Evian spelt backwards is Naïve – Part 1

Do you ever look back on your fledgling years and wonder how the hell you ever made it to now?

I for one, had been raised in a Greek home in South Africa, an environment second only to a convent. I was absolutely not allowed to attend any social functions that weren’t Greek and even those were chaperoned by four large male cousins…just enough to form a human wall around defenseless little me.

It still surprises me to this day then, that after high school, my parents set me free into the world with nothing more than the phrase “You know best.”

Boy, were they wrong!

I have a prime example of my supreme naiveté. This is also one of my more surreal stories and while no-one is going to believe it, I’m going to tell it anyway…just in case any young bucket of sunshine is reading this and can perhaps install a better alarm system in her head than I did.

Several years ago, I lived in Athens and slaved away at many menial jobs until I got into film. One of these jobs was writing the occasional article for magazines or newspapers. My most glamorous assignment had been to attend a press junket on a Greek island for a film premier and to interview the director. The director, who shall remain nameless, also happened to be a major Greek tycoon and a billionaire. Yes, billionaire, with a “b”. He just happened to love filmmaking.

He was a great character, very eccentric and charismatic. I managed to stay in touch and about a year later, I saw the trailer for his film at the movies and e-mailed him. I received the following response:

(Lets call the billionaire “Bob”, shall we.)

Bob: I’m shooting a film with (Hollywood actor who shall also remain nameless) in Ikaria (Greek island about 12 hours from the mainland), you should come and write a story about it. You could stay on my yacht!

Me: Be careful of the offer you make, I may just take you up on it!

Bob: I’m being serious! This is our last weekend here, below is my number, give me a call…

So I called. Now I wasn’t a complete ignoramus; the first thing I asked was who else was staying on the yacht. The connection was bad (with him being on a yacht and all) and I heard him say “It’s my captain…(static)…and me”. To this day I swear, I swear, I heard him say “my girlfriend” under the static. Otherwise I don’t think I would have gone.

When I informed one of my guy friends, Teddy, of my trip, he just shook his head at me. I gave him my Polyanna smile and jumped on the ferry boat. As I nestled in for my overnight ride, I got a message on my phone from Bob: Bring a bikini.

A teeny tiny alarm bell made a few inaudible chimes. But I ignored it and made my way to the island.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dating Diaries - Part 1

Imagine if "Sex and the City" took place in a village...the stories just got a whole lot more interesting, right? So, as a single gal in Cyprus, I couldn't resist sharing some stories from me and my friends, which have aptly been named the "Dating Diaries". Some will make you laugh, some will make you cringe and perhaps some will make you learn...because, as Maya Angelou says, "When you know better, you do better." So....

5am. Phone rings. I bolt upright, get caught in a tangle of sheets, attempt to grab my phone with zero hand-eye coordination at this hour, drop the phone, attempt to scrape it off the ground by leaning over my bed and promptly land on the floor next to the phone. At least I can now answer said phone. Someone’s died. It’s the only reason people call at this hour.

Me: Hello (imagine my voice if I smoked a pack a day)

Anna: Sorry, did I wake you?

Me: (Fortunately people can’t see you roll your eyes through the phone) What’s wrong?

Anna: I did something very stupid.

Me: Aside from waking me up at 5 in the morning?

Anna: I just got home from my date.

Me: What do you mean you just got home? It’s 5 in the…oooh…

Anna: Like I said, I did something very stupid.

Me: Okay walk me through it.

I gather myself back into bed, but I am definitely awake now. I should take a moment to point out that Anna is a dear friend from home who also recently moved to the island. She’s about 29 years old, pretty, smart, confident and considered to be the classic good girl, you know, a little conservative and with a sterling reputation. Being one of her closest friends I know that she’s no virgin, but she has only been intimate with men that she has been in serious relationships with and this comes to a sum total of three. So you can imagine my shock when she tells me that she has put out on the first date. I’d also like to point out that I warned her about this guy. But because I couldn’t say this to her due to the state she was in, I’ll just say it to you to get it out of my system: I told you so!

Anna: I don’t know why I did it! You know me! This isn’t like me! I have never done anything like this!

Me: Honey, relax.

Anna: Such a rookie mistake! I’ll probably never hear from him again. What was I thinking?!

