Tessa 2000-2012

The Cat – actual handle Countessa de Kitty-Kat – was buried in the fortress pet cemetery late last week.

When I first met Tessa in 2002, she was a bit of a poor excuse for a feline – watching her climb a fence always made me flash on the unfortunate Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket. She wasn’t heavy or anything – just… out of practice with being a cat, or something like that. She was friendly enough (no random attacks received), well-mannered (when handled with care, she gave fair warning when enough was enough), and low maintenance (she always toileted outside).

In 2003, Tessa went through a number of major life-events. The aiga, numbering three humans at that time, moved westward to what was to become Fortress Mamea. The new abode had its own resident cat, Pablo (full handle Pablo Ninja Cat), a large and gregarious chap. The aiga swelled with the sudden arrival of a fourth human, The Boy. And then The Dog was acquired.

Each change was a challenge for Tessa. She sealed her place in the fortress hiearchy with the patient and successful stalking of a mouse under the oven. She shunned Pablo who enjoyed our company until the word ‘diet’ was mentioned, whereupon he adopted the lovely Gladys across the road (who feeds him – I shit you not – on a 24/7 basis). Tessa’s relationships with late arrivals The Boy and The Dog could easily have been the final straws… but both boy and canine soon found their place in the fortress hierarchy (below the cat).

The fortress grounds have ample trees and vegetation, and soon enough, Tessa learned how to scale fences and trees like a real cat.  The local fauna have provided other exercise, the past decade scattered with the remains of a mouse, bird or rat tastefully left outside the back door for the unsuspecting barefoot occupant.  In winter she loved the wood burner – curled whiskers a specialty – while in the summer she soaked in the sun like a four-legged black hole.

Tessa will be missed.  She was loved by The Girl and The Goddess.  And although The Boy and I dreaded the racket she would make at the back door to be let into the house for —

a). fuss,
b). food,
c). warmth,
d). company,
e). a). through to d).

— we have found ourselves waiting to hear it in the morning, curses on the tips of our barely awake tongues – only to realise Tessa is no longer with us.

May there be plentiful 1kg blocks of tasty cheddar cheese wherever she is now.

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Oh Alright Maybe

A flurry of Facebook comments from Stevo and Motorbike Steve about the return of The Walking Dead behooves me to confess that The Goddess and I started watching the second season a while back and got two eps -, no wait, three -, hang on.

… Whoa. Okay. Disappointment in the second season was so deep that it wasn’t even entered into my viewing diary.

I’m as shocked as you are, believe me.

But back to the story. We got however many eps into the season and She turned to me and said what I’d been thinking for all the eps subsequent to the season opener: This is boring. So we stopped.

Michonne and travelling companions (“The Walking Dead” #19).

But Season 3 beckons with the promise of Michonne and the penitentiary arc and… godsdammit, that arc was just mindblowingly awful (but in a good way) that I just have to relive it, and it’s been too, too long since we’ve had a bad-ass no-nonsense African American heroine like Strange Days‘ Mace.

Angela Bassett as Mace in “Strange Days” (1995).

Yeh okay, I’m in.

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Haywire

I’ll watch anything by Steven Soderbergh – and if it’s a genre piece, I’m quite likely to add it my library.  Copies of TrafficThe LimeySolaris, Out of Sight, and Ocean’s Eleven have pride of place on the shelves.  (The absence of Erin Brockovich and the Ocean sequels is, I think, self-explanatory.)

When I heard Soderbergh was making an action film, my Pavlovian response was predictable.  An awesome roll call of actors.  The writer of The Limey.  Exotic locales.  Its arrival on these shores couldn’t happen quickly enough.

It skipped a theatrical release and went straight to DVD.  I watched it and kinda liked it.  I watched it again – this time with The Goddess – and liked it more.  And I think I’ll watch it again.

This excellent Editing Room abridged script both captures and highlights what I really enjoy about Haywire:  it upsets my expectations of an action thriller while still giving me an action thriller.  It’s no masterpiece.  It’s a genre exercise.  The story is familiar as all get out.  Lead Gina Carano‘s game acting is surrounded by an excellent supporting cast who get into the spirit of things rather than just slumming it.  Soderbergh’s crisp direction and Dobbs’ deft script provide 93 minutes of action, thrills and suspense.

