Friday 20 July 2007

EXIT 007



















Seven days travelling on mostly un-air conditioned buses and trains for the sake of four and a half days of fun! But was it worth it?

Yes and no. Exit Festival is an annual music extravaganza held at a beautiful fortress in Novi Sad, Serbia, but if I were to go again – I would never, never, ever take the same transport!

“Oh, it’ll be amazing, think of all the sights – all the border-crossing!”

Why did I say that?! For the price (£85), at the time, that was the reasoning… I have since found out that most of my (sensible) friends took a four-hour flight for ten pounds less…gutted! So here’s how it went: on Monday we got the Berrys coach to London, stayed at Charlotte’s, had a nice Indian on Brick Lane, got a relatively early night.

Tuesday at six got the tube to Victoria, checked in, waited to board. First in the queue, we expected to occupy the back seats – but how wrong could we be? This little, fat, squat Eastern European woman barged in front of us, folding her arms across her enormous bosom. We knew she meant business, but could she really be challenging us for the back seats? Yes, and some! She practically sprinted to the middle of the back row, and growled at ANYONE who thought they might be in for a chance.

I was in hysterics – and felt quite in ore of her because she held her ground all the way to Belgium! But in Brussels her glue came unstuck, she had to give in, the driver came up and eventually, she caved in, but again, not without a fight. She must have thought we were running a conspiracy against her because the whole way to Budapest, she deliberately knocked her big boobs into our heads and backs as we tried to sleep aisle side, and bared her gummy teeth when we were unlucky enough to wake in her presence.

That was pretty much our only source of entertainment during the twenty-seven hour ordeal to Hungry. So we were turfed out at the bus station with literally minutes to withdraw money, find the metro, buy tickets and get to the train station before the only day train to Novi Sad departed. I hate backpacks; I hate backpacking in the heat and being late for stuff. Needless to say, we got there almost on time, but the bloody thing was packed like a triple-over-packed sardine tin. Full of happy EXIT fans, drinking and smoking out the windows, mocking us latecomers.

It chugged very slowly out of the station, as if to further humiliate us – but there were a fair few stragglers, so we didn’t feel quite so isolated. Twelve hours of sitting around eating, drinking and finding the locals hostile to say the least, we positioned ourselves as close to the departures board as possible, in order to race off to the train as soon as it’s arrival was announced. We knew that this one would be more crowded than the one we missed earlier, but the newcomers didn’t – this was our only advantage.

Even though we ran like the wind as soon as that mysterious spinning mechanism stopped spinning with PLATFORM 9, a few flocks of EXITERS found their way on first. No matter. We found a carriage with traditional booths, leather seats and head rests, with only three people inside. We sat; we took the abuse from all the grumpy toffs who thought they deserved seats more than we did, and endured the constant cackling of four Irish lads high on champagne and poppers to finally arrive in Serbia three hours late – six-thirty on THURSDAY morning!

Next hurdle was finding a cash machine and then finding change for the bus and then trying to find the campsite….
And then there was the tussle to get into the ticket ‘hall’ which looked like a disused bomb shelter. At breaking point, we queued for our wristbands and then plodded into the site to find camping. Luke and I found somewhere quite central, under shade, near the toilets…then crashed for an hour or two, until the sun rudely woke us by turning our tent into a sauna! Both too exhausted to move the tent, we got outside and explored the site.

The camp is separate to the festival site, divided by the Duane River, but close enough to walk there in ten-minute, over the bridge in the town. At six o’clock, we went up to the festival site to check in and get our ‘state of EXIT’ passports. Why couldn’t they give us wristbands? I know at least a handful of people who lost their ‘passports’ and had to buy dodgy day passes to gain entry.

The fortress was impressively huge, about twenty-two stages in all, but not rivalling Glastonbury in numbers of festival goers. There were rabbit warrens leaning to hidden bars, hidden sights and let more musical interludes. Best of the bunch for location had to be the dance arena, right at the back of the site, down some steep steps into a valley, always a sea of bodies pulsing to the likes of Roger Sanchez and John Digweed. At the back of the arena, a slope led you up the other side of the valley and into a separate arena, but here you could see over the whole valley and it was definitely the best place for watching the sunrise.

