HOME MOVIES

Chris and I are making a movie. It’s short - five or six minutes long. We are filming in early June in a sweet, residential part of London (Zone Two).  The movie was inspired by an email I received from my mother in 2007.  Ten months before, feeling stuck and uninspired, I had quit my job, left my home and ended a relationship to go on the road and stay with friends for as long as – for as long as a piece of string, actually.

Almost a year into my trek, my mother, understandably, wanted to know when these travels would end. Had I given serious thought to getting another job? If not, why not? Wasn’t it time to face reality and fend for myself?

I look at the email now and feel a surge of tenderness for her. I hear maternal anxiety.

At the time I wanted to haul out an axe, hack at the computer until it was broken in to a hundred little shards and use each shard to carve a message onto the walls (of my sub-let flat) saying ‘I Am Not A Failure’.

Yes, yes. I hear the sub-text myself, you subtle reader you. Only failures carve messages onto walls protesting they are not failures.

Only people who see themselves as failing.

And that is what the movie is about.

My fury raged for days. I talked to everyone. I button-holed people on buses, I bored strangers in lifts. ‘I am on a journey of self-discovery, a deeply challenging and terrifying journey and my mother wants me to get a job!’ ‘Reality, my mother talks about reality, what’s reality??’ ‘My mother says my friends will get TIRED of me on their couch! ME!’

I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t write. I lay on my (temporary) bed and imagined some huge undeniable success, evidence of which I could send home. An award.  A mega commission. A new and famous friend who would slide me into her world of limousines and flashbulbs and Manolo Blahnik heels. A big throbbing mass of money.

I felt the inanity of these desires even as they provided the only relief in my days. They confused me, too, as I knew it didn’t matter whether I wanted or didn’t want these things. I just wanted my mother to be proud.

One late night, a week after the email, unable to sleep as I ran her words through my head, hearing each syllable as a burning accusation, it occurred to me – I could fake success. I could line up fictitious evidence of singing gigs, of writing deals – of a boyfriend! – and She Would Never Know. She was thousands of miles away in Canada. All she knew of my life was through me and my stupid mouth.

I was one step too close to sanity to actually do this. But the idea for HOME MOVIES was born – a woman who works as a temporary receptionist, fakes a life that she films and sends home to win her mother’s approval.

I wrote the first draft of a script (I’ve written five since then). Here is a scene from that initial attempt which gives you a sense of the flavour of the piece. Or of my hysteria:

 Int. National Theatre Foyer. Day.

STEPHANIE has just told a friend ANNA that she needs help filming a fake life to send home for her mother’s approval. Anna frowns at the idea. Stephanie sulks.

STEPHANIE

You could be a little bit positive about it.

ANNA

I'd have to pretend.

STEPHANIE

Then go ahead pretend. I've seen you pretend to be 29 for seven years, you could pretend to be positive for one moment.

ANNA

There's not really the same pay off, though. Is there.

STEPHANIE

I'm not asking you to do or be anything other than you are. My mother just needs to see that I'm okay. She needs to see that I'm in London, that I'm fine -

ANNA

That you are “a success”.

STEPHANIE

What's wrong with that? What, what, what?

ANNA

No, no. Nothing. Nothing.

STEPHANIE

What's that tone?

ANNA

No. No. Nothing.

STEPHANIE

You don't think I'm a success. As a singer.

ANNA

I'm sure you are.

STEPHANIE

I'm bloody good.

ANNA

Oh yes, yes.

STEPHANIE

I just haven't found -

ANNA

-anything -

STEPHANIE

 I'm not yet -

ANNA

- original.

Beat.

STEPHANIE

I'm not?

Long pause.

STEPHANIE

Is that what you think?

ANNA

It would explain things.

STEPHANIE

What things?

ANNA

Well, your failure, I guess.

STEPHANIE

You're worse than my mother.

ANNA

I can't help it, I agree with her, what are you doing with your life?

STEPHANIE

Oh for God's sake.

ANNA

You've quit your job, you're living on friends' floors, you're still single, you're  42 -

STEPHANIE

Someone told me last week I looked twenty. TWENTY.

ANNA

How old was that person?

STEPHANIE

Why does that -

ANNA

How old was the person who told you you looked twenty?

STEPHANIE

Young. Ish.

ANNA

He was nine. How old did he think his father was?

STEPHANIE

Older.

ANNA

A hundred and seven. How old is his father?

STEPHANIE

Fifty  -

ANNA

Thirty-two. Admit it - you've given up everything for your art -which is - you know - noble -

STEPHANIE

- but  insane. Right? Insane? (waving a letter) Here's her address. You two should start a correspondence, you have so much in common. No support. No respect, no understanding.

Anna is unable to meet Stephanie's eyes.

STEPHANIE

Fine, don't help me. I'll do this on my own.

ANNA

No. No, I'll help, I'll - pretend  - if you promise that you'll take that job in my sister’s office at the end of the month. If nothing else comes up. (beat) It's got all new carpeting.  And a paper shredder.