I think it’s a keeper.

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Boo

Returning from the screening last Saturday afternoon (by way of the hardware store and a food hall-lunch), we noticed some mini-ghouls out and about in the late afternoon.

Bloody Halloween, I groaned, and The Goddess patted my knee.

I hate trick-or-treaters.

There’s no childhood trauma or such for this hatred. Halloween figured in my childhood only so far as school lessons suddenly turning to jack o’ lanterns and how once upon a time ’twas hallowed evening. I got my scares aplenty with the telly’s Sunday Horrors, thank you very much.

Snapping back to the present – here’s a typical exchange with trick-or-treaters in our fair land:

INT./EXT. DOOR – HALLOWED EVENING – FLASHBACK

WRITER opens the DOOR to be greeted by --

MINI-GHOUL + FAIRY-BARBIE

(chorus)

Trick or treat!

Writer brings out a HAMPER and doles out --

WRITER

An apple for you, young sir, and an apple for you, young lady.

-- and MINI GHOUL and FAIRY-BARBIE look with some shock as TWO APPLES are placed in their SACKS OF SWEETS.

MINI-GHOUL

... Thanks.

Fairy-Barbie says nothing.

WRITER

You’re BOTH welcome.

He closes the door as --

FAIRY-BARBIE (O.S.)

An APPLE?

So. After a few years of this kind of exchange – and uneaten apples prominently left at the edge of our property – this year I drafted a sign for those ungrateful toads to stay away.

EXT. GARDEN – HALLOWED EVENING 2009

THE GODDESS admires Her garden, CHICKENS clucking about Her legs.

WRITER shows Her a HAND-MADE SIGN --

GODDESS

No.

WRITER

But –

GODDESS

No.

Writer looks at his sign: “FUCK OFF”.

GODDESS

(off Writer)

It’s not in the spirit of Halloween.

WRITER

... Okay. How about –

He scribbles on the sign and shows it to Her. She deadpans him a look.

WRITER

It’s in the spirit.

GODDESS

No.

ANGLE ON amended sign: “FUCK OFF and have a Happy Halloween!”

EXT. GARDEN – MINUTES LATER

Writer approaches The Goddess, sign extended, beaming proudly.

GODDESS

(reading)

“Happy Halloween – thank you for your visit but we do not do trick or treat.”

(looks up)

Much better.

WRITER

(bows)

Thank you.

GODDESS

May I suggest one tiny thing?

WRITER

Of course.

She points to the original “FUCK OFF” which is now ringed with the new wording.

GODDESS

How about putting your excellent new wording on a new sign.

WRITER

You’re no fun.

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A Running Allegory

(Or should it be A Writing Allegory? It’s Friday afternoon and it’s all a bit much.)

INT. HOME – EARLY MORNING

I stumble through the FRONT DOOR, chest heaving and soaked through with sweat. THE DOG trots in after me.

Mindful of my appearance, I gingerly give THE GODDESS a hug --

THE GODDESS

How was your run?

ME

Two poos, three wees, one dog and one false alarm.

She then crouches down beside The Dog and asks --

THE GODDESS

And how was it for YOU?

Next time you’re banging your head on a concept or synopsis or treatment, keep in mind that for all the hours and energy and eye-for-detail you’ll pour into your finished product, sometimes your reader just won’t care. And it’s nothing personal: Yes, your pitch was spot-on – but there’s a change of director, and they’ve got some specific visual and script ideas.

Take heart. It’s not you, it’s them: your product is as good as everything that you’ve put into it. You’ll have learned something from describing – planning, even – a project rather than just writing it. The experience will inform you as a writer. Learning and experience make you a better writer.

Now do it again.

And again.

And again….

INT. HOME – CONTINUOUS

I put my hands on my hips --

ME

Oh ha ha.

-- and The Goddess, never one to tell me to calm down or shut up or get over things, gives me a hug anyway and says --

THE GODDESS

Can I make you a cup of coffee?

-- and I hold her and think: I am one lucky sumbitch.

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Uh Oh

I’ve started making notes about writing a play.

Aside from my role as Geppetto in a pantomime of Pinocchio a few years back*, the only theatrical background I can claim is a childhood littered with tearful Sunday school performances.