Highlights of the first night included a rip-roaring set by The Prodigy, firing up the crowd into a writhing, cantankerous fighting-machine. Amazing to see they still have that energy and drive – thoroughly appreciated by those gathered. If anything the set was a little too raucous, as a stampede occurred afterwards, sending us all flying in all directions and fighting to stay upright. All we could see was people as we tried to make sense of our bearings – where could we go to escape the crowds?

After clambering up a steep slope we found a temporary safe spot, and exhausted, we stayed perched there safely until the crowds had dispersed. At this safe distance we watched Groove Armada from the main stage and then braved the scene for Stanton Warriors. As the sun came up on Friday morning, Luke and myself decided to call time and staggered through the town as the rush hour traffic clambered past us.

After no more than two hours sleep we were up and at it again, strolling into town to find some breakfast. Then onto the beach for some sun, until the sun got too hot and we slept in the shade for a while. Time didn’t have a place here: if you wanted a burger for breakfast – fine, if you wanted to rave at lunch time- - that’s fine too. In the afternoon we met up with my friends at their camp and began drinking. We tried to keep together and enter the festival in convoy – but despite our best efforts, we always seemed to get split up.

In the food court we sat on logs and watched the sunset over the river, listening to the disorientated sounds of Lauryn Hill, who everyone agreed has lost her touch with reality. Next came The Beastie Boys, with a most eclectic mix of old and new tunes, and a few too many instrumental interludes for my liking. Again, the old school boys, like The Prodigy, still had their wits about them in an ultra-respectable way. Venturing across the other side of the fortress, Luke and myself decided to check out the smaller stages; Reggae, Fusion, Funk and ten others I’ve forgotten the names of already...

Sunrise and we’re on the street again, eating fresh corn-on-the-cob, doing our best not to get involved in the traffic piling up around us. No sleep today – it’s too hot already, we try to find a shady area near one of the bars, but the sun seems to move at a ridiculous speed and a cold shower is the only answer. By today (Saturday) the sun is ferocious – about 38°c and rising – no more sunbathing for me! There is literally not much you can do in this heat: even eating is a chore. If I hadn’t been drinking so much wine and vodka, I’d probably have lost some weight this week…

Today I waited in the queue for the on-site internet café, and was a little worried to see the number of emails I had received from Matilda at The Ecologist, asking for me to make amendments to my second draft and add captions to Lilli’s catwalk photos. Got Lilli in pronto and we worked together in the intolerable heat – trying to make words come out of my severely fuzzy head! Sent that off and apologised for my lack of communication.

More drinks around the campsite and it’s off to the festival again. Vodka and peach, vodka and tonic, vodka and whatever I can get my hands on…. shame we can’t take alcohol inside with us because that vile wine is driving me insane – it tastes like watered down whiskey and it’s the colour of piss…and the beer is even worse, and that’s all the choice there is!

Tonight we partied with the Serbians, three Serbian lads to be more precise. Very sweet-natured, generous guys, curious to know about us and constantly trying to buy us drinks and offering to put me on their shoulders so I can see Basement Jaxx and Snoop Doggy Dog better. The Jaxx were a little disappointing – I was expecting them to be really loud and outrageous, but the sound system or their mikes let them down. Although the two lead singers amused me with their frequent costume changes and wobbly boobs. Snoop was predictable and bland, and if I hear “What’s my mother fucking name?” again, I will cry.

He played some classic hip-hop from the old school, but all his recent R&B stuff is boring and monotonous. After Snoop, we wanted to stick with the Serbian’s and they were into Dance, so we went to the dance arena for Roger Sanchez. His set was poor, the only amusement coming from the dancers clad in metallic dresses and punk Mohawks, stomping around on stage. Just as it was getting late we said goodbye to our new friends and staggered back to camp.