Stephanie stares at her.

STEPHANIE

Could I fit? My life? In the shredder?

Anna doesn't flinch.

STEPHANIE

Something will come up.

ANNA

Then you'll be fine.

STEPHANIE

I won't have to take it.

ANNA

I'm thrilled.

STEPHANIE

You'll have to help me.

ANNA

I'll have lots of energy to help you with because, you know, I'm only twenty-nine.

Chris, even before she was the producer for MYPC, was a reliable reader and I gave it to her in early draft form. For some reason, she related to the central character. We gave it to the actress Emma Powell who also liked the idea.

We mentioned it to people, describing the woman who desperately wants her mother’s approval and every single person, to a soul, stared at us, their eyes glazing over with a feverish understanding. Every one nodded. Every one said ‘F**ing brilliant idea.’

I was onto something.

It was in the middle of collecting this compelling data that I remembered a story I’d heard about the astronaut Edwin ‘Buzz’ Aldrin. I was twelve at the time, on the verge of adolescence, and the details tattooed themselves on my brain.

Aldrin had graduated from the prestigious West Point Academy at 21, was a successful fighter pilot during the Korean War and was the second human being to walk on the moon.

He was visiting an air force base in Western Canada, an honoured guest for the officers and men, and one evening in the mess, getting slightly tipsy, he began to talk. And he didn’t talk about his days at the Academy, coming top of his class or about manoeuvring the F-86 Sabre jet over the skies of Asia. He didn’t speak about the mystery of seeing the earth hanging in space, like a sapphire orb.  He talked about how he had never done enough to impress his father. He wasn’t good enough for his dad.

He felt like a failure.

THE MAN HAD WALKED ON THE MOON.  

How much higher can you go?

This story, combined with the reactions to HOME MOVIES, convinced me there was something universal in the desire to go to ridiculous lengths to make your mother say you are a good girl.

MYPC has been granted the right to promote the film with a two-minute video on the WeFund UK website. You can read more about the plot, meet the actors and be hugely entertained by my witty annotations scrawled under their unsuspecting faces. You can also allow your heart to be inspired by the list of luscious perks we offer to everyone who pledges £5 or more to the project. We wanted to advertise that for £4,000 you could have access to a petting zoo, staffed by the actresses. For obvious, hygienic reasons, this was prohibited. (But if you write privately – we’ll negotiate.)

http://www.wefund.co.uk/project/home-movies

This movie is the first scene of a television pilot we will pitch later in the year. We are planning six to 12 episodes. There is material for 26 parts but I think that would be a bit excessive.

My mother should have noticed my triumph by then.

Chapter Seven

Chris and I had to consume substantial calories to replenish those we'd lost shivering in the January chill of the office. We toasted more fruitcake, boiled more tea and took the opportunity to debate whether Constance should accept the job as an understudy at the National Theatre or hold out for something more prestigious.

I said she needed to eat. Chris said she had to maintain standards. I said standards don’t do you much good if you’re unconscious in the gutter, dying of starvation. Chris said Constance would develop humility and compassion taking on this subsidiary role. I said compassion didn’t do you much good if you were unconscious in a gutter. Chris said Constance would make excellent contacts that could lead to further work at the NT. I wanted to say contacts couldn’t do you much good if you were lying in a gutter until I realised that Chris had actually been arguing for my point and, as you can hear, doing a better job.

Warmer - on the inside at least - and fed, we returned to the diary. The hand was neat and even, breaking into enthusiastic capitals at regular intervals.

3^rd June 2010

First rehearsal of Nora. There are eight of us. Five actors, three understudies BUT! There has been an exciting development. ALL of us are in the production, ALL of us are going to be creating this story together. I will be on stage every night.

The thrill and the deliciousness of this fact has restored every loss. I’m the most grateful understudy in the world.

It’s a great script. This is Ingmar Bergman’s version of Ibsen and he cuts to the chase. Nintey-five minutes. No interval which theatres don’t like, of course, as it limits the drinking considerably. Audience and actors love it.

The actress playing Nora is extreeeeeeeeeeeeemely young. Beautiful and damn good. I think she’s been on the telly.

Her old friend is Mrs Linde ‘childless and a widow’.  In another world this is, obviously, the part I should be playing but I don’t invite this thought. I will have some role, as yet undecided, and it pays beautifully, compared with the FRINGE and I’ve woken up happy every day for a week.

It is glorious to be back on the South Bank. I am my usual socially retarded self and have only grunted ‘hello’ at the tea table. Someone saw TYPECAST! and congratulated me, which was very sweet.

10^th June

Still just listening and learning my lines, watching the director with the actors. He is a large man with unconvincing facial hair – very grey and floppy, his hair and him, generally – with spectacles. He seems very nice, he isn’t a torturer anyway. I’ve been with torturers – directors who shout at actors, who ignore actors.  Some directors humiliate actors, calling them names in front of the rest of the cast. Hell.

