On a Stage, Talking Movies

On Thursday night, I found myself on a stage talking about movies. And, never wishing to overexplain any situation, that is where the title of this week’s blog post comes from.

‘But how did this come about?’ I hear you cry. And I would gently exhort you to calm down a little because you’ve been quite stressed lately and it’s worrying me. Go and have a green tea or a lie down or something and come back and read the rest of this later. We’ll all still be here.

Better?  Good.

This ‘Celebration of Mayo Indie Short Films and Filmmakers’ was the brainchild of Carnacon’s Ruaidhrí Hallinan, who co-wrote and co-produced the excellent short film ‘Where the Old Man Lives’ along with Kilmaine's Eamonn Keane. This short film was directed by Sonya O’Donoghue and it stars Michael Harding, Ruth McCabe, and Michael Patric. 

Ruaidhrí, who I very much enjoyed meeting on the night, is a virtual powerhouse of creative filmic energy. In an answer to an audience question, he described producing as the hardest-by-far part of getting a film made. This is not hard to believe as Ruaidhrí carries with him a drive and enthusiasm for his work that is both impressive and mildly contagious… I need to get something done, like now! In one recounted story, Ruaidhrí described how he tried to get hold of a contact number for the an elusive and brilliant actor and eventually tracked him down by schmoozing a helpless temporary intern on a phone. In the very nicest possible way, the story evoked for me an image of Brian Cox in Manhunter; “I'll bet you have a call caddie right next to your phone… well zip that little pointer right on down to the letter 'H'.

‘Where the Old Man Lives’ is a very fine short film. It deals with subjects that are highly relevant to the modern Irish rural community. Themes of loneliness, isolation, societal fear, and aging. It is beautifully produced, written, and exceptionally well performed by a glowing cast. It was the final film shown at our film evening and you should check it out when you get a chance. I feel sure it will come your way.

Ruaidhrí devised the evening around this fine film and he generously sought out a number of other County Mayo Film People to come and show our wares and to share the event with him. This was an act of generosity combined with an accurate realisation that audiences enjoy a well-curated selection of short films with the added fun of meeting the film makers. This was borne out by a full-house audience in the Linenhall Arts Centre and a very warm and enthusiastic response to the evening as a whole.

There were four films shown in all and each of them stood out in their own way. One of them stood out, for me in particular, because I wrote it - but we’ll get to that. The evening was MCed by Cróna Esler, who I’ve known for a long while and who played her customary blinder in keeping everything rolling smoothly and keeping us all (mostly) in check.

The first film was ‘Rapacious’ written, directed, and produced by Eamonn Keane. For me, this was the most beautiful of the four films. Imagery, photography, and sound were of an extraordinarily high quality and as a showcase for the super digital projection facilities at The Linenhall, it was the perfect choice. A lot of the audience would have been familiar with the Moore Hall location in which it was shot but I feel a viewer who did not know the area would be struck by the beauty and colour of the world where the film is set and the shocking incongruity of the ruined mansion rising out of the woods.

The third film was ‘Vanilla’ and one of the absolute highlights of the evening was getting to meet writer and director Tony O'Donnell. I think Tony kind-of won the evening in many ways. His easy going, slightly laid back approach to the interview and Q&A session engaged everyone in the nicest possible way. However, behind the gentle exterior lies a considerable writing and directing talent. Tony assembled a cast for his very first short film that is nothing short of astonishing and when one sees the quality of writing in his film, one understands why they all journeyed down to a much-loved Belmullet pub for two days filming with a man who had never made a film before. They obviously saw what we, the audience, saw the other night. A slice of raw filmic talent with a world of possibilities now unfolding in front of him.

Heady stuff.

The second film was ours, and by ‘ours’ I mean director Richard Keaney’s and mine. Well, I’m only the writer so it’s Richard’s film really but let’s not argue about it.’ Joey Had Never Been Out of the City’ has been around the festivals now. It’s won awards for acting and writing and it even won Best International Short at the Bedford film festival, which was darned nice of them. This is my second cinematic collaboration with Richard and we’re both working hard to do more. We did ‘Getting In’ a few years ago and that did well at festivals too. This was my first time to see ‘Joey’ on a big screen and with the added bonus of an audience of nearly two hundred people. It was a buzz for sure. In the interview/Q&A, afterward, I did my usual schtick, I’m not the best at selling myself or bigging myself up but I’m proud of what Richie and I have pulled off here, with practically zero resources and a lot of help from industry friends: a little film that plays and works well.

If you want to know about me, you can read the 800,000 or so words that sit on this darned blog. There’s plenty about me here, if you want it, but that’s quite enough about me for now.

Some words about Richard Keaney are in order though.

Richard is pure filmmaker at heart. As long as I’ve known him, which must be the best part of twenty years, cinema, and everything cinematic has been a huge part of his life. His knowledge of the medium is Wikipediac (did I just make that word up?) and he sees everything, considers everything, and remembers everything. He even works in the medium.

