No secret that the movie business is more and more moving to China, but it's not until you go there to work on a movie that you see why.
Whole towns have been constructed purely for movie making with each proprietor trying to outdo the last. The extravagance really knows no limits and with a total lack of building codes, whatever you can imagine can be built in 24 hours.
For example I took a tour through an entire hotel built out of PVC pipe in 16 hours. It still smelled like purple glue! My tour guide was telling me how Martin Scorsesse had the whole thing built for a film that was only released in Sweden. Apparently the Swedes have so much national pride that not a single copy has been leaked abroad. Whatever, I don't even like Scorsesse, over-rated gum-flapping eyebrow generator.
Anyway, I was there making a film with a supposed up and comer film maker whose method doesn't seem like would produce the best possible results.
I asked him for my script.
"No scripts, all improv." He said.
"Ok what is the story." I asked.
"No story just life." He said.
"So is this a documentary? You want me to just be myself?"
"No, I want you to IMPROV."
"You mean you want me to write your movie for you." I didn't really say that - but I should have.
Normally I'd be interested in this sort of thing but the dude really didn't have his shit together. The pay was crap and he had plenty of other "actors" milling about trying to write his movie for him as well so I told him I needed my "special movie pants" that I left back at the hotel. Really I just wanted to explore the crazy movie sets around town.
I got a little lost on the way back to the hotel, made a wrong turn into the underbelly of a replica soccer stadium. There was a big fat black kid walking right next to me. Whenever I increased my pace, he increased his, if I slowed, he slowed too. He was a cute kid about 8 years old or so but it was still annoying. We ended up in a full on sprint down one of the longest hallways I have ever seen. Guess I'm more competitive that I like to admit. Well at least against fat black children anyway. We both pretended we weren't completely winded. His wheezing was slightly louder than mine which means I WON.
It took me hours to finally retrieve my special movie pants. On the way back I stopped to get a hot cookie at the mall. I didn't really need a hot cookie but something about my genetics causes me to sabotage anything that requires me to adhere to a schedule. FUCK YOUR SCHEDULE I WILL GET THERE WHEN I'M READY LIKE AFTER I HAVE A HOT COOKIE!
Oh yeah I got ahead of myself. Back at the hotel I ran into Rufus Wainright who always seemed like a nice enough fella for a whiney gay. We chatted for a minute. Apparently he lives there. I could see in his room that he had a big custom canopy bed made in the style of a frenchy bombay hutch, it was all inlaid veneer with gilding and such, but the weird part were the old style oil paintings in the inset curvy panels which I am told were paintings of his adolescent nephews as cherubs.
That's kinda creepy even for a homo if you ask me. HI MICHAEL JACKSON!
Anyway, when I finally returned to the set hours later nothing had really progressed. The filmmaker was doing an awful job directing anything interesting. I certainly was not in the mood to take initiative to make his film any better. I'll do my own film if I have to put forth that kind effort thanks.
Instead I just took a seat by one of my friends and I let her talk shit about one of my other friends. She was calling her fat and such, she wasn't much skinnier, but whatever, like I'm gonna get in THAT conversation.
Nobody ever said I don't lead a pretty gay lifestyle.
I never got called to be on camera which is exactly what I PRETENDED I wanted.
Point is:
BEG ME A LITTLE FOR FUCK'S SAKE.
That's all for now.
Don't get caught forgetting to write the last part of your stupid rigidly formatted sign off on the last blog post.
Your 8th Favorite material for a gay looking 3 piece suit,
Pink Velvet
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