Monday, mid afternoon in an interview room in Central London, Irish
Director Shimmy Marcus and myself were under the spotlight. My script
Hannah Cohen's Holy Communion had been short listed for the prestigious
Pears Foundation
award. If we managed to answer all questions correctly, the funding
could be ours. Awarded funds we could make the film. If this film was
made... Okay, enough all ready - you get the gist. Basically,
opportunity was flirting, leading me to a summit of change on the
work-front. I gladly followed and, perched precariously upon the apex,
took a backward glance.
A year from here the Glam Rocker did not exist, our eyes yet to meet.
At the time, I was head down in a trough. Pre Glam-Rockdom, I had been
immersed in a world of kisses; in the planting, sowing, harvesting and
reaping of. It was a project born of the heart. Hours, days, months were
spent researching, compiling, collating and classifying kisses for my
last work, entitled
A Compendium of Kisses.
There were also, Jars of Kisses, Kiss Cards and Bespoke Kisses
for the more discerning of lips. Back then my future was mapped in out
in kisses. With lips puckered, I blew them forth and hoped they would
spread as a virus, infecting all with love. Up and down the length of
Britain I, like a grand old Duke marched peddling my thoughts and pecks.
Sadly the fruit of such labours was, to put it succinctly, a massive
smack in the face (as opposed to a smacker) culminating with a most
bitter kiss of death when my charlatan publisher fled into
administration owing myself and many others much.
Shit happens hey?
Yep Life's a Pitch
So.... Back in the present, I was trying to sell my story, hoping my
luck would change. The film tells the tale of a young girl growing up in
Dublin in the mid 70s - emotionally not a million miles away from my
own experience. All she wants to do is make her Holy Communion, only
problem being she's Jewish.
Now the movie world demands swagger and cast iron confidence,
attributes more commonly found in a producer rather than a writer.
Pitching is a skill I lack. Sure enough, the moment I sat in the hot
seat, nerves set in, bravado deserted me and I blustered, flustered and
cheek reddened.
Still, I did the best I could.
Half an hour later, the interview was over. The outcome lay in the lap of the gods.
We were told we would be notified soon enough. Should we win, we
would have to produce, cast, shoot, edit and deliver the finished film
by the end of August. No small feat, especially with a baby on the way.
Almost 13 years ago, the BBC funded my short,
I was the Cigarette Girl.
It was shot the first week of my Teenager's life. I recall arriving
home from hospital to urgent calls from the director, as last minute
changes to the script were required.
Back at the apartment sat tethered to the phone I wondered if history might repeat itself.