It manifests as an irritability, a grumpiness and over-sensitiveness to things which may or may not be there. Sometimes it's a melancholy more than an anger. I think I hold it responsible for my utter distractibility when I'm supposed to be writing. Or the fact that I don't like what I'm writing, and end up not writing anything at all.

I think I'm increasingly aware of a jadedness that creeps up a few years after the end of film school. There's been a few knock-downs, there's been a few assholes, and you get to this point where everything you do is terrifying. You're terrified of what they might think, you're terrified that you'll fail, you're terrified that even if you do get somewhere, someone will look at what you've made and say "why the hell did they get funding for that stinking heap of crap?".

I attended a screening for a film production club at uni, and I was confronted by an enthusiasm and unconditional love of film that I'd almost forgotten. It was almost an epiphany, seeing all these open, excited faces who didn't seem to care if they made stuff worthy of Ed Wood or Martin Scorsese, so long as they were making film. I mean, it's not as if I know more about this stuff than they do (which I don't), but if there was one thing I was almost jealous of, that I really thought I should learn from them... it was their plain-and-simple, unadulterated, unfettered passion for the whole damn thing. All this crap about doing well, or making something critically acclaimed, whatever self-conscious insecurity I'd wrapped around myself, was just put into stark perspective. I don't think I've ever really lost that idea of passion, or why I'm here in the first place, but sometimes the crap just clouds everything up, and essentially, that crap doesn't matter.

I guess it just comes down to personal conviction. I think I've been letting the opinions of other people influence me too much, and my wanting to please them is just.. well, sad. I think maybe that's always been my problem, I desperately want people to like me, even strangers, and I'm prepared to make myself a fool for their good graces, which ultimately, is unattractive and conducive to them liking me less.

I remember my sister telling me all this dating advice she'd had from friends - 'treat them mean, keep 'em keen, don't call until the 3rd day after' - type shit, and me thinking that it was a stupid game, why wouldn't you just lay your cards on the table and say "here I am. If you don't like it, oh well, nice knowing you"? The difference as I see it: the first technique is about pretending not to care, when in fact you might care a lot, so it's a lot about deception and inscrutability; the second technique is just about being honest. I mean, what is so wrong about someone saying "actually, I know we've only been on one date, but I really like you. I just wanted to say that, and if you don't feel the same, I'm sorry, but I'll learn to live with it"? I think I would find it brave and charming, not to mention fresh and disarming (woops, I didn't mean to rhyme, but there it is). Sure, being rejected might take chunks out of your self-esteem, but I think being direct first-off would save a lot of hard feelings in the future around unreturned calls, 'hints' and the ironic term 'letting them off lightly'.

I think being honest is the hardest, and yet most admirable and healthiest thing to be. I know it sounds easy for me to say when I'm in a stable relationship, but even a stable relationship has its instabilities, and (without wanting to sound smug) being honest hasn't steered us wrong once. Touch wood. I guess I just don't see how avoiding the issue, or ignoring an issue, or calling it an imagined issue can help an issue at all. I mean, even if it is imagined, it's still there, so it doesn't make it less real.

Anyway, I think I digress. Or not. Because I think the goodness of honesty applies to all relationships, romantic or otherwise. I guess I'm a simple soul, I like honesty in other people, and I want to keep it around me. I think I have to keep saying to myself that I can't help what other people think and how they choose to interact with me. With this realisation, I can stop letting it effect me so much. I can find honest people and engage with them. And there's really no point trying to encourage honesty when it's not forthcoming, so I can simply disengage and should stop worrying about it. When and if it comes, goody. Until then, I guess I'll learn to live with it.

Breakfast:
rice with a dried scallop omelette thing my mum made for me to take home yesterday
Verdict:
That's more like it! If I had a lettuce or bean sprouts, I'd have cooked some to have with it...

cognitive shortcuts, and then some

"Stereotypes are in fact cognitive shortcuts... the reality is that the social world is pretty bloody complex, and we can't process everything that's going on at one time."

This quote came from political psychologist Marc Wilson in an article I was interviewed for.

It makes a lot of sense to me. Prejudice and assumptions about certain groups of people are... well, laziness. A natural laziness, yes, but laziness nonetheless, with all of its pejorative connotations well-deserved. This is something we are all guilty of, including myself.