Me: I don’t think thought was a big factor here.

Anna: Do you think that was all he was after?

Me: (I hesitate, but it’s too early for me to be sensitive) Yes.

Anna: Shit.

Me: If it was any other guy, I’d say just take it as it comes, but we all know he’s a player. Okay what happened?

Anna: Well, we went out for drinks and he was so nice and attentive…he said all the right things…

Me: Uh huh…

Anna: He said that he thought marriage and children were a sacred thing and he hoped to have a family of his own one day. Why would he say that?

Me: Because he wanted sex.

Anna: And then his best friend joined us for a bit which I thought was odd for a first date, but then I thought that it was great that he was already introducing me to his friends, right?

Me: No, he just wanted sex.

Anna: And then he took me to this cheesy lookout point on the pier –

Me: Because he wanted sex.

Anna: And we ended up at his place.

Me: Because…well, you get the picture.

Anna: He also did the strangest thing before I decided to go in. He said “you’ll notice how I’m not going to say anything now to influence you. This is totally your decision.”

Me: Ugh, gross. And you still went in after that?! That’s like a responsibility disclaimer!

Anna: I haven’t had sex in two years okay.

And that was that. He actually did call back. They went out on two more dates and then he ended it saying he wasn’t “feeling it”. The sad part is that she was really excited about this date. She spent a week coordinating an outfit and I think she was secretly hoping that this would justify her moving to a new a country, like “Look, I made a big bold change in my life and it paid off! I’ll be married before the year is out!”

As I told her, I actually know several happily married couples who did the horizontal jig on the first date. Of course, unlike her case, neither of the people involved were assholes. It’s always a risk, but I think that deep down you know why the guy is there, you know whether he’s interested in you or just himself. Unfortunately our hearts and hormones get in the way of our better judgment. Live and learn, right?

Don't sweat the small stuff!

So apparently there’s a botox treatment to prevent excessive sweating. Really people? So now women are not allowed to sweat either? We have been mani-pedied, plucked, peeled, lasered, waxed, exfoliated, facialed, dyed, scrubbed and spray-tanned into life-sized Barbie dolls and now we’re not allowed to sweat? And I’m not talking about people with an actual medical condition, I’m talking about people who want to eliminate pit-stains under their arms…heaven forbid should the general public know that you have functioning sweat glands. Come on ladies!

Now, I’m not saying that I’m not guilty of my own array of primping and preening. I’ve lasered my bikini area, an experience second only to a Chinese torture camp. But there is a line…and I think it’s drawn when we start to prevent our body from performing natural functions…like sweating, or frowning.

Here’s a nice little barometer for the ridiculous…my grandmother from the village: a woman plunged in poverty from birth, mother of 6 children, survivor of two wars…now, picture telling her that you want to inject a foreign substance into your body so you don’t get wrinkles or so you don’t sweat. Are you picturing the look on her face? You probably can’t because she’s no longer listening to your nonsense; she’s already gotten up, left the room and gone to deal with the real-life issues of her day.

Now, I’m nervous about aging too, because lets face it, we live in a very superficial society and “pretty” is a very useful asset, whether it’s used for getting free drinks or promotions. But imagine how nice it would be to live in a world where we weren’t defined by out looks…

Well, when it comes to the preening parade, I draw the line at arm-hair. You know, the light fluff on your forearm. I missed the memo when it became unacceptable for women to have ANY visible body hair, including their arms. I’ve given up legs, bikini and underarms…it’s expensive and it hurts like hell. But I draw the line at arms. And aside from being a baby about the pain, I found a far more significant reason for my little boycott, my own baby: my little 5-year old god-daughter.

I can unbiasedly say that she is one of the most beautiful children on earth. She is also a hairy little kid; hairy little arms and legs, much like me; a natural by-product of being Greek, and she gets teased at school about the hair on her arms. The other nasty little girls call her a boy. When she told me this, I looked at her and asked her “Do you think I look like a boy?”, she shook her head, “And is your Nona (Greek for Godmother) not the most beautiful woman ever?” (Kids are susceptible to brainwashing), she grinned and nodded. I then presented my very hairy arms to her. Nothing wrong with hairy arms. And that was the end of that.

