*Warning: Authors depicted in this blog may be less bitter than they appear*
Now that that's out of the way....
There was a time, nigh on one year ago, when I worked as part of a film festival. Now, I wouldn't want to drag the name of any particular sponsors of this aforementioned festival down with me, so I'll not mention Jameson by name. Suffice to say, it is a festival bearing the name of a....wait....shit....OK, pretend you didn't read the part with the brand mentioned. Moving on, I should mention that I was employed within this particular festival in a position of something resembling middling authority. I was responsible for herding volunteers in the right direction and assigning tasks to said lemmings. They were entrusted to my guidance.
-pause for laughter and judgement of the foolishness of this decision-
Yes. They were fools to have this faith in me. It should go without saying that several were directed over metaphorical cliffs. Yet, handling volunteers is one thing....again, I should stress that I did not literally "handle" my charges. That would be wrong. And only a few were pretty enough anyway. Sorry, I know, not the point. Essentially what I'm angling towards here is that I hold no fear of dealing with fellow festival types. We're all pulling in the same direction, in theory. Sure, some of them were gimboids and ogres, but most were charming types. Sure, for every intelligent, diligent and outlandishly beautiful worker (really, you're too kind) there was the other kind. You know the one- lazy eye trailing the floor, an expression that at once says they are supremely proud of having tied their own shoes that morning (they're not wearing shoes, those are socks. To tell them this would be cruel) while simultaneously leaving you in no doubt they would molest you as soon as breathe in your direction (they're always breathing in your direction, right on the back of your neck....there's drool). Yet, all in all, we're talking some right on, manageable cats here. The public provided their own obstacles. Heck, they brought them specifically from home to fuck with us on occasion. Still, the main problem came in the form of "the talent". These guys brought the tricky, in the same way some of our volunteers brought the rapey.
I recall with great clarity the little whiteboard in the back room, in the shadow of which myself and my co-captain of the venue would gather our thoughts and plans (read- recover from the previous night) for the day ahead. That whiteboard was where I focussed my game. It is where I would make notes for the tasks awaiting us. What screen was each film in? What time did it start? When did it end? Motivational words for our underlings were also a feature.
A personal favourite of mine being the following instructions on dealing with the public
_____________________________________________
*Volunteers*
Stare fiendishly
Smile suggestively
Wink when necessary
Drool if at all possible
Do not touch or feed the customers....
....except the pretty ones
Please remember to tip your Venue Captains
_____________________________________________
Yet the main area of concern upon this modern excuse for parchment was the director's name. That was the sword by which we would live or die. For we lowly civilians had been deigned worthy of introducing these behemoths of art to the baying mobs in a pantheon of cinema. We were presented our mics and pushed into the glaring spotlight for brief moments to do our piece, wipe our brow and depart, returning to the cold shadows from which we crawled. Fine. Dealing with a crowd is another scene I can almost cope with. The problem? The names. We had some killer names to contend with out there.
I spent a whole day staring with wonder, light shining from me as though I were a beacon, brightened by the name of Carter Gunn on my board. Giddy with anticipation. He and his directing partner, of a moniker for less enthralling to me, had produced a piece on bees. By all accounts it was excellent. I couldn't care less. I had two points of interest, and by golly I had no time for anything besides these nuggets of gold. Scrawled upon my beloved board was the simple nickname "The Machine", and I was just stupid enough to pull the pin on that baby. My second moment would fall into place easily behind that gem. And so I got to work. As was the way of things, I met our stars outside and introduced myself. Seeing as I'd be introducing them to the audience in mere moments, it would pay to be on cordial terms with out guests.
Fool: "So, Mr Gunn, I have to say, I've been looking forward to meeting you today."
Bemused director: "Oh....really?"
Fool: "Yeah. I've even gone and nicknamed you 'The Machine'."
Bemused director: "Carter 'The Machine' Gunn? Yeah, very good. Haven't heard that before....-sigh-"
At this point, I figured I was losing them. Alright, time to pull out the bug guns (a shotgun or something, anything that wasn't a machine gun).
Fool: "So your film about bees, i hear there's a lot of buzz around it...."
The contempt was palpable. I had made mortal enemies of the directors. Ordinary, decent men now loathed me to the core. They were right to do so. Still, it was far better than my first introduction of the festival. After that scandal, I held no fear.
Ever had to grasp a particularly difficult name? Latvian names are fucking hard to master. Ivars Zviedris was my Everest. Three days I had to get that thing down. Every waking hour was a blurred cold sweat. I asked volunteers for their advice on how to pronounce it. Their attempts were spotty at best. An Eastern European lady-type? She'll know! OK, she seemed to have it pretty much on the nose. Still, I'd have had to mutilate my tongue to perfect the pronunciation, even if I could have understood what the hell she was saying. Ah screw it, I'll just rush through my intro and mumble his name so that it sounds roughly like it. He'll be too lost in the magnificence of my words to register my verbal transgressions. I contented myself with this as it came time to meet my man.
I was walked out to meet our auteur with these parting words:
"Oh, and just so as you know, he can't speak a word of English....no, I don't know how to say his name right either."
Fuck. So not only could I not twist my vocal chords around his name, but now my fool-proof Plan B had been destroyed too. There were only two words that he would understand in my speech. These would be his first name, and his last name. Motherfucked, is what I was. Oh well, time to shake his hand. At least the rain will disguise my sweaty palms.
Then it happened. The moment that would erase all self-conscious fear from my mind. From this point on, all would stand as gold by comparison.
He had a thumb. He had a middle finger. That was it. Nothing else remained, aside from the palm of his right hand. Yet, it was too late. I'd already committed to the handshake. There was no going back now. My eyes widened in abject horror. I'd have been disgusted with myself if he'd noticed my open-mouthed stare, but seeing as my gaze was fixed upon the former residence of his digits, with my head tilted to some distorted angle of shock, I figure he didn't notice. What he would have noticed, however, was that I shook the fuck out of his middle finger. I grabbed that bad boy, and I clenched it as may a newborn clutch the finger of a father figure.
Fool: "Ivars, pleasure to meet you. Let's get you to your audience, Mr Zviedris. Follow me."
Ivars Zviedris: -blank stare of a man who understood nothing other than the desecration of his own name-
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