Inspired by the sudden realisation that one is a cinematic genius on par with Renoir, Hitchcock and, indeed, Lucas, one immediately began compiling ideas for a plot. Basic ground rules were first to be established -
- Artistic purity must prevail. This will be a work unsullied by the vulgar commercial concerns of mainstream cinema
- Must feature an autonomous rock
After attempts at a first draft failed due to the incessant interruptions arising as a consequence of keeping the individual sequestered in the adjacent room sedated (Sedative: Sledgehammer - Ran out of morphine after one accidentally amputated one's foot last week. Managed to re-attach it but the gangrene is proving tiresome) decided to film in homage to Fellini by going all Cinema Verité and simply followed random individuals with a camera for a few days. This being Dublin one happened across twelve muggings, at least three instances of mothers selling their children for smack, a burning Ford Fiesta, a tripwire at the top of a flight of stairs (forgot about that one - never gets old) and no less than five separate cases of voluntary incest. School discipline has waned somewhat since 1987.
Soundtrack proved a problem. Experiments with homemade instruments did not turn out as successfully as planned so had to go with the backup plan: Stuck a microphone outside an abbatoir for five hours and interspered the sounds liberally with recordings of Julia Roberts' ample and impressive flatulence (a very gracious and willing volunteer for surveillance - a certain Ms. Lohan could stand to learn a thing or two!).
Posted the results on YouTube and mailed a copy to Joel Silver. Thought nothing more of it until an email was received a couple of days afterwards while watching compilation footage of losing racehorses being shot. Apparently, a group of thoroughly nice young men from the Middle East had seen the work and insisted upon a collaboration being as they were in need of a director. The weather forecast for Khandahar Province was optimistic so set out without delay. After a vigorous and considerate body cavity search, one left the airport chapel and boarded the aircraft which was, as expected, shot down by a well-aimed surface-to-air missile a short distance from Bagram Airbase. Thoughtfully, one had remembered to steal the emergency parachute from the person in the seat in front and was fortunate to land gracefully on a Afghan schoolchild. Normally this would be cause for concern but fortunately she was already dead as a result of the curious local custom of throwing acid in schoolgirl's faces. Made a note and moved on.
One was struck by the abominably poor quality of the roads in this part of Afghanistan. Perhaps it would have been an idea to cut back on the amount of roadside bombs for a start. One is as fond of an improvised explosive hidden on a motorway as the next person but there's a time and a place and outside a sex shop is not one of them. Does nothing for the tourist trade.
A couple of observations about the state of the ongoing military activity in the region:
One - American missile targeting systems are now so sophisticated and accurate that from a distance of three hundred miles they can direct their missiles to the exact centre of a large red cross.
Two - they could very well win the war in a matter of days if only they would devote a few minutes to reprioritising their targets. Unless it's being held in Dundalk, a wedding party is unlikely to prove as significant a strategic target as an ammunition dump. Even if it is funny watching the bride trying to fire an RPG7 for the first time at an unmanned drone.
Three - the Afghans could win the war in a matter of minutes if they threaten to burn the poppy fields. The population of Carrick-on-Suir alone would be driven to such insurrectionary frenzy that it would start cannibalising the residents of Kilkenny to the extent that the Irish government would threaten to suicide bomb the United States unless the war was called off. Suprised they've not thought of that sooner.
Met delightful young chap not far from the Pakistani border who escorted yours truly to the set. Heart sank. What illumination there was was provided by corpses that had come into unfortunately close contact with white phosphorous. This would prove to be a test. However it was at this point that the machinations of studio interference became most gruellingly apparent. It transpired that one did not have a choice of filming location. One was told that the camera was to remain static and face towards the wall of a room within the basement of a local structure. With no set decorator in evidence, one proceeded to spruce up the wall with a few choice quotes from one's favourite lyricists - Roger Waters, Sting and Mutya Buena. However, this would prove again to be the source of dashed artistic dreams. The wall, it was insisted, was not to be bare but would instead bear a flag of one's host's design. A garish, green thing that, if the indecipherable white streaks slashing across the middle of it were anything to go by, had evidently been pissed on by an albino yak. Why can't these cretins just write in plain, understandable English? What on Earth were they thinking?