Step back ladies, look at the bigger picture, look at yourselves, ALL of yourselves. You are the most exquisite creatures, mind, body and soul. Look after yourselves and try to set a good example for the little girls who look up to you. Lets do away with our standards of superficiality and inject our heads with knowledge, interesting memories, wild experiences and unconditional love…not botox.

(And that’s all my rah-rah for today!)

Offside by Erez Tadmor & Guy Nattiv

Here is another gem by one of my favourite directing duos...bittersweet and comically tragic...

Art imitating life imitating art…

So I’m working on a feature script. It’s sort of a coming-of-age “The Devil Wears Prada” meets “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”…set in Cyprus, of course. I just got off the phone with my script editor after a surreal and infuriating conversation. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was channeling my mother.

Editor: For a romantic comedy, the love interest is introduced too late in the story. We need to flesh out his character more...
Me: It's not a romantic comedy.
Editor: Oh! Really?
Me: Yes. That's why the love interest comes in later. It's a comedy about family and making your dreams come true...the love interest is an interesting complication in the story and a nice bonus at the end, but it's not the focus of the film.
Editor: But no-one cares about her family relations or if she gets her dream job. We want to see her fall in love!

Me: But the whole story is about her choosing her career over her family…

Editor: No-one cares! People want romance, excitement…what kind of a leading lady can’t get a man?!

It starts to get personal for me.

Me: Well that’s not the point of the story.

Editor: Trust me, love stories sell.

Me: Yes, love stories are great, but I think audiences, women especially, are tired of white knights saving them, I want to show this character’s development and how she's accepted by her family and how she's trying to make her dream come true...that's what she wants...
Editor: It may be what she wants, but it's not what she needs. What she neeeeds… is love.

I blink several times. Did I mention that my editor is a man? I’d also like to take this moment to mention that had the protagonist been a man, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Male movie heroes can focus on a career or saving the whole damn planet. Female movie heroes (or should I say, heroines) have to fall in love, otherwise (it would seem) they’re not worth watching.

Me: But it's not a romantic comedy.
Editor: Then maybe you should get rid of the love interest so you don't mislead people.
Me: No! I like the love interest! It's a nice part of the story, it's just not the focus...why can't she have both? A career and a man!
Editor: It's too confusing.

I mention that audiences have managed to keep up with movies where the women got to have both, like “Bridesmaids”, “Morning Glory”, “Miss Congeniality”, “Sex and the City”, to name but a few.

Editor: Look, people want to see a woman fall in love with a man. Think about it.

I did. I kept my heroine. I kept her job. I kept her love interest.

And I got rid of my editor.

Twice Upon a Time

The hardest thing about making a movie is finding the money to make a movie.

Having worked on a couple of productions in Cyprus, it's amazing how creative and resourceful you can get in the face of this obstacle. We may not have the big budgets here, but we have a lot of heart, and humour apparently, which leads to solutions like:

- my 37 first cousins can be unpaid extras
- my mother will cater for the production
- my grandmother won't notice if some of her clothes go missing (period wardrobe)

And so on...and then I look at Hollywood, with all of their resources for creative and original content and what do they come up with? Not one, but TWO Snow White movies and a TV series with the same theme.

Having said that, the excited little movie freak in me is quite keen to see the two interpretations. Judging by the trailers I think "Snow White and the Huntsman" will be the better film, but "Mirror, Mirror" will probably be the bigger hit at the box office because it looks family friendly. Either way, the evil queens have clearly stolen Snow White's thunder and they both should be a fun watch!

Here are the trailers....

"Snow White and the Huntsman" with Charlize Theron (another awesome South African) and Kristen Stewart (running scared through a dark forest...where have we seen this before?) and the delectable Chris Hemsworth of "Thor" fame. Directed by newcomer Rupert Sanders.

"Mirror, Mirror" with the irresistible Julia Roberts, Lily Collins (rising star and daughter of singer Phil Collins) and now appearing as just one person, Armie Hammer of "Social Network" fame. Directed by the visually brilliant Tarsem Singh.

One more time for the cheap seats at the back!

I have always said that what I love about Mediterranean countries like Greece and Cyprus is their authenticity and how real the people are. Sure, you rarely get service with a smile, but at least when there is a smile, it’s genuine and the rest of the time, if said person is having a bad day, they make no attempt to hide it. They don’t coddle you with fake politeness. They’re rude and crass and funny and real. They’ll tell you if they think you look fat or thin without taking your fragile feelings into account and it teaches you to basically grow a thick skin, get over yourself and not sweat the small stuff.