However, I never really realised how deep and disturbed this systematic laziness could go until I started receiving negative feedback regarding my most recent film, Banana in a Nutshell. I'm lucky that I can still count the totality of these responses on one hand, but three, count them - three of them are from Chinese men who accuse me of being part of a western conspiracy to stomp on Chinese men by making 'white' men look good.

First of all, just because I love Stephen, and Stephen happens to be 'white', doesn't mean I hate all other men of other colours. The only Chinese guy in the film is my Dad, and who doesn't have problems with their fathers? I've said it before, and I'll say it one more time - I love my Dad, and in hindsight, I think what he requested of me and Stephen was very wise. I don't know how much more clear I can make this. And I don't understand how people can take offense for the entire subset of Chinese men from this damn film, unless they already have a big fucking chip on their shoulder about it. Go figure.

Secondly, let me explain why I've recently felt the need to put quotes around the term 'white' and 'Asian'. There has been plenty of discourse in the circles I hang around in about the problemmatic term of 'Asian', and how it homogenises a diverse range of countries and cultures into one big lump. These usually 'Asian' commentators will then turn around and use the term 'white' with absolutely no qualms, without realising that 'white' is a problemmatic term for exactly the same reasons.

So, this from the most recent email, naming me as part of the western 'assault' on Chinese men -

"Asian men are the most marginalized maligned group in the anglosphere... The only news that is printed about China, about Chinese and indeed asians in general is negative. Media and film portrayals are overwhelmingly negative. We are the victims of a vicious propaganda campaign waged by white people."

I'm not about to dismiss this completely out of hand. He may have a point, albeit a slightly hysterical one. The thing is, you find examples for whatever you're looking for. I can name some examples to the contrary - sexy, charismatic 'Asian' hero types in the western limelight - the winner of 'Survivor', Yul Kwon, John Cho in his comedy and theatre work, Masi Oka in 'Heroes' and Bobby Lee of MadTV. Yes, I think Bobby Lee is sexy. I don't know what it is... but let's move on, shall we?

I mean, I have a personal bee in my bonnet about 'Asian' women being portrayed as whores in western media, being these little dolls who sit around and do nothing but provide sexual favours on demand for big, strong, non-'Asian' sugar daddies. I saw The Quiet American the other day, on someone else's recommendation, and I was completely gobsmacked at the utter two-dimensionality of the Vietnamese female character, who somehow led an elderly journalist and a young CIA operative around by their dicks the whole movie by making puppy eyes, speaking in very high, breathy, supposedly stilted English, and handing out, as far as I could tell, excellent sex.

I'm not exaggerating here. There's a scene where the Michael Caine and Brendon Fraser characters are in a tight spot, and they get through it by imagining what the common object of their affection is doing right now - eyes glazed over, Michael Caine talks of her going to meet her friends for the latest gossip, looking at magazines, dancing around in her room to Bach, which he introduced her to, because apparently she is incapable of being a superficial girly girl who wants nothing more than to fuck, dance and gossip. I mean, she wasn't even a character, she was a prop, a trophy, a prize for the two men to fight over. The writer obviously wanted these men to have a strong reason to want to undermine each other, in addition to the political intrigue, so he stuck this Vietnamese ex-prostitute in the picture, and seeing as we all know about the exotic allure of these sexy play-things, he didn't feel the need to give her an actual character. And I don't want to hear about how 'she represented innocence, something that both men wanted to protect'. They said she was an ex-hostess, they made it very clear that the price for sex, for both men, was a ticket out of Vietnam. I see these examples in innumerable films, TV programmes, music videos, and it makes my blood boil.

But the thing is, I'm being a little frothy at the mouth myself because there are plenty of examples to the contrary - strong, vocal 'Asian' women characters in western media. For instance, kick-ass females in Kill Bill, Charlie's Angels, or Tomorrow Never Dies (it's either whores or kung fu babes, I hear my inner feminist cry). Maybe so, but anything that Sandra Oh has done in the last few years - Grey's Anatomy, Sideways, Under the Tuscan Sun - is exemplary stuff. These characters have strong points of view that are neither 'good' nor 'bad' - they are real, complex, three-dimensional and wonderfully realised by an extremely talented actress. The examples against might outweigh the examples for, but multiculturalism is still a pretty new thing. I'm not excusing it, but there are positives to look for as well as negatives.

