Model Citizen

Yesterday I found out what it must feel like to be a newborn giraffe.

Let me backtrack. As part of my shameless self-promotion campaign while I try to raise fund for my first feature film, I was interviewed by two local magazines and asked to do a photo shoot. That’s right, I would be stepping in the unchartered territory known as “in front of the camera”. How difficult could it be though?

First I was shuffled into the make-up room where I was met by a make-up artist I had worked with on a previous production…and by “worked with” I mean tortured on a daily basis to get the actors ready faster and faster each day due to a pressured schedule. He smiled as I sat down and, before we knew it, as he delicately painted my face, the photographer started rushing him along. So that’s what it feels like; interesting table-turning experience.

Then, as I sat waiting for my magical transformation, a flurry of people walked in, the editor, the art director... fussing over the clothes I would wear with the stylist and I vaguely remember the editor coming up to me and saying “Darling, for the second shoot, I want to see you crazy! Insane! Okay?” 

What?

I should mention the clothes. So we had two spreads to do, one would be jeans and a top and the other, a wedding dress to match the theme of my film. It’s fitting that the first time I ever wore a wedding dress would be for a photo shoot and not my actual wedding. But the dress wasn’t the problem. After sucking myself into python-like jeans and a lacy pink top, I was presented with the world’s most ridiculous shoes. Okay, perhaps not the most ridiculous, but bad for me, a girl who lives in her flip flops and sneakers. They were black velvet platform wedges; and when I say 'platform', I mean 'put-the-seventies-to-shame-platforms' and when I say ‘wedges', I mean '90-degree-angle-wedges'. The best part was that the sole of the shoe tapered into what felt like a pinpoint, so it was smaller than the base. Hence the newborn giraffe motif. I was wobbly on flat ground, but once we were out in our location: a field in the middle of nowhere with gale-force winds, someone was deliberately assigned to holding me upright and just letting go the moment we had to take the photo!

Oh and I have to mention the best part…as if the shoes were not ridiculous enough, the stylist had to tape pads to the soles to keep them clean. Yes, as in Always-Ultra-Dry pads! No wings. So for anyone who ever thought modeling was glamorous, try standing in padded stilts in the middle of a field while a herd of goats walks by. Did I mention the goats? I swear I’m not making this up. Only in Cyprus is a shoot interrupted so a herd of goats can pass through. I suppose we were in a field. In Cyprus. It was inevitable.

Finally the fluffy white dress came on and fortunately for me, the theme was ‘Runaway Bride’ so they made me wear sneakers (or tackies as we would say in South Africa). This is where I gained new-found respect for models. I stood in the field, with my back to the photographer and these were my instructions: Gather your dress, turn your body towards me with your right leg and take a step forward like you’re about to run, but don’t run, stoop your body forwards but not too low, not too high either, shoulder down, chin up, look forward and laugh. And go!

What the hell kind of pose is that?! Seeing as it was already a day for animal impressions, I think this move could only be described as ‘funky chicken’. The photographer giggling wasn’t helpful either and his gleeful statement “I swear I’m not laughing at you,” was very unconvincing. But he somehow managed to get some nice shots, so I forgave him.

So that’s it for my modeling career folks! Who would have thought making a movie could get so complicated…and there are more fashion-related events to come (where I will thankfully be behind the scenes) so stay tuned!

And if you're curious as to what all this is for, check out the link: 

http://www.indiegogo.com/committed

Committed

There's a great saying that goes:

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans...

Well, he must think I'm a riot! Up until recently, I was counting on a nice funding package so I could direct my first feature film in Cyprus. I'd been working towards this for the last two years (if you don't count the many years of build up and paying dues before that). Then lo and behold, the omnipotent crisis found the shores of Cyprus and those funds disappeared. And my whole life plan went *poof*

However, being the bright-eyed optimist that I am, I decided to find the opportunity within the situation and that's how the low budget feature film "Committed" was born. I sat down, wrote something that could be shot beautifully on a shoe-string budget and I have now reached the stage where the script is ready and fundraising has begun!