Sunday had that ‘last day’ feeling, and although I was exhausted by the festival lifestyle, I was truly getting into the routine. Meeting up with a few others, we decided to go into town for ice cream and a lounge in the park. We explored a beautiful part of the city, quirky, clean and decorated in flags varying in colour and artistic licence. Must be the hottest day today, it’s an effort to do anything, save reclining. Determined not to be unprepared for the next morning’s departure, I decided to make a start on the packing, but again, the heat defeated me swiftly.

We kind of made a pact to stick together for the last night, but we were defeated at the first hurdle as usual. I know I can see a lot of my friends every day back at home, but I wanted to share at least one night with them on the festival site…but never mind…it was still fun. I didn’t have enough money to buy a bottle of vodka, so I blagged some, then had to hand it over at the entrance to the festival, so I was devastated to hand over my last tokens in exchange for that rank wine.

The heat and exhaustion of the previous days seemed to wipe me out of party mode, and I sent most of Wu-Tang-Clan’s set moaning about my back and the lack of proper sound. Shame, I like the Clan, but just couldn’t get excited about their two minute silence for Ol' Dirty Bastard or their not-loud-enough mikes. Pendulum played straight after Wu, but my days of getting excited about cheesy drum & bass are most defiantly over, so we headed to the Reggae stage.

We called it a night just before dawn, and slowly took in the scenery back to the camp for the last time. I was so paranoid about missing our bus at 8 am because we didn’t have an alarm clock that I made Luke stay up, just in case. How mean – he wondered around in a drunken stupor, trying to stay awake by talking to randoms and checking the time every two minutes! I actually woke up before he came back to the tent and I felt mighty guilty for being so horrible, so I then had to try and sort Luke out and stop him from falling asleep before we got on the bus!

The bus was, of course, late. And I had to check Luke was in the shade and not dying in the hot, hot heat, practically pouring water over him every two minutes. When the bus arrived it was like seeing an oasis in the desert – except when we got, we realised there was no air conditioning! So it was probably worse than being outside! Why don’t bus windows open? I don’t know, but we were all a bit delirious by the time we were dropped at the airport. The sodding airport! Which meant more money, more hassle, more transport and more stress. But at least the airport had shade and air con.

Budapest was beautiful and how glad we were to be dropped off right outside the hostel…to be greeted by our lovely host! Us girls quickly dumped our bags and went straight off to the public spa; a short tram and metro stop away. Real heaven. Saunas plunge pools, steam rooms, three gigantic outdoor pools with whirlpools and Jacuzzis! I felt like I’d just sweated out a lifetime’s worth of shit from my body, to be replaced with complete inner peace.

We had a giggle, tried out every possible combination of pool and then sadly got kicked out at seven by the moody staff. You should have seen the look of pure distain as my friend Maeve put her pass in the wrong slit on the way out – I swear the attendant was screaming all sorts of obscenities at us, but we just kept on laughing! We were delirious and exhausted, but in good spirits.

Later a disastrous meal followed with ten of us sat in an ‘air conditioned’ Italian restaurant that was too expensive, and they added a hefty tip which we didn’t really want to pay, and most of the crew couldn’t eat anything due to being hung-over…we got back early and slept heavily in the muggy evening air.

Got up early to say goodbye to friends lucky enough to be transported home in limited hours on a plane, then planned the last leg of the journey. We took Lilli and Luke back to the spa with us, giving our bodies a much-needed boost before the pain of bus travel ensued. Said goodbye to the rest of our friends and got the metro to the bus station. This last leg was actually fairly pain-free, with the help of a speedy-Gonzales style driver and the sudden ability to sleep at will. But the worst by far was the stint into London, where we had to get to Victoria sharpish, otherwise we’d miss the Berrys coach to Somerset. Then the driver scraped a car on a roundabout and came to a stand still.

We were all calling for him to drive on – the other car had continued on its way. The driver eventually got a move on, but we were over an hour and a half late! I’ve never run so fast in my life, as we dashed to Victoria underground. Flip-flogs a flopping, bags jostling with the commuters’ space, we had to get that coach. Lilli ran ahead with her Oyster card, whilst Luke and me struggled to find a change machine and work out what tickets we needed. A kind attendant did the hard work for us and we got to Hammersmith with literally seconds to spare. Not much fun, but at last – a bus with air con, light snacks and home in sight. Finally arrived home at 10.30 pm, delirious, and ready for bed.