The thing is, there's no convincing some people. The three Chinese men who have accused me and the film of being hegemony's bitch are so far into operating in cognitive shortcuts that NONE OF THEM have actually seen the film. Why? Because I believe they are too proud. I believe that they see what they want to see. I believe they are playing a blame game to somehow make them feel better about past greivances in their lives. It's petty, and misguided, and I really doubt that it makes them feel better about anything in their supposedly shitty lives.

"We are discriminated against in the dating scene - often by asian women."

Believe me, if a cute Chinese guy had actually asked me out before Stephen did, I would have jumped at the chance. Noone had EVER so much as asked me out before Stephen did. In fact, my sisters had to pull in a favour with a Chinese friend of theirs to go with my 16-year-old self to the ball, and he ditched me before the afterball. I have Chinese guy friends who have penchants for dating blonde girls. If I didn't have Stephen, I could well be wondering why I've been discriminated against - often by Asian men. These days I'm as likely to swoon for Tony Leung and John Cho as I am for Christian Bale (though I stand guilty of over-exposing the whole Bale thing in this blog). What I want to know is what business a Chinese guy has of accusing a stranger, probably half-way around the world, who made a niche documentary on her own dollar, for hindering his love-life? How on earth does someone make a leap of logic like this? So you have a stink love life. Join the queue, buddy boy. Blaming me for making this doco is misguided, and... well, sad. Ach, I'm repeating myself.

Oh. My. God.

I just this moment got a reply email from this guy, and he has shown himself to be a complete psycho. After using a number of ill-picked 'historic' examples to back his original treatise, threatening me, and insulting me (apparently my face is stupid and vacuous), here's his last words:

"The hatred that I and many of my brothers have for you is absolutely indescribable.

It is white hot fury. It is a fury and hatred that is absolutely illimitable and could light up a thousand night skies. But more importantly it is an indignant and righteous fury."

Riiight. Now I really know I'm wasting my time even dealing with this issue. Why is it only crazies and fundamentalists who have time on their hands to trawl the net for films like mine? Is it because they're bums? Bums with no girlfriends or boyfriends? I pray to god that they aren't the majority. Though, with the way the world is today, who fucking knows. The more I think about it, the more I get angry and/or despair.

There is so much 'us'-ing and 'them'-ing that has become apparent to me through this madness, and it makes me sick to my stomach. Apparently as a Chinese woman, I'm the property of Chinese, or at least 'Asian' men, and to go to any other man is some sort of betrayal. Making a film about it is beyond betrayal, it's... treason? Or something. On the flip side, my 'white' man is the property of 'white' women, and for him to go to any other woman is another betrayal. Why? Because, apparently, we are on the brink of losing ancient cultures that have survived centuries, and by the mere act of being with each other, we are destroying these cultures, seemingly singlehandedly.

Someone, please tell me this isn't the way that most people think. My god, I need some sort of assurance that the ideals I grew up with about peace and love and getting on, and valuing our common humanity aren't some misguided pipe dream invented by corporations to sell greeting cards. Every time I get an email like this, I'm reminded that hate-filled people like this actually exist, that some people actually want to see war and famine and destruction, and humanity trampled on and destroyed for no good reason. And then, I despair. I really despair because I there's so much I don't know about, and worst of all, it seems there is nothing I can say or do about it.

It seems that way, and yet I think I have to keep trying. I'm not trying to be melodramatic, lord knows I'm aware how cheesy that last sentence sounds. I just trying to find a way to deal with this really shitty realisation.


Breakfast:
A peacherine. Cross between a nectarine and peach, in synergistic deliciousness.
Verdict:
I had more to eat later. It was just what I felt like at the time.

stock-taking

At this age, birthdays are generally bittersweet - gone are the days of eating jellybeans with potato chips and playing the chocolate game (which is a damned good game btw - maybe I'll play it on my 30th birthday as a sort of regression therapy - though maybe I should subsititute the chocolate with something healthy? Hmm. The tofu game doesn't have the same allure somehow...). Sugar-crazed romps have been replaced with the rather more morose sitting around by yourself and taking stock of your life - where you thought you would be at this age, where others are at this age, why you're not where they're at... and so on. I distinctly remember in my early twenties, one goal was to have made my first critically acclaimed feature by 25, because Orson Welles was 25 when he made Citizen Kane, which is still regarded by most critical polls as the best film of all time - I mean, I don't see it myself, but that's irrelevant. Here I am, yet to even crack a script someone wants to make, and 25 is long, long, looong gone.

