Archives for posts with tag: Movies

It’s my new obsession.

Court today.

Spent rest of morning with ACLU.

Breakfast with Ivan downtown.

Lunch with Robby. We ate octopus.

Love this picture of me.

Oh yes, I seem to have pissed off the cult. AA people…in LA.

Freaks.

20120409-223435.jpg

The small screening room on Greenwich Street in Tribeca was packed with worthy NYC based gays.  Sweaty, moustached Gawker hacks.  Vanity Fair worthies.  Fledgling, GQ wet mouthed boys.

A fairly obvious NYC taste making, career determining gay crowd skillfully imported for the screening by Adam Kersh, the eager beaver publicist.

I arrived with Benoit Denizet-Lewis and the Little Dog stuffed into his traveling bag.

I had heard ahead of time that The Weekend by Andrew Haigh was ‘severely flawed’, so not to expect much.

Immediately it started I was drawn (homesick) into the spare, urban, British landscape.  Set in the east Midland town of Nottingham.  The neo-brutalist, ex-council estate provides a gritty working class back drop for this very British film.

The concrete tower blocks and congested ring roads determining the drama as much as the delicious dialogue.

It’s Friday night and Glen and Russell have met for the first time.   They do what so many of us do…pack an entire relationship into one weekend.

Russell, late twenties, is a charming, meticulous man who likes ‘old things’.  He never came out to his parents because, as a foster kid, he never knew them.  Glen, a more experienced, angry man (also in his late twenties) has been severely hurt by a lying, cheating ex lover and is unwilling to let himself believe that he can love again.

They burn through the weekend with passion, drugs and frantic conversation.  They fuck and suck and talk and snort and smoke and gaze.  Like so many gay men they are just trying to work it all out, what it means, where they are going…who they are.  In less adept hands these long, rambling conversations might have seemed pretentious, stilted or boring but Andrew Haigh is a skilled film maker and there is a palpable tension throughout the film that made it compelling and at times…glorious.

Americans have exalted the performances which are indeed pitch perfect but as a Brit I really wouldn’t expect anything less.  These actors are trained at what they do.  It never amazes me when I see a good British actor do his thing.  I expect it.

Americans slaver over the ‘realism’.

When the film ended Benoit introduced me to the nay sayer.

“You thought the film was bad?’  I asked him.  He nodded.  “You’re an idiot.”  I snapped.

The Weekend is an elegant, charming portrait of something many of us do and few of us bother remembering let alone shaping into a work of art.  The film could be defined by the small amount of money that made it.  Static shots, minimal coverage etc. but it shouldn’t.

If you have the inclination, please see this film.

We headed to Spring Street where the after party took place at ex pat Nick Denton‘s (owns Gawker) large Soho loft.

The gays settled into their cocktails.  They talked about the film, were amused by the differences.  “Nobody ever made me a cup of coffee and brought it to me in bed.”  one sneered.

I thought to myself, how sad, I love a cup of tea or coffee in bed after a long night of passion.

The gays noticed the instant coffee.  I noticed the saucers.

They didn’t understand British drug nuance.  Bowl verses rolled joint.  They were a little taken aback by the real bodies of two ordinary men who obviously don’t spend hours in the gym.

Nobody really talked about the conversations these men were having.

I met the director Andrew Haigh who knew my films and was very sweet to me.

We talked about The Film Council, BAFTA etc.  It is a delight to see him doing so well.  Being so well received.  We talked about how they gush over you when you first arrive in America.  Their compliments seem disingenuous.

We laughed that at home in Britain both of us were told that our work wouldn’t ‘mean anything’ to anyone other than ourselves. That’s what they say at home…then suddenly you’re at Sundance and they change their minds.

We both won the Outfest audience award.

I was proud of him.  I know what it feels like to make that first film.  To have it well received.

There is a moment when the two men, in bed facing one another, role-play a ‘coming out’ for Russell who doesn’t have parents.  It is touching and beautiful.

After the after party I took the Little Dog home and then uncharacteristically decided to go out again.

I hung at The Standard with Benoit’s gorgeous friends and drank expensive diet coke.  It was total freak night at The Bain.  Like a Nina Hagen tribute party.   I flirted with the beautiful blond, met a photographer I thought I knew.  Two black boys came up to me and asked if I was ‘Duncan from the ‘A’ List New York’.

The view over Manhattan from that roof top is sublime.

I took a cab home at 2am.

I was glad that I had met Russell and Glen.

I had identified with both of them and had healed for doing so.

img_1563

Amanda Eliasch is very, very rich.  She is the ex-wife of Johann Eliasch, owner of tennis racket and sports wear company Head.  Currently Amanda is trying to get me to remove a blog reference made last week after she posted some nastiness about me on Facebook.

Sadly, as Jake found to his dismay, even if I removed any or all evidence… the blog will remain in the virtual ether forever and ever. FOREVER.  Then, she persuaded some weird friend of hers to say that I only have 3 readers a day…that’s like telling a man he has a very small penis.