It's best explained on our funding video on indiegogo.com. Check out the link and become a part of my Plan B!

http://www.indiegogo.com/committed

Think Before You Speak

Think before you speak. The instruction is simple enough. Theoretically, we think faster than we speak, so our mouths shouldn't be able to beat our minds to the punch (or punchline in this case). And yet...

Here are some humdingers:

How many months are you?
I'm not pregnant.

And you must be her father.
No I'm her husband.

What a cute little baby boy!
That's a girl.

The list goes on and we've all uttered them. But my all-time favourite comes from my university days in Grahamstown, South Africa. It was my first year and we had a dress-up party with the theme "When I Grow Up..." So we had a fun combination of costumes ranging from surgeons to trailer trash. My good friend Nicky (this may or may not be her real name) went for a classic: the fireman. Never one to do half-measures, she somehow talked an actual fireman into lending her his uniform; the full outfit complete with the shiny red helmet. Needless to say, she looked great and we had a fun night.

The next day, I walked her down to the fire station so she could return the uniform. I just want to mention at this point that we lived in a tiny student town where any faux pas was magnified and rumours spread like wildfire (note the theme-relevant metaphor).

So in we go to the fire station - and you really have to picture this to get the full impact of the story. Two pretty little girls walking into an area filled with strapping young firemen all striding about purposefully. As we enter, they all come to a perfect standstill, like a flash mob in reverse, and stare at us. I should also mention that Nicky had her arms stretched out in front of her, balancing the neatly folded uniform and the shiny helmet as if they were a sacred offering. She had also included a slab of chocolate to say thank you. So, two little girls with a uniform and helmet standing in the fire station.

Finally the captain comes up to us to ask if he can help.

Nicky: Is John here?
Captain: No, he's off today.

And here is the beautiful moment where her mouth raced to finish line, leaving her mind far in distance, powerless to stop her. With all the firemen listening intently, she hands over the uniform and says to the captain:

"Please give these to John and tell him thanks for last night."

End of story. I won't elaborate on the collective facial expressions of the men, or how quickly we turned and walked out of there. All she had to say for herself after that was:

"You better pray we never have a fire because we can NEVER call the fire brigade again!"

A comeback...unlike John Travolta's, but a comeback nonetheless!

I have no excuse. Actually I have several very good excuses for my absence, but I won't bore you with those now (I'll save them for later).

So I'm back. With a refreshing new colour and *gasp* my identity revealed. I'll let you absorb the shock, which I'm sure can only be compared to discovering who Batman really is or who shot JR. I wanted to use a pseudonym so I could freely tell my stories, but considering my readership comprises solely of close family and friends who all know it's me, it was fairly pointless. Plus I have an exciting new project coming up that I'd like to share as...well...me.

I will, however, continue to use fictional names for the friends in my stories so that none of them abandon me or kill me in a fit of rage.

Where have I been all this time you may ask? I've been working like a demon on film productions in Cyprus. But now all is quiet and we can catch up on stories.

Also, with the crisis finally hitting the shores of our island, things in the film industry have seriously slowed down, which is why it's time to put our big-girl panties on and make a plan. My plan comes in the form of a low budget feature film...but more on that later.

I'll be checking in every Friday (or once a week at any rate!)

It's good to be back!

Movie Moments - Don Juan DeMarco

In the spirit of today...

Thursday Thought

Big dreams take Big time...apologies for neglecting the blog a little...I'll be back on track soon!

Hope this inspires you! Scary is good...it reminds you that you're alive!

Either that, or I'm just a megalomaniac...hmmm.

Emergency Blog Kitten

Due to a very...um...adventurous week in Cypriot filmmaking, I have neglected my blog. Apologies.

So until I can regroup next week, I'm pulling out the 'Emergency Blog Kitten'.

Aw, look how cute...see you next week!

Dating Diaries - to fake or not to fake?

I couldn't resist adding another clip from the ultimate dating movie "When Harry Met Sally" with regards to educating ourselves on the opposite sex. Last week, Harry explained why men and women can't be friends. This week, Sally explains how all women at some point have 'faked it'. I don't really need to say any more, I think this scene says it all...