I was thinking about this stuff the other night, eating dinner with Stephen, and we were talking about retirement and where we saw ourselves at 70, and I suddenly had this image of me at 70, on set. Quite unexpectedly, an indescribable wave of excitement and well-being washed over me.

See, this filmmaking malarkey, this stuff I'm doing right now, is what I want to do until I grow old and die. I don't want to retire, I don't want to do something else, I'm not trying to make money now so I can relax later, this is what I want to do until I draw last breath. And for a moment I felt like I did when I was like 22 - my whole life was ahead of me, and it always would be, and it didn't feel like 'shit what do I have to show for myself now I'm old', it was like 'shit, I can't wait to do more of this stuff as I get older!'. It's been a long time since I've felt excited like this. Sure, stuff happens, stuff changes, and who knows how I'm actually going to feel as the years go by, but right now, I don't see myself wanting to do anything else - more than that, I see myself wanting to do this in old age, which for me, is a wonderfully warming thought.

This is how I want to die: I want to be over 80 at least, and I want to be on the set of my, say, 30th film. I want it to be the martini shot of the whole damn film. Maybe we've done this take 17 times or something, and I'm frustrated, everybody's frustrated, it's been a long day, and something's missing. I talk quietly to the actors, I don't know who comes up with the something missing - maybe me, maybe them. They do it again. This time, the crew become suddenly still as the actors completely nail it. It's perfection. I call cut, and it's a wrap. The AD thanks everybody, and I thank my DOP, and my editor is standing by, and we have a small chat, and I know we completely see eye to eye on this film. That night, on the way home, during a wee kip in the shuttle, I slide gently off this mortal coil.

Don't laugh! Of all days, today I'm allowed my indulgences!

So, stock-taking. I'm sitting here at my desk in our little house 2Kms from a wild, stormy beach (we can't see it), in my pyjamas. The PJ top has a little cat on it, and the text underneath it reads "...Purrrfect...". It's 10.02am. Stephen is on his way to work in the city - this morning, he cooked me a hot breakfast, and it was delicious. I don't have any really pressing business today, so options include blobbing in bed and watching the DVDs I really need to return to Marc because I've kept them for so long; scanning articles for skiting in my website; and writing. The writing is probably the most important thing, but I'm procrastinating. I want to bask in the honeymoon glow of the good feedback we got for our treatment before embarking on the next painful, yet worthy leg of this trip. This evening I'm seeing family, and all my little nephews. It's going to be good. And messy. And loud. Funtime!

Things are pretty good. And not so good as well. Our most-probably terminal cat, which I got last birthday, is sleeping on our bed. It's going to be so hard to say goodbye. I'm looong past 25, and I haven't made anything close to Citizen Kane. Will I ever? Time will tell. We have a big fat mortgage, and I feel guilty I'm not earning at least as much as Stephen. There's war, and inequality, and general lack of basic humanity in the world the likes of which I can't comprehend, much less do something about. I saw Miyazaki's The Grave of the Fireflies last night, and I cried bitterly. I felt so awful, in my comfortable home in the bush, plenty of food in my fridge.

This is my life, this stock-taking day of 2007 - the last in my 20s. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Breakfast:
French toast, free-range bacon (go freedom farms!), grilled banana with maple syrup.

Verdict:
Wonderfully delicious. The secret ingredient was love. No sniggering!

Batman, Nolan, Bale and Gyllenhaal - a prayer to thee.

OMG OMG OMG

I just read that Maggie Gyllenhaal is going to be in the next Batman, and my heart started thumping like a lovestruck teeanager... it's happening again dammit, I'm starting to care about the new Batman sequel too damn much. My cinema heart is setting itself up for a fall the likes of The Phantom Menace and Matrix Reloaded, and I'm not sure if it can take it again...

But they can't screw it up! They just can't! Christopher Nolan? Christian Bale? Maggie Gyllenhaal? There's no way! This is a director who has never failed! These are actors I am completely infatuated with! It's true, I haven't seen everything they've done (you couldn't pay me, Mona Lisa Smile), but I have seen what they can do and by golly, there's no way this can go wrong! Touch wood! Touch wood dammit!

I so excited I could pee my pants.