He is driven to make movies and, more importantly, to make the best movies he can. Richard is  still a  very young man. We met when he acted as a teen in a number of my theatre plays. He shared those stages with virtual unknowns such as Sally Rooney. Even then, the love of film was abundantly clear. I wrote a part in my favourite teen play ‘Midnight in the Theatre of Blood’ to reflect his movie-buff character and he played the part. 

Apart from the films he has made from my own scripts, he has also written and directed ‘Scope,’ ‘Late Arrivals’ and ‘Recoil’ among others.

On a personal level, Richard is the gentlemanliest (did I make that word up too?), kindest, most generous, most enthusiastic person you could ever hope to meet. I think the main thing Richard and I share is a quiet but driving ambition to make the very best film that we can. It’s as simple as that. 

Richard has the talent to be a great film maker. But is there more that can be done to help him, and all the other upcoming film makers, achieve this goal?

If there was an overarching theme to the evening, I feel that this was it. 

There are a number good funding schemes for short and feature films here in Ireland but, by understandable necessity, that funding tends to go to people and bodies who are already three or four steps down the road. The most wonderful initiative would be one that provided some funding opportunities for those who are just one or one-and-a-half steps down the same road. People who have already shown enough commitment and passion to make a short film or two. Not beginners, not without evident talent, but just needing a small-but-crucial boost and a modicum of encouragement to be able to push on through. To go that little bit bigger and that little bit better.

The difference between me being a writer every day and not being a writer at all was, I feel, just a few small comradely claps on the back from people who knew their stuff. If there was such a thing as that for the wonderful, driven film makers who can’t quite yet convince the established funding programmes to take them on… well, I think that would be a fine, fine, thing. 

If in doubt that this could work, just seek out see the work that is being done these days, here in Mayo and all over the place, with zero help and practically zero budget, by people who know their stuff and who are driven to do it well. A couple of grand might make their next project possible. It might even make their next project their best project yet. Think about it.

Thanks very much to everyone who made Thursday night possible.

It was pretty good, wasn’t it?

Misheard Prayers

Growing up Roman Catholic, going to all the ceremonies, serving my time as an altar boy, I knew all the moves and, mostly, I still do. I still know all the prayers too, although they change the words around a little from decade-to-decade, just to remind me that I’m no longer down with the religious kids.

We all had the famous prayers off-by-heart, of course. The Hail Marys and Our Fathers were embedded in there by decades of rosaries (sorry for repeating the word ’decade’ so soon but that’s what rosaries are called… decades). But there were also the ‘harder’ prayers, the ones that you started off quite boldly reciting but, by the middle, an uncertainly about how it actually went. These prayers, ones like ‘The Memorare’ or ‘Hail Holy Queen’ are still belted out today, more often than not at the end of a good funeral. They contain phrases like ‘Despise not my petitions’ and ‘Turn, then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us.’ Good stuff like that.

Both of these prayers, and others like them, subscribed to a view of Mary, the mother of Jesus as a sort of a holy intermediary. She is often called on the step-in or ‘intercede’ when a good prayer does not seem to be hitting the mark. The idea, for my Mum at least, was that Jesus and God were often tied up with the big stuff and sometimes didn’t catch the littler pleas. But a word to Mary, who seemed to have time on her hands for this kind of thing, could often bring a solid result. Mary could catch Jesus on a little down-time and gently ‘nudge’ him a bit. “Did you notice that Josephine was asking if her son could do okay in his Junior Cert Exams? I know, I know, it’s manic, but maybe a little something for her? B-Minus, maybe?"

I mention these ‘hard’ prayers because something reminded me of them but, more particularly, something reminded of how I misunderstood one line in one of them when I was small. Although I now know the right words, the old misheard words seem to almost mean more to me, even now.

In 'Hail Holy Queen' the often quoted phrase ‘Valley of Tears’ or ‘Vale of Tears’ pops up. But that’s not it. Right before that phrase, the prayer confirms to Mary that it is indeed, “To thee do we send up our sighs.” When I was small, I clearly understood this line as being ‘To thee do we send up our size.” This was not even a mystery to me. We were sending our measurements up to Mary so that, when we inevitably arrived in heaven, we would have a fine set of afterlife garments all ready-made for us. Maybe even, if we were very good, a pair of wings, made to measure.

If these words ever come up, at a funeral, as they more increasingly do, I always think about scribbling down my inside leg measurement, on a post-it note, and sending it up the chimney and into the waiting arms of Holy Mary. It tends to lighten the severity of the moment, if only temporarily.

Rereading those old prayers for this piece, and looking more carefully at the words, I am reminded of how we reeled off the prayers without really thinking too hard about what we were saying in them. It’s been instructive to read them slowly and to consider the import of the words. One of them asks to be ‘delivered from present evils’ and, God knows, who doesn’t want that? And, of course, if God doesn’t know, a word in Mary’s ear probably won’t go amiss.

It’s like that with Shakespeare too, I find. You can read the words, learn them, and recite them, but if every word doesn’t mean something, if every sentence doesn’t bind together into a coherent thought in your own head, then your reading of them won’t mean anything to anyone who hears you do it.

