I said I’d go to this thing at the Institute of Contemporary Arts. Why do I go to things at the ICA when I know it’s there because no one else would show the darn stuff? Is it trendy and cool and cutting edge or is it CRAP? I know MY answer.
So this rather lovely, slender, fashionable New York woman director made a film about making a Bollywood action film when the main star was being hauled in and out of jail for possessing a firearm that was used in a… zzzzzzzzzz …sorry! Where was I?
I was sitting in the front row in front of the ICA’s blast heaters (‘Would you like a normal seat in our theatre or would you like your leg meat to fall from the bone during the performance?’) and soon settled into a lovely dream about kittens when someone had the nerve to come into the film about 25 minutes late! Outrageous! And they woke me up!
After the film ended, we scampered upstairs to the ‘party’ where the red and white wine was free (‘Ladies like Pinot Grigio,’ the waiter assured me. It was either that or Merlot. Both smelled of vinegar) but the water and soft drinks you had to pay for. Go figure! Is that like an anti-AA thing?
Soon the samosas arrived – who knew they could deep-fry mashed potatoes? – and then a real Bollywood dancer who was enviably lithe. I felt sick.
‘This is cheapskate stuff’ my companion said and, tearing himself away from a new Film Council employee who really needed some deep conditioning in her hair (I’ve known her for years and she doesn’t have a lover, EVER, and GEEZUZ NO WONDER!), we went off into an extremely cold London night.
One thing I learned from the director in the film? When you finish something yell, ‘MIND BLOWING!’ every time. Or even better, ‘My mind has been blasted!’ This will be my phrase du jour until, ooh, at least 2008.