Alex de Campi: Gojira!

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15.6.05 The Girl With The Prefabricated Heart

"For Venus was born out of seafoam
For Venus was born out of pride
But a goddess today - if she is grade A
Is assembled upon the assembly line
La da dum, la da dum, upon the assembly line.

Now Julie was born as was proper
Her every proportion was planned
She was poured from a mould - exquisite and cold
And she grew up untouched by human hands
La da dum, la da dum, untouched by hu-man hands."

I didn't write that. (I wish I had.) It's from the Fernand Leger piece in Dreams That Money Can Buy. Yes, I'm still crushing over that film. And nice people have sent me a disc of clips from it. The film is just as weird and wonderful as I thought on first impression. If the NFT doesn't release a proper remastered DVD of this, I'm going to throw a large artistic tantrum.

"You're a dream dealer? I want to sell you one of mine. I have so many, you know."

I may not post very much in the coming weeks. I am buried under deadlines, and then off to LA and San Diego to rattle my tin cup. I'm also away on a film-directing course this weekend, because I'm still not sure what I want to do artistically. I'm 33, and I haven't figured it out yet. May never do. No, that's disingenuous. I'm mostly sure I don't want to write a novel.

For ages I've felt I should, because that's what Proper Literary Writers do. Comic writers and screenwriters not being Proper Literary Writers, of course: in a recent survey, 10 out of 10 mothers agree... So I try. I sit down in front of the computer, the blank page beckons - and I stare at it, completely unexcited. Sure, an important part of the creative process (the one that separates writers from dilettantes) is hammering away at it when the words don't flow easily, or at all. But there is a deeper problem.

Novels paint vast inner landscapes with words, and... that's not me. I like silences. The space between words. I'm interested in lies. In subtext. Most of all, I'm in love with images. My happiest moments are sitting in the front row of a cinema - so close I am almost inside the plastic world; like Orphee I can reach out to the silver and into my own distorted reflection onscreen - and waiting for the lights to dim. Waiting for the show to begin.

And music! This animated music video lark, I'm amazed at how captivated I am. I shouldn't be, really. Although I'm without a shred of musical talent, I soundtrack my entire life. Walking down the street. Starting a new script. Waiting to be served at the pub. Songs for all. Other people's songs, but nonetheless... I don't mean I listen to an iPod all the time. In fact, I never do. Don't need to. The songs are in my head - and I hate closing myself off from the ambient noise of the city.

Now people let me put stories to these songs. Not illustrate the lyrics; that's just bad karaoke. But create new stories in counterpoint. Another story arrived while I was half-dreaming last night. It was so clear: strange, beautiful, and new. I am compelled to bring it to life somehow. And I need the artistic control that comes from directing, because I really think I see things better than other people.

So it seems I will never be a Proper Literary Writer. I move in pictures, and sometimes - increasingly - those pictures move. I guess I'm just a dream-dealer (I have so many, you know); an entertainer, waiting for her own show to begin.

Still. There are worse fates.

( 10:09 PM )

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