Would I do it again? The festival: yes. Bus travel: no. Fascinating country, fascinating people, but next time I will be organised, book a flight well in advance and pack some valium, like everyone else seemed to be doing…

Saturday 7 July 2007

Writers’ Gold in Cheltenham?

Just back from Cheltenham Screenwriters’ Festival and having mixed feelings about the two-day event. It started off very promising; the B&B was squeaky clean with the obligatory nosey parker ‘house keeper’ husband, ugly boxer dog, complementary toiletries and noteworthy cooked breakie. Day one’s highlights included speakers such as Tony Jordon (East Enders, Life On Mars), David Thompson (Head of BBC Films), ‘The Perfect Ten Pages’ with The Writers’ Room’s Paul Ashton and a live commentary of Severance with director Christopher Smith.

I wish I had utilised my time a little better in the afternoon – I sat through a ‘legal and business issues’ session for over an hour and between falling asleep and trying to take in a vast amount of jargon I realised I should have been in the ‘Write with a Pro’ session. Never mind, I’m sure the law handout will come in handy one day…

I felt a little intimidated by all the elite of the industry; boy do they let you know their presence! But, having said that, there were an equal number of people just like me, curious to get into the industry but without the credentials just yet. I met a comedy director/writer (Paul) whose just written and directed a series in Wales, a lady called Yvonne Mellor, whose a producer in Leeds and a lovely lady called Kate, who quickly became my new friend, as we on the same level of newbie-ness.

After Severance I wanted to chat to Chris Smith, but he had to leave straight after the viewing. I did ask a question (over a microphone handed to me), which sounded a bit like this, “Tim McInnerny told me you might be getting involved in the Hammer Horror franchise – is that true?” I think Chris was surprised to hear me mention Tim’s name, and said he thought he recognised me! I haven’t met Chris before, so this was a bit weird, but it’s a shame we didn’t get to talk any further. I think I will ask Tim for Chris’s email soon, to see if I can work on a project with him.

In the networking event later on I realised that an awful lot of people were there to blow on their own trumpets and a number of them exuded unappealing arrogance and spoke loudly about “MY LATEST FEATURE…WHICH HAS BEEN COMMISSIONED BY…” I began to relax a bit because it all seemed nicely fake and very show biz. The FREE wine and canapés helped to soften the blow of my ridiculously overpriced lunch - £10.50 for a scrap of salad and a char grilled piece of Halommi cheese! Frea and David were long gone; so I had a great time with Yvonne and Paul, listen to their industry anecdotes. Just as it was getting dark I thought I’d better get a move on and find a bus back into town. As I walked up the path to the Manor, it started to rain and I had to ask the security guard where to get back onto the road.

As I found the main road from the studio, a taxi slowed down and someone’s head emerged from the window. It was no other than Menha Huda (director of Kidulthood), who I’d listened to earlier in the ‘Funding Hidden Subjects’ seminar. He’s beautiful! He asked if I wanted a lift into town, which I accepted, of course. We talked about insignificant things, I was a bit drunk and think I may have talked too much to make up for my nerves…but he was lovely and we drove straight past my B&B. The taxi driver got to the end of the road and stopped, I tried to give Menha my business card, but he thought I was trying to pay for the taxi! He said to give my card to him tomorrow, and I got out the car and walked back up the road. What a sweet guy, I’d love to work with him, or interview him – but unfortunately I didn’t get the chance to speak to him again the next day. So, I guess if I want to follow it up, I’ll have to do some research and go through his agent or something…

Wednesday started with a seminar on low budget film production, with Ed Blum (Scenes of a Sexual Nature), and Jake West (SFX wiz and director). It was inspiring to see the quality of the features they had made with such little money. The message they were trying to get across is that if you have a very strong story and make a huge effort to mesh well with the cast and crew – every one will be happy and the film will be made to a high standard. A live commentary of episode 4, series 1 of Life on Mars with Ashley Pharoah followed in the marquee. I’ve only seen one episode of L.O.M before, and wasn’t that thrilled, but this one was a corker! Ashley didn’t intrude too much on the narrative, but the things he did comment on were insightful. Themes/structure/character facts were explored and a number of the audience asked poignant questions at the end of the commentary. I was particularly moved by the composition of the music to help carry certain themes and I think the cinematography had a filmatic quality. But, maybe that was just the big screen?.....