In addition to the whole Christian Bale and Maggie Gyllenhaal thing, I have to confess that Batman is my first comic-book love. His chronicles were the first things I read cover to cover in my cousin's house (that and Bloom County), and Arkham Asylum the first comic to open my eyes to the profound artistic and literary integrity they could hold. Batman's the real deal, with no superpowers but money, grits and a heart of imperfect gold. He's deep and dark, complex and compelling, and I believe the modern world's most relevant comic-book hero.

Batman Begins was the very first satisfying audio-visual treatment of the myth, despite a long (and mostly awful) history in film and television. I think I'll start praying to the Gods of Cinema on this one. Maybe - just maybe, this one could be a keeper.

Breakfast:
Milo and cereal (Tasti Tropicana)
Verdict:
Boring, I know. Sometimes you just want not to think.

whinging and whining

Whilst tidying up my old study, I happened across some journals I'd kept when I was a teenager. With my corroded memory banks, I'd forgotten I'd actually kept these things, let along what it was like to be 15 - but by all accounts, it was a pretty bleak existence.

It was as if, when I was 15, I had this personal biosphere of hell wrapped around my head, and this tiny space was my everything. Everyone hated me, I hated them back, and getting marks below 85% made me suicidal. I kid you not - there is a suicide note in there, though the reason seems to be a combination of 'bad' marks and something about how everyone else is a lemming and has trodden me down, even though I have heaps of potential. When I was reading it, I think I had a new kind of grimace on my face - an amalgamation of mirth and utter embarrassment. Actually no, I take that back - that's quite a common grimace. But I digress.

I think there's two lessons to be learnt from reading old journals.

1) be more charitable to teenagers - they're having a rough time of it.
2) don't whine about getting older every birthday because lord knows you're actually happier for it!

And on a complete non-sequitur:

I am seriously considering boycotting the Newmarket Rialto cinemas altogether. I'm already actively avoiding their digital cinemas, which at standard ticket prices is fraud as far as I'm concerned. They don't seem to give a shit about the correct aspect ratio, shelling out for good projectors that don't have the rainbow effect and that don't freeze on a frame for minutes on end. I am so mad that 'Brick' was showing at the 'evil corporation' multiplex on a pristine 35mm print, and I opted to watch it at 'the home of arthouse cinema' crap-arse cheap-as Rialto on shitty lo-res, hi-contrast FREEZE FRAMING DVD. I AM RAGE! RAAAAAGE I SAY!!! Anyway, not only am I never, EVER setting foot into Cinema 1 or 2 until they clean up their act, I saw 'Shortbus' on print the other day, and the sound popped ALL THE WAY THROUGH. Which reminded me that a print of 'Good Night and Good Luck' way back when the cinema opened after 'refurbishment' was OUT OF SYNC for assorted periods of the film!

The thing is, when I do complain about aspect ratio and bad sync - things that to me, as a filmmaker, are the basic requirements of a cinema experience - I'm met with belligerent staff and confused managers who tell me I'm the first to complain about such things. I was even told one time that my problem with an incorrect aspect ratio was 'in my head', and the filmmaker had intended it to be that way. BULL CRAP. 3 years in post-production means that I know an incorrect aspect ratio when I see one - and that brings me to another gripe - how on earth do people with wide-screen TVs suffer an incorrect aspect ratio just so that there aren't any black lines on the side? One TV seller told me that black lines on the widescreen TV was bad for the screen. I think my jaw dropped and I just looked at him for a full 30 seconds. The screen is RUINED, JUST BY WANTING THE CORRECT ASPECT RATIO??? It BOGGLES THE MIND. Why would they make wide-screen TVs for the benefit of the AV-phile if the AV-phile couldn't watch TV as it was intended as well? And if the people who buy these widescreen TVs are such AV-philes and care about their widescreen movies, surely they would care about their goddam 4:3 TV as well? Apparently not. More than once, I've encountered idiot people who go ON AND ON about their FABULOUS widescreen, and then watch 4:3 TV on stretched widescreen, as if that would make their AV experience better. DOLTS! STUPID-HEADS! I AM EMBARRASSED BY THEIR IDIOCY! Anyway, I digress again.

Anyway, back to the rude cinema staff who told me I was imagining an incorrect aspect ratio. As a filmmaker hearing this utter 'it ain't my fault an you crazy' crap, I am mortified. Sure, the multiplexes may be evil, but at least they seem to care about the quality of the cinema-going experience. I'm not sure what it's going to take to restore my faith in the Rialto, but I sure as hell know it's not going to take a lot to completely shatter my confidence in them for the next very long while.

