Someone at work is making a horror movie. About a boy who escapes from an orphanage, becomes genetically mingled with a pig, and starts to kill campers in the woods.
Which is fine, only he can't stop talking about it, slipping it into every conversation...
"Yeah, not bad, not bad. Worried about the pig boy make up. As you would be..."
"How was your weekend? Me? Spent it covered in mud and blood on set, being a villager, a footsolder and then Crossbow Peter."
"I can't shake off this cold. Must be from that nightshoot where we just couldn't get the lighting right on the skulls..."
"Nah, I'm not so worried about the script, but we're still working on the bodycount. Problem is, we're a small crew and you can't all be dying if someone's gonna operate the camera. Then there's the problem of if the sound guy's in a scene, we'll have to dub it later... but hey, that's the problem of being a short film maker."
I've a suspicion of short films. Partly because I worked on some after university. The directors were all lovely but would spend more time talking about film stock than about the script, and the phrase "hey, writer, why not visit us on set?" would normally mean "we could really do with someone to hold a sheet of tin foil for eight hours".
Of course, the main reason I hate short films was after our old department head employed a very pretty Trustafarian to do work experience. One of the beautiful girls in the office decided to go and ask him out on a date, but came back, her face fallen: "I decided not to ask him after I head him on the phone saying 'Hey Tarquin, fancy coming round to the barge tonight and making a short film?'"
No comments:
Post a Comment