In the afternoon I listened to Mia Bays talk about producing her Oscar winning short Six Shooter, and then the star of the show emerged in the marquee – Bill Nicholson. Bill is the granddad you’ve always wanted, I’d be more than contented to listen to him tell stories about his film career all day. He’s a ‘real life’ writer, meaning he likes to take real life stories and dramatize them for film. He wrote Gladiator and he’s working on a number of new projects including a film on Nelson Mandela. Bill’s speech was uplifting and exciting – he doesn’t believe in over-researching a project and says that at long as you keep you subject by your side when you write, you will be true to them and if they’re at the screening, they’ll understand why a bit of artistic licence can help to produce a well-rounded story.

Then the worst part of the festival – FEVER PITCH. To think that Frea, David and myself and most of the lovely people I met there all enter the comp and didn’t get picked is a tragedy when you look at the ten that disgraced the stage that night. Poor doesn’t even come close to describing the quality of the pitches, I have to admit about half way in, I had my head in my hands – no more clapping for me… I know that the market is all about horror and comedy or the derivative zom-com, but these ideas did not vaguely challenge the genre. I may be a bit bitter, but there were 600 entries – I want to know who picked the short list and if they were awake when they drew it up.

Here’s a brief over-view of the pitches in order of ‘merit’, a kind of ‘what not to wear’ of the film industry:

1. BLOODY FAMOUS (A zom-com with vampires that are rock stars)
2. THE FLEABURT INHERITANCE (Dark comedy involving thespians)
3. HUSTON WE HAVE A PROBLEM (Creep, but with comedy and stoners)
4. THE BOUNTY HUNTER (Noir thriller set in Manchester)
5. 8 MISTAKES (Police thriller in the style of Seven)
6. GOD’S LONELY MAN (Political drama involving one legged hero in Afghanistan)
7. 24 LITTLE HOURS (Romantic comedy with Cinderella story)
8. DRIVING BEIJING WILD (Comedy involving taxi drivers at the Olympics)
9. EMMA AND THE CASTLE (Comedy with lingerie designer moving to a castle)
10. D.N.A (Six part comedy drama where a Dog Naming Association that names dogs for celebrities, and other animals, “with drugs and stuff…”

So, what do you think? Cream of the crop? I hope not….
No. 10’s my personal favourite – I couldn’t stop laughing when he tried to justify making it into a SIX parter! Maybe it would suit a two second sketch or a two part kids show – but SIX PARTS!!!!

Now I’ve off loaded my rant, I’ll go back to the end of that day. We all left the marquee with our jaws touching the floor and headed to the bar. This time the drinks were not free and there were no tiny canapés floating around – more disappointment… A vast majority of the congregation seemed to disappear after the pitching, and the bar was too big and cold to want to sick around in. Kate and I knocked back a few vodkas and followed the crowd to the Harvester next door to the Manor.

It was a bit more cheery in there, but it was last orders and the grumpy barman wouldn’t even give me a straw for my G&T! They threatened to confiscate our drinks if we didn’t hurry up and drink up, so we were out in the cold again. Kate and I waited for a bus back into Cheltenham, but gave up and forked out for a taxi. We got lost finding the B&B, spent some time wondering around aimlessly, then found the street and snuck in, went to bed on a completely empty tummy.

I will definitely be going next year, hopefully staying for the four-day event if I can get the funds. I will have a polished script or two to distribute and I will make much more of an effort to swat up on the guest speakers so I know who’s who and what they do. I found that I’ve missed out a bit this year because I didn’t know enough about peoples biographies, so if I find some common ground, it’ll be easier to network with the right people. I will need to be more forthcoming, determined and confident about my work. Just speak to whoever I need to and not worry about my status, if I don’t try, I’ll regret it later…