Am I being picky and neurotic? Hell yes. I'm a filmmaker, so I'm going to gosh-darn-well represent, dammit!

Hmm, recalling what I said about my whinging, bitter, 15-year-old self... I'm starting to believe that some things never change.

Breakfast:
Milo and Peanut Butter Toast
Verdict:
Passable. I'm dreaming of congee, actually, but lack foresight enough to make it for breakfast. When I do make it, I end up scoffing it all before breakfast. Ah well.

I, cinema hermit.

I'm not sure how it happened, but I've become one of those people who tell other people off. Or at least get pissed with other strangers for doing small, yet intensely irritating things. How did I get like this?

I think the 'inciting incident' (film wank terms abound - what do you expect?) was when I went to a movie with Marc and Sasha (who isn't a native NZer), and some teenagers kept talking loudly well into the opening sequence. Sasha, quite casually, told them to please shut up... and lo and behold, they did! And for the whole session, as quiet as leetle meeces! I was amazed, and quite frankly a little envious that I didn't have Sasha's chutzpah. Noone - and I mean noone - does this here. New Zealanders tend not to want to rock any sort of boat, we're so scared of having to connect to strangers, we'd rather suffer and try and bear most things for 'a little while'.

Case in point a few years later when the much awaited sequel to The Matrix came out - some friends, Stephen and I had managed to get tickets to the sold-out midnight session at the huge IMAX screen, the kind of screen you have to turn your head to see from corner to corner, eagerly waiting with hundreds of other people for the utter disappointment that was Matrix Reloaded. Sigh. Let's not speak of that again. Anyway, some COMPLETE PRICK had brought a laser pointer, and started circling Carrie Ann Moss's boobies and Keanu's butt cheeks (and let's face it, it was a him - girls don't find utterly unfunny shit like that funny. What's funny is that some misguided folk accuse women of having no sense of humour. Go figure). It was like some horror version of the Seinfeld episode, I heard some other BUM-SHITS laughing (probably his FART-AIR-HEADED friends), and it made my blood boil. Pretty soon I wasn't watching the movie, I was steeling myself and clenching my fists in readiness for the next time DICKFACE-COCK-WANKER deemed it time for yet another puerile laser light show, willing myself not to charge through the cinema helter skelter, screaming "DO THAT ONE MORE TIME, AND I SHOVE THIS STRAW DOWN YOUR URETHRA!". By the end of the film, I was shattered. Shaking with anger, I think Stephen had to murmur 'calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean' into my ear as he gently chaperoned me out.

From that moment on, I made a pact to myself. The next time anybody impinged on my cinema experience like that, by golly I was going to do something about it. Stephen said something like "What good will that do? What if they don't stop?". I think I screamed back "Well at least I'd have bloody tried! Nobody else did a fucking thing, did they! Stupid New Zealanders!".

And I think that's what got to me. In an audience of 800 or more, noone told BABOON-REAR-PIMPLE-ASS to can it. I was sure I wasn't the only person getting pissed off at this - some friends on the other side of the theatre said they got annoyed, but like me, they didn't do anything about it. Never again. I squinted my eyes and growled it. Never again.

So I waited. I watched, and I waited. Next time anybody even dared to snigger to their friends about something, I was ready. It started extending to cellphones - idiot hair-flicky girls checking their messages every 2 minutes, the cellphone screen light blinding my peripheral vision. People crackling their popcorn bags. The disgusting sound of saliva shucking around their mouths as they chewed gummy lollies. I was there - oh yes, I was there. I was there to shoot them evil glances down the row. I was there to tell them to please put their cellphones away (YOU SUPERFICIAL AIRHEAD, WHY EVEN COME INTO THE MOVIE IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WATCH IT???). I was miss cinema crabby and boy did I have attitude enough.

One fateful day it was the advertisements before Russian vampire flick NightWatch and I was talking to Vishakan. He looked at the screen and made a face. "Oh no, laser pointer". I bristled. What? A laser pointer? I looked at the darkening screen. Sure enough, there was a little dancing red dot. Aha! Here was my chance to rectify the exact same offence that had so irritated me so many years ago! Yes! Redress at last! All I had to do was wait... and if they dared do it again.... I cleared my throat...

"Could whoever's doing that please stop?"