There is one small exception to this rule however, where a little discretion and delicacy would be very much appreciated...Pharmacies. Many years ago, I had a little case of…ahem…thrush. No big deal, common occurrence in most women and I had a prescription for…um…a suppository. So off I trotted to my friendly neighbourhood pharmacy.

Before I continue, I have to point out the unique system of pharmacy working hours we have in Greece and Cyprus. They are not open on a regular basis. That would be too easy. Each neighbourhood is dotted with little pharmacies that work on a shift basis; open on certain days, for certain hours. At any given hour of the day, you can find an open pharmacy, the trick is finding out where it is. To do this, you need to consult a newspaper or call a special number which will list all open stores at that particular hour. You can imagine how much fun this is, especially in the case of an emergency.

Anyway, I found one that was open and I popped in before work to get my…uh…thing. To my absolute delight, there was a sweet old couple behind the counter; the kind that shuffles when they walk and is hard of hearing. There is just one other man in the store. I discretely slide the prescription across the counter to the old man and smile nervously. He puts on his glasses and moves the paper back and forth until it’s in focus. He then says, at full volume (is there any other kind in these countries?) “What’s this? For thrush?”. The other customer looks up. I cringe and mentally will him to keep his voice down, but this only seems to have the opposite effect. He yells to his wife “Get the Canesten for thrush!” and she shuffles into the back, right after giving me a good look up and down.

At this point a mother and her young daughter walk in and stand next to me, followed by another elderly man. The old woman shouts from the back “Does she need the pill or the suppository?” and her husband replies (because I cannot hear this word enough) “the suppository!” I swear the mother nudges her child away from me and it continues: the old woman shouts out “What?” and just for the cheap seats at the back, her husband bellows “the SUPPOSITORY!”

My knuckles have turned white from gripping onto the counter. I fear if I let go I may literally disappear into the floor. They hand me my package and I turn and leave. I’m not sure if I have them to thank for this or the sheer psychological torture of it all, but I never got thrush again.

The brain in love...

We all know these people...in fact, some of us are or have even been in the same situation. We see them walking among us, the glimmer in their eyes, disoriented, unable to focus, often displaying extreme mood swings, laughing one minute, crying the next...they can't sleep or eat and their obsession is all-consuming.

I'm not talking about drug addicts, I'm talking about people in love.

After consoling a friend who couldn't understand why she was behaving like such a lunatic around the new man in her life, I thought I would share the same video I sent her. This is Helen Fisher and she's an anthropologist who specialises in love. She has studied the brain in love and finally has some solid explanations for why we do what we do when we're in love or lust!

Not surprisingly, there are many parallels with actual addiction...enjoy!

You know you’re single when…

Your name is individually called out at the bouquet-toss at a wedding.

I’m not making this up. I was at a wedding recently, one of many this season…and by the way, did I miss a memo or did everyone get married over the last two years? Synchronised matrimony! Whenever somebody had “news”, I knew, without a doubt, that they would flash a sparkly engagement ring at me next. I was getting up to three calls a week from squealing new brides-to-be. And you are, of course, very happy for your friends, but you also start to feel like you’re missing the boat…all your friends are boarding the Nuptials Express and you’re letting it sail by while you smile and wave from the pier.

So there I am at the wedding, having a nice time, despite having being told “Και στα δικά σου!” (“And to your wedding one day!”) repeatedly throughout the night by the elders and it comes to the bouquet- toss…

Now I would like to make a personal appeal to brides everywhere: if you’re of a certain age, and the majority of your guests are already married, and you only have a handful of single girlfriends…a handful of single girlfriends who are fully aware of their single status considering they don’t have a date or dance partner at your wedding, please try not to further parade them in front of all your happily married guests. It was a fun little tradition in our twenties…not so funny anymore. And I say this as a person who loves weddings! I love the romance and magic of it all. I don’t, however, enjoy being herded like cattle so I can catch a bunch of flowers. A suggestion: I went to a lovely wedding where the bride dedicated her bouquet to her maid of honour. No tossing, and it fell into the hands of someone who deserved it.