Derek listens to the actors, but almost too much. I don’t mean actors shouldn’t be listened to but they seem to sway him. He won’t raise high the blood-red flag which they will follow to their death.

Lots of talking.

12^th June

I forgot what a bloody good story this is. I love Nora. She’s brave and wild and hard as nails and no one knows. She perjures herself to borrow money to cure her terminally ill husband and has been paying off this illegal loan for years. And then she’s blackmailed by this dodgy lawyer and she’s afraid if her husband finds out he’ll do himself harm trying to protect her reputation.

But does he? Ha! He finds out and accuses her of ruining him and says she is an unfit mother and their marriage is over. Except they’ll keep living together. What a treat.

But then, and this is where Ibsen is a genius, the blackmailer relents. And Mr Nora is hugely relieved and loves Mrs Nora even more because she is so helpless and dependent and he enjoys forgiving her.

And she says ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers’ and leaves.

I wept in the first run through today.

I thought how lovely Malcolm was that he would never do something like this.

He did chuck me over for another woman he met in a pub, of course. But let’s face it – he never called me ‘his little squirrel’. I think that is a divorceable offence.

(I’ve invited him to the show. It’s a small part but he’ll have to walk past the bust of Laurence Olivier in the foyer to see me and that’s got to be good.)

13^rd June 2010

We’ve been told that tomorrow Derek and the designer, Lane, are going to share what the understudies will do onstage.  I have hopes for a sort of tableau-vivant, where I wear a very satisfying hoop skirt (this is 1879 after all) and droop my head in an attitude of female oppression while the two other understudies (both very handsome men btw) lift me up by the waist. And then put me down. And spin me.

 All right. It’s turning into GREASE. But I’m excited to hear what they have in store.

14^th June

We’ve got the set in rehearsal now, which is useful.  Five high-backed chairs arranged in a semi-circle. All the actors are on stage all the time, in these chairs, like judges  - watching Nora squirm or dance or beg, unless they are in a scene with her.

It’s very effective and sinister. Simple, which I like.

Derek and Lane are whispering amongst themselves and not letting ‘as cast’  see designs. It’s like Christmas! After lunch our costumes are revealed.

**

I don’t know if my descriptive powers can do justice to what just happened in this rehearsal room. But I’m fucking well going to try.

Afternoon. Light streams into the airy and comfortable space that has been taped out and is sporting five high-backed chairs. Cast and crew assemble around the director’s table as finally the costumes and roles for the understudies are revealed.

Derek:                        What I have wanted to convey, and have been speaking with Lane about how to realise, is the societal force imposing on Nora. She is a victim and we have the actors on stage, all the time as this kind of malevolent force, watching, waiting to see what she is going to do. In this vice, she’s in a vice.

The director speaks with earnest conviction, occasionally looking to the principal members of the company. Who nod.

Derek:                        Now Lane and I have been in consultation for days, how best to make use of the non-speaking roles and I wanted to physicalize the plight of Nora, somehow. So – Lane – hold up the sketches – and we’ll show you.

Lane, a well-built man with no hair, holds up a large sketch. The company leans forward.

Derek:                        What Lane has captured is the anonymity of, well, evil, really – if you like. Dark, constant. Faceless.

I lean further forward, straining my eyes. I make out what seems to be an exalted sort of jumpsuit of the kind worn by fencing enthusiasts, complete with hood and face shield.  I assume this to be an undergarment and the shield – well. It cannot possibly be a shield. I wait for further sketches.

Derek:            We have quite literally created a faceless force, imposing on Nora. We haven’t decided if the actors will black up – that is the first option – or if we’ll use what Lane has drawn. That’s a balaclava, isn’t it, Lane?

A gasp gurgles in my larynx. It isn't credible that someone under 87 and not a member of the BNP has used the expression 'black up'. I remain upright and I focus, with effort.

Lane:              Yes, yes. Exactly. The three non-speaking actors would wear these identical body suits, black lycra and these identical hoods – you look a bit like the Baader Meinhoff gang!   - and black boots. You should not be able to tell who is who.

Derek:            In the wings you’ll have to wear reflective tape!

Lane:              Keep stage management from treading on you!

Derek:            And the idea is, and I’m thrilled with this, that in between scenes the Forces of Fate, as we are calling you, will move the set. Around Nora.

Silence descends, only broken with a courteous ‘Ahhh…?’ from Nora and a ‘Goodness’ from her husband. They are, obviously, struggling to imagine how they will possibly maintain a semblance of dignity as tables and props rise, seemingly of their own will, up and off stage.

Derek:            If you three as-cast do a good job, no one will know you are there.

Lane:              I think it’s inspired. And is certainly more comfortable than a corset, Constance.

The two handsome understudies and I cannot look at each other. The shame we would see reflected in our eyes is too much to bear.

We are on stage at the National Theatre.

Dressed as ninjas.  Moving furniture.  In the dark.

I am taking a contract out on John Wood.

(As the meeting finishes I receive a text from my ex-husband.  'We've booked tickets. The whole family's coming! Can't wait to show you off. xxMal.')