Silence. Then sniggers from the front. Giggles rippled through the audience and turned into a few brays of laughter. I froze. I looked closely at the screen... and then I wanted a hole in my plush seat to open up and swallow me.

The dancing red light was part of the fucking film. That's right. Some sadistic Russian dude had actually made little fly demons in his opening sequence look exactly like a dick in the audience with a laser pointer. I mean, what kind of sick person does that? Seriously? Who? WHOOO!!? The whole movie was ruined because I felt like such an idiot. I sunk low in my seat when the lights came up so nobody would 'recognise' me. Pity that my friends were there with me and will never let me live it down.

Anyway, since then, I've tried to mellow a bit. Or something. What I've really done is find some non-intrusive defence mechanisms to employ when another cinema goer is bugging me.

Problem: bright in-movie cell-phone usage?
Solution: identify location of airhead dick or dickess, and move to different row.

Problem: noisy crinkly snack food wrappers?
Solution: bring own crinkly bag 'o' snacks (this is a recent discovery, and works suprisingly well! Not for a crinkly-noise-making competition, but for bearing the other crinkly noises. Somehow I don't care as much when I'm munching on my own snacks! Try it! It works!)

Problem: talking peeps?
Solution: identify location of blabbermouths, and move far away. If they don't stop, tell them to politely shut their fat stinking gobs.

Problem: laser light show?
Solution: Make sure it's a laser pointer, and not some idiot Russian vampire effect. Identify location of POO-FOR-BRAINS, and if they do it again, put on latex gloves and shove straw down urethra. Drink may have to be subsequently drunk without straw, but it's a price one has to pay.

Perfection? That rare occasion when you are the only patron in the theatre. Ahhh, bliss. I think I've always cherished this. One of my film tutors once said that he actually seeks out full house sessions because he enjoys 'feeling the audience reaction'. I think he's mad, but then again, I'm a crotchety old cinema hermit. Bah humbug.

Breakfast:
Milo and my brother-in-law's home-made muesli with organic full-cream milk.

Verdict:
Lovely stuff. I actually think I could get used to it, but the muesli often runs out too quickly. And oh, I don't care if nobody cares what I have for breakfast, I care. Raspberries and "go aways" to them 'nobody's'.

I no slow!

I went to see The Lake House a few months ago with my friends, and when we came out, I was roundly ridiculed for not realising that the guy who died in the middle of the movie was Keanu Reeves. If you haven't seen the movie, then I apologise for the spoiler, but apparently it was transparent to everyone except me, so now you can feel good that when and if you see the film, you definitely won't feel dumb like I did (not that you would have anyway, because it's so obvious, stupid).

The genre of movie with the huge-profound-secret-that-isn't-revealed-until-the-big-finale (let's call it a 'puzzle film') works on me because I'm a bit slow. OK? Fine, I admit it. There's a certain film nerd machismo about seeing these films, knowing there's a secret, and working it out before the film decides to spell it out for you. I tried with The 6th Sense. I didn't make it. Obviously The Lake House was a bust, though I wasn't really looking for one. I tried with Fight Club. Now there was a hard one. The person who saw that coming is either lying or has insomnia that manifests as (among other things) an anarchistic imaginary friend. Who may or may not look like Brad Pitt. We should all be so lucky. Or not, on second thoughts.

Anyway, I tried with Memento. No dice.

And I just saw The Prestige.

Dear Mr Nolan, thank you for making me feel I no slow. I saw it coming a mile away! I watched it inch towards me, and I yawned in exhilaration! Hah! Never before have I felt such film nerdy happiness, and with the added bonus of Christian Bale... times two! Swoon! Swoon again!

By the way, I have thought about the possibility that maybe The Prestige was a film that hid its secret poorly. I don't agree. Even if the secret was obvious, it had extra layers to it that made it rich. Christopher Nolan is still a king of puzzle films in my book, and I didn't care that I saw it coming, it was still a fine film. If you don't believe me, ask the reviewers at The Onion, whose opinion I will always trust. And if you think I'm biased because of the Bale factor, you'd be wrong. One shit film can destroy any solid crush forever - it's happened before, and it'll happen again. (Please not to him though).

Breakfast:
Milo and Peanut Butter Toast.

Verdict:
I think this is my standard breakfast. It's alright - it's still not what I'm really into, but most days, it'll do. Milo, though not the most fancy drink in the world, tastes good to me for sentimental reasons.