Script reading

And I’m home.

A slightly drinky script-reading in a pub in Soho. Robert the owner is a writer and his friend has started to institute readings in the little upstairs room. Alice got an opportunity to do her latest film script up there and like a legend she took it. I’m a big fan of Alice. We worked out how to work with each other a long long time ago, and now it comes as shorthand. We both persisted with one another in the early days and learnt from each other. It’s a proper collaboration.

Six of us sat and breathed life into this characterful and curious tale. Ghosts, stalkers and post natal depression. The male gaze, and the violence and entitlement that often comes with it. Plus female technocrats, ancient spirits and the emotional disconnect of the army.

I was in the army house at Harrow. Wrote a drunk blog about it once that was found and shared among the people it referenced. I haven’t gone over it, just know because one of them who I don’t detest made it obvious when he was matching names to descriptions. I shrugged, at the time. Fine, this blog is always just the work of a moment, and my opinions shift and change as I grow. I absolutely defy the myth of consistency. We have to be able to shift, even if journalists think they have scored a point if they realise someone has adjusted their stance. The myth of consistency is part of what has squished the world into almost impossible polarities. I long to hear someone in power say “Yes, you are correct, I did say X but now on reflection I have developed my thinking and have realised I was misguided. I now firmly hold the opposite stance for reasons reasons reasons. And I will stand by my new position unless facts come to light that prove I need to rethink.”

This is why I’m not a politician. You have to lie to make the fuckers trust you.

Nevertheless, I play an officer class army bloke very well because I’ve observed the shivering detritus of the early education of the donkeys who led those lions. There are many disconnects, sure. The most disconnected of them weren’t the ones who went into service anyway – the burnt ends ended up estate agenting while the ones with heart did some service, sometimes very deeply. There are some good humans shuffled in with the jokers.

I won’t play the part I read, if the film is made. Way too old. Was there just to support my friend. She invited a casting director and by the sound of it that potential contact was too pissed off she wasn’t asked to cast it herself that she didn’t stay to talk with any of us who were there to help. I despair of meeting casting directors. Met one finally last year dressed as a Wrigley’s Limited Edition Watermelon Gum that joined a key to blow up Camden. But usually I’m too socially awkward to make it satisfying.

Maybe she’ll think of me negatively now because I was miscast and knew it but was there to support someone I admire. I really hope not. I kinda wish she had taken the time to tell me so, rather than just feeding back to Alice and leaving. A curious meeting primed to negative would have been better than just leaving with a negative. Still, we can only do and do and do. And our people find our people, we hope.

This evening in a little Soho pub, eight practitioners came together and made a little bit of light. Some people let it kindle them, others were a bit clogged.

Now I’m home with the cat and all of this seems almost as trivial as it is.