Let me remind you how I know this woman Amanda Eliasch…she was/is going out/hooking up/in confused hyper emotional ‘relationship’ with my old friend the genuine article… writer Tim Willis.  Poor Tim, the first time I was summoned to her house he was a quaking, smoking, drinking wreck. Exiled to the tennis court at her architecturally significant, now recently sold Beverly Hills house. His already weakened body covered in welts from Amanda’s sharp little tongue.

The 1st and least problematic of the litany of problems with Amanda: she is a bully.  In some lame attempt to stop me from posting anything about her on my blog she reminded me that she had let me visit her home. OK. So? I reminded her (pompous hag) that I let her visit mine. The next barrage of emails, no doubt, will include reminders that she paid for a couple of lunches.

The emails after that will include homophobic slurs.

Well known to architects, and interior decorators as a person who loathes paying her bills, (I know two personally) She is currently working with ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard who told me he went to Eton… does anyone know if this is true? I met ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard with Chris “The King” Cortazzo the  realtor.  Why will ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard definitely get paid for renovating Amanda’s new home in LA? The simple fact is: ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard is far too well-connected not to get paid.

As well as converting Amanda’s brown Wimpy home (ex Janet Leigh) into a white clad Wimpy home ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard is also converting a small apartment in Sierra Towers Los Angeles as something ‘nice’ for Elton’s Nanny and child.

I really did not want to start the year slagging an old slag but hey, at least I’m not writing about Jake, eh?

The most perplexing problem with Amanda: she is totally bonkers… and not in a good way. She has no style, no friends and leaves a nasty taste in one’s mouth whenever one chances upon her.  Her conversation is limited and punctuated with barking noises… is this some sort of tick?  I have never once been able to get a reasonable opinion or for that matter ANY opinion out of the woman who wasn’t cribbed from some Daily Mail commentator/op ed…consequently her politics are slightly right of Hitler’s.  Amanda once complained to me, like many of her ilk, that there wasn’t a decent right-wing newspaper in Britain.

Now, I know that she will take issue with the ‘no friends’ claim but after her $500k fiasco of a birthday party last year where half her Facebook friends didn’t turn up… and, like an eastern European traveler, she tangoed for her startled guests then… to their growing horror played a sycophantic film ‘produced’ by her friends waxing ’bout how wonderful Amanda is. I wonder how she manages to keep the friends she has!

Good God! You can’t make this stuff up!

Amanda is surrounded by a certain type of woman, the ball breaking Aliai, Lady Forte, the ball breaking Tracy Emin and the drunk most of the time but harmless… unless sober when she too becomes a bone fide ball breaker… Kay Saatchi.  Throw a few insignificant men into the black lacquered pot and bob’s your uncle: Amanda’s World.

The unforgivably huge problem with Amanda (and British social-climbing women like her) she is ever so slightly homophobic. She likes to remind gays that in Amanda’s World they have no right to demand rights or equality ‘what ever that is?’… that we have no place in the army or in sport and she questions our integrity in the school room.  She tells us that we are of ‘no use’ to her… unless we are ‘decorating’ or ‘making things look pretty’.

Amanda, like her ball breaking friends, is also a low-grade racist and treats her black chef with imperial disdain.  Amusingly she has a desire to be close to film stars and celebrities but they are not eager to be seen with her.  Her life interminably chasing yet another film festival, film opening, red carpet event… is pathetic at best… tragic at worst.

Amanda, if she doesn’t mend her ways, will end up like Wallis Simpson who, though remarkably chic, died isolated and miserable. At Wallis’s funeral the bulk of the wreaths came from vendors all over Paris who, without doubt, missed her very generous patronage.

I have complained before about owning too much stuff.  Unable to throw things away.  Yesterday was no exception.  I moved more stuff into the Malibu house from Hollywood and find it impossible to let things go.  Throw things out.  Dump the junk that in some cases I have dragged twice around the world.

It amazes me that I have now sold over thirty works of art and you really would not notice the difference.  Every spare space on every spare wall is covered with art.

I have just one small box of knickknacks that I have left on the drive waiting to be sold when in fact they need to be thrown away.  I need that TV intervention show where kindly looking therapists gently pull ‘precious’ things away from me and throw them into a dumpster/skip.  I am not, obviously, a 3rd degree hoarder but my inability to let things go one might use, at this crucial time with Jake,  as a metaphor.

What’s the difference between shame and embarrassment?  I am embarrassed by the things crammed into my cupboards, closets and wardrobes.   Under the stairs I keep an archive of every film and theatre project I ever worked including two 35mm prints of AKA.  I attempted to donate this thorough personal collection to the Outfest Film and Television Archive but at the last moment did not get around to.