The seed idea is The Goddess’s, of course. It’s based on a situation in which I’m a mere bit player – a walk-on part, really – and it needed her bystanding perspective to recognise its dramatic potential.

What really turned me on to the idea/situation as a play was that mere moments after sketching the concept in four sentences, I could already see the final scene. Not long after that, having decided arbitrarily on a three-act structure, I had titles (names?) for each act. How freakin’ easy was that, baby?

Sixty minutes of theatre. Two, maybe three, ‘locations’ – all achievable (in my head at least) with a stage and some decent blocking. I wouldn’t mind a first draft by year’s end but I suspect this time next year would be more realistic.

Enthusiasm is high, tempered though it is with the acknowledgement of there being only seven days in any given week.

How hard could it be to write a play?**

Highlight of my performance: having called out to the audience, “What shall I name my child?”, amongst the calls for Pinocchio was ‘Snoop Dogg’.

**  Note to readers who have a vested interest in my workload: these are early early early days. Your script is in the mail.

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How the Heck

The Goddess and I watched Almodovar‘s Volver this weekend.

How does he do it? How does he take material that would be passe even for daytime soap and make it utterly compelling drama?

Some research is in order.

(Volver was courtesy of the D-Man who, with Ex-Pat Stephen, introduced us to Sarah Blasko (whose What The Sea Wants, The Sea Will Have has been on the stereo almost exclusively this weekend).)

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I Heart “Sports Night”

Watching Sports Night with The Goddess followed Cameron’s Logarithmic Curve. We started back in February, watching about an ep a week. March was the same. April was a wash-out. But as we entered May and The Goddess got to know the characters – in particular their relationships – as an ep’s end credits rolled, I would hear a Little Voice beside me: Can we watch another one?

Such requests are unheard of in the Mamea household.

In between, amongst others, Desperate Housewives, Lewis and Build A New Life in the Country, an evening with Dan, Casey, et al, became two-ep affairs. Then last week, on a couple of nights, we watched three eps in a row. And only two nights ago, we watched five.

Then I had to explain to The Goddess why there were no more eps to watch.

In the after-match debrief – and also while we worked our way through the DVD set – it’s the little details that stand out. How less is more – where what’s not said can define a relationship far better than declarations of loyalty or bemoanings of betrayal. How a certain behaviour can really be mere displacement. How expectations of standard TV drama situations and relationships were not met because they were handled with wit, intelligence and compassion. It’s safe to say that for all the verbosity, wit and good intentions of the characters, they’re as inhibited, neurotic and selfish as anyone in the real world.

I could go on and on about Sports Night but others have said it better in the nine years since it was first aired. As sad as it was that it got canned after only two seasons, it ended as well as it started, and you can’t say that of many television series.

POSTSCRIPT: The Goddess is quite reluctant to try Mr Sorkin’s West Wing because, for all my arguments that politics is merely behaviour and relationships on a different scale and plane, it’s about politics.

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One More Sleep

One more sleep until The Goddess returns.

After yesterday’s viewing I couldn’t bring myself to watch the remaining cult horror. I spent the night reading instead.

All day I’ve felt the cult horror title’s ‘i’s following me whenever I passed through the lounge. I should watch it tonight. Get it out of the way. A relationship drama or romantic comedy looks reeeal tempting right now, but.

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Multi-tasking

The Goddess is away for a few days. In preparation for her absence, I’d hired a bunch of DVDs that I wouldn’t normally get out for our (sort of) shared viewing (and no, not those kinds of DVDs either). I suspect her expression of polite consternation at my selection of adolescent action, cult horror and puerile comedy hid feelings of horror and relief that she wouldn’t be (politely) offered the opportunity to watch any of them.

Last night, I watched the first of them. Five minutes into it, I got out some paper and started making notes about a script I’m working on. I looked up every few minutes or so, in time for a CGI-enhanced action set-piece or some expository dialogue. At the end of its 83-minute running time, I wondered if it felt short because the film was lean and breezy, or because I’d produced a couple of pages of notes.

… Whatever.

Tonight’s film is a horror and I’m wondering if I should leave the lights on. In case I’m inspired to rough out some more notes, of course.

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