The same thing with music. I played the accordion when I was a child and I could read the notes off the page and play them in the time required. But, sometimes, I couldn’t actually hear the tune I was playing. It was just a jumble of correctly followed notes. There’s a middle bit in The Blue Danube that was like that for me. Dah dump dah, daaaah da dump dah dah dah. I played it right but it made no sense to me or to anybody else. Then I heard it played right and then I knew what it was and then, when I played it, I could hear it and other people knew it too.

When a good actor performs or reads Shakespeare, and they understand what they are saying (they sometimes don’t) then I have a much increased chance of understanding it too.

So it is with Music and Shakespeare…

And with Prayers…

And with the News…

Nodding and Smiling

I very much don’t want to write anything this morning.

Almost any other option seems considerably more attractive. I could cut the grass; except it’s been raining overnight so not really. I could watch an episode of Poker Face, although the last one I watched didn’t scale any heights. I could empty the dishwasher (it has to be done sooner or later). I could do… dozens of things, really, all surprisingly gleaming and attractive in comparison to sitting here and tapping out words on a screen.

Yet here I am.

It’s what I have to do. Call me a writer, don’t call me a writer. I do both to myself with regularity. I may be, I may not be, but there’s no denying I have the heart of a writer. And if I don’t write for the simple reason that I don’t want to, then it will come back to make me uncomfortable, much in the same way that failing to shower or to brush one’s teeth can.

Usually the Saturday/Sunday blog commitment comes very easily. At this stage I have a sort of ‘writing callus’ that means I can dash off a thousand words on something-or-other without breathing hard. But usually, I have a fair idea what I’m going to be writing about so I sit and dash it off then tidy it up then tidy it up some more and then hit ‘send.’ It’s these weeks, when I haven’t quite landed on something specific that I’d like to write about, that’s when the niggly little voice says, “Hey, Ken, here’s an idea, don’t write anything at all. Put the bins out.”

It’s actually not too bad when I don’t have a specific idea for my 1,000 words. I can usually manage and work around that. It’s when there’s a few little ideas crashing around all at once and none of them are stepping forward for active duty. That’s when things can get a little fraught. A wiser blogger than me would note these little crashing ideas down and use them as tinder for the next few blog posts over the coming weeks. But that’s not how I roll here. If I start to plan it, it becomes something different. It’s really got to be a fast spilling of a fairly random idea or else it just seems to become some kind of technical exercise rather than a creative one. Does that even make sense? Who cares? Typing it out was better than wheeling the green bin out to the street.

Among the ideas vying to be written about today was a little bit about the cat and how she always seems to effortlessly choose the option that is most troublesome to me. A brief example: I was at home the other day and so the cat was welcome to occupy her basket in the hall and have a nice leisurely duvet day. The cat’s response, ‘Me? In that thing? Today? No sirree!” The day after, I had to get to the office in a rush and the cat is there on the door step, overnight valise packed. “I’m ready for a full day in my lovely basket now, so get out of my way!” Cats, eh?

I was also contemplating writing a bit about Bluesky, which I now use in place of Twitter, which I don’t use anymore. It’s quite good but there is a lack of engagement, for me at least, on there. No matter what I say, the same couple of kindly souls will give some indication that they’ve seen it. As for the rest of the online community, the impression is that either a) the post is not being seen or b) it is so mortifyingly awful that the sooner we move on and forget it, the better for everyone. I find, the only way to continue to survive on there is to visualise your silent cohort seeing what you’ve typed and quietly nodding and smiling to themselves. Subtly appreciating what you’ve said and the engaging way in which you’ve said it. Just a bit too busy with other things to ‘like’ or ‘share’ or respond to it. But still a nod and a smile.

That’s why I called this piece ‘Nodding and Smiling.’ That title, and the vague idea, was all I had when my fingers landed on the keyboard, ten or twelve minutes ago. I knew it wasn’t enough for a full post but I figured it would turn up somewhere in here. That’s how it works for me. I find a thought and I build something up around it. Like those little fresh water worm creatures that build a shell of sand granules and tiny pebbles around themselves. 

Gosh, I haven’t thought of them in decades. Are they even still a thing? We used to find them under rocks in the Back River, when we were kids, and peel off their thin layer of ‘sand skin’ and put them on our fishing hooks as tasty bait. EDIT I looked them up. They're called Caddis Flies and, yes, they're still a thing. That's a photo of one on top of the post.

That’s how the writing gets progressed. Some tiny, fleshy, squirming idea gets bits of debris added to it, to build on and protect. And maybe someday someone will find the idea under a rock in a shallow stream and they will peel the shell off and hook it and we’ll go together and catch a big fish with it.

There! (Dusts off hands). Done!

I can go and mow the lawn and wheel the bin out now though, somehow, I don’t want to do any of that anymore. For me at least, writing can’t be about wanting to do it or needing to do it or wishing I had done it or berating the fact that I didn’t do it.

I just have to do it. 

That’s all.