So there I am, picking the icing off my slice of wedding cake and the announcement for the bouquet-toss is made. I think I’ve made it clear that I avoid this if I can, and there are usually enough girls who get up anyway. Well, not this time. The dance floor remained empty. The announcement was made again. Nothing. This meant one of two things:

a) All the other single women there felt the same as me about this embarrassing tradition, or:

 b) I was, in fact, the only single girl at this wedding.

  

Apparently, the MC opted for option B and proceeded to call me out BY NAME! “Angela! Come on, get up! All the single girls to the dancefloor!” Three hundred pairs of eyes on me (if only I hadn’t just shoveled a spoonful of cake into mouth). I smile stiffly, cheeks bulging with cake, and I give him my best “I’m going to kill you” look. 

The MC takes this as an invitation to call me up AGAIN. So I stand up, for fear that he’ll just keep calling out my name all night. My only saving grace was my two cousins, who already have boyfriends but who joined me anyway because they love me...that, and they understood by my look that they would face dismemberment otherwise. A few more girls got up too; they had only recently hit puberty, but we gathered up a little crowd and the bride tossed the damn bouquet. I watched its trajectory without emotion, or motion for that matter, and then returned to my cake.

Next time I’ll tell you about the tradition of writing single girls’ names on the sole of the bride’s shoe so they can be wiped out by the end of the night. Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up!

The Secret Boyfriend

My father thinks I have a secret boyfriend. He is adamant. Convinced. Every time I go out, dressed to the nines, he smiles in this arrogant, knowing way and asks “What’s his name?”. It was funny the first time, but one year down the line, I have run out of comebacks and I simply end up passionately defending myself, as if he’s just accused me of murder. This, of course, only makes him more certain than ever that I am seeing someone on the sly, and he continues to smile smugly and simply replies, “Next time bring him round so we can meet him…”

And I know you’re thinking this is a cute little joke my father and I share, but it’s not. He really believes I have a boyfriend. He has interrogated my friends, trying to win them over and get them to spill the proverbial beans. They, of course, have nothing to spill, unless he wants a catalogue of bad dating stories. Unfortunately this only encourages him…it must be really serious if even my friends have been sworn to secrecy. So yes, he is convinced, CONVINCED, I have a secret boyfriend.

This is both flattering and infuriating. Flattering, because in my father’s mind, how is it possible that a pretty, intelligent, kind and interesting girl is single. Infuriating, because I agree. Godammit.

Strangers

This is a fantastic short film by Erez Tadmor and Guy Nattiv. It's 7 minutes, totally worth a watch and with a clear message of what can be possible anywhere in the world, including a place like Cyprus...

 

Biltong Girl

You’d think it would be difficult to find a silver lining for those hair-raising, shoulder-hunching, face-cringing moments of embarrassment in life…but I have. When they happen so regularly, you have to. My silver lining is that in time (sometimes a very long time) they will make a good story. Seeing as story-telling is also my meal-ticket, this is rather convenient for me. Who knew you could get paid for being a tit?!

So there I was, at the LA Greek Film Festival; a glittering event on Sunset Boulevard, dressed in my chic little white dress and painfully high heels, grinning and mingling. It was opening night and I was on an absolute high, meaning I was a little more animated than usual…you should know that ‘usual’ could pass for a circus act and often scares little children. There were even a couple of celebrities, so I strategically placed myself between the entrance and the red carpet. I knew about two people there but was doing my best to tally up new acquaintances. So you can imagine how excited I was to see a familiar face! Peter, a client from the company I used to work for in Greece. I hadn’t seen him in about three years, but I always remembered him because he was also from South Africa and he used to tease me about anything related to that, like how much I liked biltong – a spiced dry meat.

So, riding my wave of excitement I rush over to him and squeal hello! In my defense, I had been in the States for a couple of weeks and had had very little contact with home. I got a leetle excited. I hug and kiss him and make a big fuss, like I’m greeting a sibling torn away from me during war, now reunited in a spectacular finale. Naturally he’s a little flustered, so I step back to jog his memory, “It’s me! Biltong Girl!” I announce. “Oh yes!” he smiles, “how are you?”. He then introduces me to his young daughter who is accompanying him. I continue with my giddy conversation, “So what are you doing here?” I gush, “Oh I try to support every year,” he explains. The last I knew, he was living in Greece. “So you’re based in LA now?” He furrows his brow a little and replies, “Yes, for several years now”. I continue to chatter like a monkey, barely stopping for a breath and when his eyes start darting around (presumably for an escape route) I gracefully let him go and assure him that “We’ll catch up at the after-party!”

