Archives for posts with tag: Wonder Woman

My watch cost more than my car

After it’s six month epic repair my gold watch finally came home from Boucheron.  The Mec, designed by Solange Azagury.  Bought after seeing it on her husband at a party for Bella Freud.

Sparkling rose gold and new black leather strap, the small gold button that had popped off for no reason last year was finally repaired, the scratches erased.

I bought the watch with the money I was paid by The News of the World when I sold my Elizabeth Hurley ‘tell all’ story after the making of my film, The Method.  My sweet revenge for her appalling behaviour, the treatment of me and others and general vileness.

Most of all I sold that story because it galled me daily that a talentless witch like Hurley could steal a paying job from a real actress.

Going into that project I rather stupidly thought that I could give her the benefit of the doubt and coerce a performance out of her.   When she told me rather grandly the first day of shooting not to direct her because she was a ‘a celebrity, not an actress’ I really had nowhere to go.

A grueling 3 months followed.

The keystone cop like producers Brad Wyman and Donald Kushner were not interested in making a film, rather they were busily conning money out of the British tax system, which at the time had an incentive designed to help the British Film industry but had been so bastardized that films made in Romania with American producers armed with dodgy budgets..qualified as BRITISH.  The BUDGET for The Method that the government saw was no way translated into what the local Romanian crew were paid..about $100 a week.

I told Will Self about this terrible con which, during the time it was operational, must have funneled as much tax payers money out of the country into American bank accounts as it would have cost to pay for several new British hospitals.

Will was appalled.  Deborah Orr was appalled.  everyone I mentioned it to was appalled but nobody did anything about it.

Thankfully Gordon Brown finally put an end to this theft overseen by the worst kind of British film producers.

If you think I have been nasty to Jake..read what I wrote about Elizabeth.

The Architect stayed over last night.  It’s not happening again.  I am waiting for him to leave as I write.  No sex.  I cooked dinner.  He smokes really hard.  He makes a kind of gay purring ‘ah ha’ when he means to say yes and his perfume and shoes are CHEAP.   His hands on me in the night caused pain in my skin his attention was so unwelcome.  He was all over me like a rash.

He just left.

I may be a perfectionist, as Jake said,  but when I loved him..Jake was my perfection.  I simply loved touching him, kissing him, rubbing his head.  I loved him laying beside me.  I loved his smell and his eyes and soft mouth.

Which makes his treachery that much worse.

I hate him perfectly like I loved him perfectly.  For a short while the search for my illusive man was over.  For all his miserable flaws and inappropriateness and unavailability I loved him.  I really loved him.

They ask me privately:  How then, if you say you love him, can you treat him like that?

Anyone who asks that audacious question has never truly been in love and I pity you.

My perfect hatred for him is built like a leaden, black as night, tar wall between what is and what was.  A black tar wall erected between me and him so I never yearn for him, never cry for him, never love him ever again.

It is the only way I know how.

When I think of all the arguments I have heard for why he was not right for me I am dumb-founded by how pedestrian they are.  LOVE, love when it comes should be fought for!  I tried every thing I knew to keep him and when I failed, when I failed I couldn’t be his friend.  Listening to him tell me about other men.  Listening to him reveal in every sordid detail of who fucked who, how many times they came.  The rides home to Washington Heights.  Those despicable stories are etched into my brain.

The drinking and driving.  The man he slept with for over one year who never let him know until it was over that he had HIV not just risking Jake’s life but the life of his girlfriend!

I really loved him and he tormented me with what he did with others.  He tormented me because he saw that love weakens me.

This morning, after the architect left I opened all the windows and doors.  I stripped the bed and I wept because I miss the familiarity of my lover.  I miss you so much and I never get to tell you.  Instead, I have to tell you that I hate you.  That I want my money back.  That you betrayed me.  I don’t want to tell you any of those things.  I want you to know that I miss you, that you left something indelible that I try every single day like an idiot savant scrubbing a tattoo out of his skin…to forget.

 

It was a piss poor, irritating day yesterday.  Nothing, it seemed, was going to rescue me from the thankless groaning of harassing renters and the yearning I have to get home.. and quickly.  I left my card in the ATM and have mislaid my beastly driving license.

All in all it was pretty ghastly until I went to therapy at 8pm where I sat with my peers and bathed in our shared misery.  Suddenly I felt a whole heap better!   There really isn’t anything more exhilarating than listening to those who have had a worse day than you.

Look, I could sit here and write about my financial woes.  I could entertain you with the menopausal ranting of Irene from Hawaii or I could just let it go.  The worse a person complains and harasses the less likely I am to deal with a situation.   It’s just the way I am wired.

Many years ago I made a very bad film in Romania called The Method starring Elizabeth Hurley.  It was not the best experience of my life (probably one I would rather forget) but it seems I am not going to be afforded that luxury.

The chaotic making of The Method has inspired the Producer of The Method to write and direct a film about the chaotic making of The Method.  The premise is thinly disguised.  I was prepared to be irritated but after having had a look at the trailer it all looks rather fun.  Anyway, I am looking forward to seeing it and am sure that the press will come knocking once they realize that his film is based on our experience of creating what must be one of the worst films ever made.

It heartens me to think that out of strife and stress art can be made.  I am not at all worried by how I may/may not be portrayed.  I am merely flattered that the very enterprising director/writer moved a mountain to make a film based on our shared experience.  We know how difficult that can be, don’t we?

Time passes and tightly held resentments lose their steam.  Fruitless anger, the spirited defense of nothing worthwhile, all this ultimately becomes the secret joke we tell ourselves in later years.

There is June Gloom in LA which makes the light very English, all the colours in my house come alive when the sky is gray.  Apart from our gray British skies I miss just how damned rude we can be.  All these years of living in polite America!  I am looking forward to the bawdiness of my country men.  Rapier wit coupled with a good wank joke.

I love that we can both be extremely polite and totally vile within seconds.

The first book I ever bought with my own teenage money was the collected works of Hogarth.  Bawdy.