I woke up this morning with a small green pixie stamping violently on my forehead which I found painful, annoying and disorientating. It came directly after a vivid dream that I was floating around a glamourous well attended party back in the 1940’s. Then I woke up properly and realised the verdant vision was merely a hangover and the party had been real. Yes folks, I went and suffered so that you didn’t have to.
It took place in a welcome change of location this year in Teviot Union, one of Edinburgh University’s older more decorative structures (unlike the hideous new block of modern rubbish they’ve just built next to it).
It’s a labryinthine maze of stairs and rooms, bars and concert spaces and was stuffed to the gills with hundreds of handsome, dapperly attired men alongside their beautiful and glamorously draped women. Except of course for my mate Rick who somehow got in dressed as a 1980’s pig farmer, still in his wellies straight from the muddy pen. Later I remembered he is a pig farmer and hasn't bought any clothes since 1985. But friends like Rick make the rest of us stand out properly so he provided an important service to everyone else in attendance.
The location was divided into the ‘Dancehall’ (for live acts), the ‘Loft Bar’(for outdoor smoking – a very popular destination on the rooftop), the ‘Canteen’ (for school dinners – just kidding), ‘the writing room’ (for listening to the voice of Dylan Thomas) and the ‘Library Bar’, the latter a beautifully old fashioned terrace bar on the ground floor with ornate fittings and, aptly, shelves of books around a balcony. There were also a number of chillout rooms where exhausted party goers could slump in elegant poses over an armchair or two. Beth Rowley who sings on the soundtrack to The Edge of Love performed a beautiful set in the packed out Dancehall.
It's the time of year and one of the traditional occasions where many film makers, journalists, festival staff, guests and delegates run into old friends and proffesional colleagues from previous events. I have many a friend who I only see annually at such occasions and I ran into a few last night which is always a delight. I also ran into a lovely lady who informed me that everything at the bar was free just after arriving so I dived in, ordered a pint and was asked to hand over £3.30. Later that night, in a brief tribute to a classic Hitchcock scene I vengefully threw that woman down the fire escape, laughing hideously while no one was looking.
There was of course, in reality a vast and endless supply of free drinks but only of particular brands which I stuck to thereafter. I bumped into comedian Phil Kay whom I’ve been acquianted with for a few years and he thrust an energy drink into my hand which gave me the second wind to keep going. I bumped into him again today and within five minutes we decided I should make a film about him during this year's Fringe. Not bad going if I say so myself, expect to see the finished product at this festival next year.
The stars were in attendance but they were bundled into their own little security pen where they wouldnt be burdened by the unwashed masses and other assortment of mere mortals. I have to admit however that stars of Sienna and Keira’s calibre would be hassled incessantly so I'll let it slide.
Dylan Moran however is always a good sport on these occasions and held court on the rooftoop terrace. I’ve never met him one to one but we’ve been in the same company on many occasions. It has been noted by friends over the years that not only do we share similar names but a fairly similar appearance – tall, besuited & semi dishevelled. Often drunk, writing in public a lot and hanging around outdside for a smoke and a bit of people watching. I have on two seperate occasions during the Edinburgh Fringe signed autographs on his behalf after the autograph hunter would not take no for an answer, not believing I was a different Dylan.
When they pointed out that I had spelt ‘Moran’ wrong because I’d signed my real surname I sighed a bit, raised my eyebrow and caved in, scoring my it out and scratch in ‘Moran’ with a little arrow below in the same way people initial changes on a cheque that’s been slightly miswritten. Totally ridiculous.
Enough about me and my namesake and back to the main agenda. Two screenings today will get the first full day off to a healthy start: the first sold out screening of A Complete History of My Sexual Failures should be a riot, there should be a lot of laughing, embarassed squealing behind fingers and a dare I say a few walkouts. At least one of Waitt’s ex girlfriends who features prominently in the film will be there tonight seeing it for the first time so I hope to ask her afterwards how she felt about seeing herself up on the big screen in a very personal moment. Unless of course it was all set up? I’ll be asking the director that tomorrow. I wouldn't mind going myself again just to gauge the audience reaction.
The other film is the one off screening of the eagerly awaited Terence Davies documentary Of Time and the City. Because there was no press screening (it was, it turned out, available to watch on a press access only DVD) there was a bit of a scrum to get tickets this morning when the allocations desk opened up. This is a film for afficianados of ‘real’ film making. His masterpiece Distant Voices, Still Lives still haunts me to this day and since his latest offering screened at Cannes last month it’s become a must see for arthouse and auteur enthusiasts.
I attended the press screening of Stone of Destiny today but unfortunately it was marred by technical difficulties with the sound. I left after 20 minutes so I will reserve judgement till I can see it properly.
My next posting will be on the Terence Davies film.
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