Fast forward to a few hours later. I’m at the after-party, leaning over the bar waiting for my drink, when I see Peter in the distance. I’m about to start waving frantically when I’m hit with a spontaneous, mind-splitting moment of brilliant clarity: it’s not Peter. It’s not Peter at all. It’s Tony Dimera from Days of Our Lives! 

Oh sweet Jesus. That would explain why I recognized him! It wasn’t from real-life, but from those distant teenage years of watching him on television (he did have a striking resemblance to Peter though). But the worst is not over. As my hand, mid-wave, lowers itself to the bar, my eyes widen as I replay the afternoon encounter…no wonder he didn’t recognize me! And I asked him all those stupid questions, like whether he lived in LA…well yes! Considering he’s a famous soap opera actor!! Ten minutes I rambled on and on, the hugs, the kisses, the…oh my God…I introduced myself as Biltong Girl!!! Biltong Girl?! He doesn’t even know what biltong is!! Seeing as he’s from LA, not South Africa, not Greece. What kind of an unstoppable moron calls themselves Biltong Girl?! To anyone! Let alone a TV celebrity! By now I have buried my face in my hands and have ordered another drink. He must have thought I was a complete lunatic, but he politely sat and spoke with me while all the normal people sat on the sidelines.

I avoided him for the rest of the night and learnt two valuable lessons:

1. You can talk to anyone in the world if you are convinced enough that you know them

2.  There is never a good time to call yourself “Biltong Girl”. Ever.

Inspired

Another beautiful, sunny day in Cyprus...despite the fact that it's officially winter! So I'll be venting/musing/rambling about the nuances of island life on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays...Tuesdays and Thursdays will be for fun items that will make you smile, think or just procrastinate even longer from what you should be doing!

Today I have to share a great little gem from Kevin Spacey...and this applies to anyone, no matter what you're doing in life...

Attack of the bushy eyebrows!

You may have picked up (with your whiling investigative skills) that I am 30 years of age and…ahem…living at home. I can explain.

I’m a filmmaker…anybody in the arts wouldn’t need further explanation, but I’ll elaborate for those of you who had the good sense to get normal jobs. I’m trying to get a feature film made in Cyprus. This could be a very lucrative venture, but until it becomes lucrative, it yields nothing. So the only way I can afford to do this is by moving in with my parents. True story. For the record, I’ve been on my own since the age of 17, so this is going to be an interesting adjustment. And just as a reminder for those of you who missed last week’s episode, my parents are Greek Cypriots, which pretty much makes them the gold medalists in the parenting Olympics…this is not a good thing.

Example: one fine morning I saunter past the bathroom (there’s only one in the house, another fun challenge) and I see my father engaged in the most bizarre activity. Before I continue, I feel that you may need a visual: I call my dad ‘Humpty-Dumpty’, not to his face of course, although it really is a term of endearment, he’s kind of short and round…hence the sophisticated nickname. He is also one of those fortunate men who never went bald and not only did he keep the hair on his head, but on his eyebrows as well. In fact, I think his eyebrows are in a race to see which one will get to his chin first…I think the left one’s winning. They’re long and black and bushy…it’s like living with Martin Scorcese. I never considered how he groomed these bushels of hair, but today I found out…

He brushes them…with a toothbrush…MY toothbrush!!!

Me: DAD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!

Dad: What?!

Me: That’s my toothbrush!!

I snatch it from his hands and start picking at it.

Dad: No it’s not!

Me: Yes it is! It’s pink and it’s the only one with a cap on it! None of the other toothbrushes have caps! You would have to pick it up and remove the cap so you can use it!! Gross Dad!!

Dad: Well how am I supposed to know that was yours?!

(I thought I just answered that question)

Me: How long have you being using this?

With this he trundles out the bathroom muttering to himself.

I now keep my toothbrush in my bedroom. In a toiletry bag…on the far end of a shelf…in the cupboard.