Nevertheless, professionalism must triumph so one swallowed one's pride and coralled the cast and crew together to establish the basic structure of the piece. Any good director knows that storyboarding is essential to a convincing visual aesthetic so to establish confidence and calm any nerves one decided to show the cast the storyboards of the most crucial scene in the script - a lightsabre duel where the Prophet Mohammed vanquishes Christ in the city of Sodom. The lovingly illustrated bare thighs of both combatants were a particular source of pride.
This did not go down well. After spending three days in captivity in a room 2x5 wide with nothing but a bipolar rat for company (went by the name of George. Lovely chap when he was on the manic upswing. Ate him before he could enter the depressive phase. Only seemed fair) and after the stitches from one's eyes were removed the cast informed one of a previously unknown caveat. It was difficult to discern from their feral, unintelligible jabbering but apparently there are some problems that some members of their religion have with any attempt to visually depict the Prophet and that indeed any image of said individual is considered forbidden. Which makes no sense whatsoever. What about when he needs to have his photo taken before getting onto a plane or when he's being racially profiled? What's he going to do then? Offer them a virgin and hope the pilot's not a Jew? Ridiculous!
Quickly set back to work. Handed out copies of the screenplay to the assembled cast. Many of them took objection to the fornication scenes on page 12 but one or two were positively overjoyed with what happens on page 14, provided that a vacuum cleaner, two litres of bleach and horse that doesn't have rabies could all be found. Crushingly, one's vision was again compromised as what one assumes was the male lead insisted that one's magnificent, self-penned screenplay was not to be used. Instead, after insisting that one start filming, he stood in the frame reading lines from a piece of paper while his comerades, who for some obscure reason had now concealed their faces in black towels, lined up behind him. Evidently this was some one-act play they had devised themselves. Perhaps with a view to the Best Short Academy Award. The nerve of it all.
It was at that point that a door opened and one or two burly companions of theirs brought in some obscure indivudal wearing a black hood over his face. Rather impolite chap too. Incapable of making anything but indistinct muffling noises whenever pressed on an issue. Evidently a resident of Youghal, accustomed to communicating only in low, guttural grunts and who nudges one's hand when wishing to attract attention. Imagine one's shock when one learned that this individual, this non-entity from the anus of Ireland, was to be the lead. This proved to be the final straw as one announced to one's collaborators that production was shutting down. There then resulted much more jabbering in their impenetrable, deeply irritating bark that passes for language, which one finally, after much effort, understood to mean that they were not happy at this turn of events. One had anticipated difficulties of this sort but was not prepared for conducting negotiations at the business end of an AK-47 Kalashnikov. The situation was only rescued when one produced a video cassette from one's personal collection which featured an image of the excreta on the aforementioned Ms. Lohan's used toilet cleanser that, when viewed from a certain angle, appeared to depict the Prophet in profile. Sufficiently enraged by this turn of events, the cast and crew took off in their vehicles, charging towards the border. Hadn't the heart to tell them that one had paid off the Halo Trust on an earlier visit and that the roads were now bristling with landmines.
One soon departed the vicinity although was kind enough to point the, rather confused, lead actor in the direction of the nearest human settlement. Why he insisted on staggering off with his hood still on his head and why he refused to chew his way of out his binds is a question that may never be answered.
Thoughts for the day:
#1 Lucrative business opportunities exist for a vigilante police force that counts Ken Dodd, a football mascot and Jackie Healy-Rae among its members.
#2 Why would Greece and Turkey want to fight over somewhere like Cyprus? It seems like the kind of place a country would stick one's inbreds so nobody would notice what the general population like to do as a pastime.
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