BAFTA

Off to BAFTA this evening. Very glam.

Maybe five years ago there was a screening at BAFTA where I was in the movie. It was an American project where young “street” youth got to make a movie – they were part of a Ghetto Film School over in LA, coming here to make a thesis film. The script was unusual, about a writer faking Shakespeare and being haunted. Interesting as the writer Gillian was 17 and Nico Baur the director, who I worked with most closely, was 18. They were both on their first journey outside of the USA. They likely both have big careers ahead of them. They still can’t be older than 23.

I was Shakespeare’s ghost. They had some serious contacts attached to what was essentially a mentoring project – it was about giving the young artists some confidence. All I had to do was be me and let them work with me. One day they had 150 extras on set, just so the young film makers could experience managing a crowd like that. It was an experience thing for them, and it turned into something like that for me as well to be honest. They managed to persuade Barbara Broccoli to come to the BAFTA screening. Champagne and canapes, the whole nine yards. A full cinema and a big screen. I invited a woman I liked on a first date. I felt a million dollars. I’m okay with my work. It is what it is. Here’s a link.

I haven’t been back to BAFTA since then, until tonight. Alice is a film maker and sportswoman and friend. We haven’t seen each other for ages so we arbitrarily decided that tonight was the night to catch up. Problem is, now I’ve got some peace ahead of me, I’ve got all the symptoms of a cold. My body is repairing after a few weeks of not being allowed to be anything other than full forward.

I sat with her, refused to hug, caught up, felt like shit. We had a bottle of white between us, and the fat chips – which I can recommend. We talked of ideas and hopes and dreams, the usual. I didn’t mention my last visit to that building, but it was in my mind. I wonder when I’ll next get a screening there? Then I got a black cab home.

Now I’m looking at a diary that is empty apart from a spot of mister Panda. I have no doubt it’ll fill, and perhaps for a day or two I can recover and let this cold thing play itself out. There’s always work to do in the flat.