I have a shelve, a rather deep shelve, in the kitchen where I have put things that I know need to be thrown away.  Every time I open the cupboard door these things look at me pathetically, ‘please don’t throw us out’ they plead.

All this stuff from Hollywood fucks up the aesthetic.  Cluttered, overwhelming and all the wrong colors.  I am trying for less and all the time have to deal with more.

Yesterday Ashley and I cooked dinner for Frank and Stephen.  Delicious. Both Frank and Stephen didn’t know what St Tropez was.  I was mildly shocked. The Architect text messaged me asking, in lieu of dating, if he could be my slave.  I am considering my options.

I am so happy that Ashley lives here.  She brings such verve and life to the house.  This Sunday she is inviting friends over for lunch, it’s going to be a great deal of fun.

Yesterday I realized that in the post Malibu Hill Billy from last December was the first time I heard from Jake.  Compare the lightness and optimism of those early posts.  I wish I could reclaim that mood.  I will eventually.

I have a date for my operation.

The final day of my holiday with the mysterious travelling companion.  We are staying in Cannes then will make our way home tomorrow.   Will update you all on the tone of the past few days when I get some space between the adventure and me.

We arrived in Cannes yesterday afternoon.  Last night I ate salad Nicoise in a small brasserie behind the Majestic that I enjoy whenever I have been here for the film festival.

The last time I was here was when Suzanna and I rented that house in Seillans.  I had driven to Cannes to take Dicky to the station curtailing his time with us.  After a walk around the harbor he decided to stay.  Now, THAT vacation was hard.  Surly children, love affairs and God knows what.  From what I can remember, I seem to have paid for the lions share of that holiday…for eight people!

Cannes, here we are again.  We chanced upon Suites Hotel on the Blvd Camot.   It’s like a hotel from the future!  The bed linen is really crisp and expensive feeling, the room is huge and well laid out and the bathroom and toilet have a pod like quality.  It might be described as flexible accommodation.  There are Japanese type raffia screens that divide the room if so required and even though the colors and fixtures are not to my taste it is incredibly comfortable and ergonomic.  The television moves around on wheels, there are a desk and a daybed.

 

Our room in Canadel at the Hotel de la Plage looked much nicer than it turned out to be.  The bed was uncomfortable, the room was noisy and the breakfast unbelievably expensive and not, as we first thought, included in the price.  Consequently, we paid eighteen Euros for a basket of bread.  The day before I had spent only twenty Euros in the market feeding us both for the entire day.

I have really enjoyed the last week here in France more than our time in London, mostly because everything, apart from Cannes and St Tropez, was new and unusual.   Showing someone around your life can have its drawbacks.

Yesterday, on our way to Cannes from Canadel-sur-mer we spontaneously stopped off at a cliff overlooking a small bay.  We scrambled through the brush over hot red stone to a rocky outcrop and swam in crystal clear waters.  The little dog watched from a shady ledge.  The sea was teaming with tiny, silver fish skimming the surface looking for food.

You know, there were times when I was with JBC, toward the end of our 7 years together, when we would find ourselves in some remote, beautiful place and I would hanker to be with someone I truly loved.  That this maybe beautiful but to make it perfect one must share the moment with a man that I loved.

Dicky

There is something dismal about looking at a wonderful view and not have a lover by your side.  I think, during this past week, we may both have felt that.  To be with someone familiar, hopeful and in love.

We did not stop for lunch after the swim so by 5ish I was exhausted and desperate for water.  At moments like these I feel like I may have become Uncle Monty from Withnail and I.   Monty, the tenacious old queen who pursues Withnail with gay gusto.  Example: the day before yesterday the car had been laden with food to eat and water to drink.  Yesterday, with the companion in charge, the cupboard was bare.  Instead of just buying more food I sort of expected my companion to think ahead and do as I do.  To no avail.   A sticky wicket that one..expecting.

Like leaving your fingers in the car door to prove how selfish someone is when they squish them.

Do you know the film Withnail and I?  It used to be a cult film.  Uncle Monty arrives in the freezing country cottage where Withnail and his friend have escaped from London.   They have no money; unable to light a fire, nothing to eat and both look utterly miserable.  Within seconds of Monty’s arrival the table is groaning with food, the fires are roaring in the hearth and the lighting is perfect.

Unlike Monty, and men like him, I have a limited desire to provide and make perfect day after day.   I foolishly expect him to think ahead when he just can’t.   It is not in his nature.  It’s not his fault.  You see, I have a fantasy that includes being looked after as well as I look after him or others.   It is a fantasy, it is unachievable, and it is my role and my role alone.  I have only myself to blame when even the most simple of expectations remain unfulfilled.   If I want water in the car then I must buy it, if I want delicious food then I must go to the market.

As vacations draw to a close there is the inescapable dread of going home.  We return to very different scenarios.  He climbs back into the bosom of his family with yet another vacation and I will peel off elsewhere to make something happen with that extended family of AA men and women who have become my solace.

Enhanced by Zemanta