Trivia: the woman at the end of the scene is director Rob Reiner's mother.

Thursday Thought

Movie Moments - The Legend of 1900

"The Legend of 1900" is one of the most profound films I have ever seen. Its director is also one of my heroes: Guiseppe Tornatore (Cinema Paradiso, Malena), not to mention the soaring soundtrack by musical genius Ennio Moricone. The film comes together in one monologue at the end, which explains the exquisite torture that is life and meaning.

I have included the trailer underneath and then the monologue below that.
Do NOT watch the monologue if you haven't seen the whole film.


The Trailer

The Monologue (SPOILER ALERT)

Drama Queen

Greek mothers can be dramatic at the best of times. They’re like opera divas who never made it on stage so they exercise their graphic facial expressions, giant gestures and powerful vocal chords on their families. Their range of emotions, from fiery tigress to guilt-inducing martyr, would rival those of Callas. It’s very entertaining and makes for good stories…like this one:

Several years ago, shortly after receiving my driving license, I borrowed my mother’s car to go to the movies. This was the first and last time I would ever touch this car. My mother can only drive automatic cars so my father had bought her this beautiful, white, sleek Toyota Camry when they first came out in South Africa. She kept it in mint condition, so I when I got behind the wheel, I received a slew of instructions on how to drive it. “Relax ma,” I said with teenage arrogance, “I think I know what I’m doing.” And off I went.

The cinema was about 20 minutes from our house. I went there and back without a hitch…or so I thought. The main instruction my mother had given me was to leave the car at the bottom of the incline in front of our garage and she would take care of the uphill reverse parking herself. Just to set the scene for you, we lived in a complex with other town houses, so right in front of our garage was the neighbour’s house, surrounded by a wall.

I leave the car in front of the garage, as instructed, and get out. My mother bursts through our front door with a tortured look on her face and screams hysterically “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO THE CAR?!!”. 

Act One. 

Momentarily distracted by her flapping hands, alternating between summons to God and burying themselves in her hair, I suddenly notice that reams of white smoke are coming out from the back tires of the car! What the…

My mother circles the car and I duck back inside to see what I did. I then notice that the hand brake was up…and that it had been up for the full 20-minute drive home! My stomach sinks to my toes and I get out the car to face her wrath. I explain what happened. “YOU’VE DESTROYED THE CAR!!” Tears glaze over her eyes and her voice starts to break. 

I should mention that my mom is the embodiment of the phrase ‘dynamite comes in small packages’. She is a tiny, petite lady who is usually timid by nature, so this performance was quite enthralling for me. I should also mention that my natural reaction to stressful situations (and this is really something that will be the end of me one day) is to giggle.

“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?!” she implores me, her voice several octaves higher than when she started. My only response is to contort my face in an attempt to keep a smile from creeping across, as well as an escaped snort to keep the giggles back. Now, if you’ve ever been hopping mad at someone and they laugh at you, death by a stiletto heel is usually the next response. Her eyes widen and I run into the house, muttering “I’m sorry” in between muffled bouts of laughter. 

Act Two.

I spend a few minutes composing myself in the house, take a deep breath and get ready to go outside and face my mother. Before I get to the door, it bursts open again, and there’s my mother, at the absolute pinnacle of her nerves.

“Not only did you destroy the car, but you WRECKED THE NEIGHBOUR’S WALL!!!”

Act Three. The Grand Finale.

“What are you talking about?” I sputter. The giggles are gone now. I go outside and I see that our car has crashed through a section of the neighbour’s wall and is resting in their yard.

Apparently, despite the fact that the car was smoking as a result of its brake-pads been worn down to nothing, my mother thought it would be a good idea to reverse it up a hill into our garage. Naturally, half-way up the hill, the brakes gave out and the car rolled right into, or rather through, the neighbour’s wall. This was, of course, my fault.

She finally calmed down. The car was saved and I had to personally apologise to the neighbour and make up for damages. It may have all been worth it, just for that performance, which, still makes me giggle. And, I have NEVER left the handbrake up again!

Dating Diaries - Man, Woman, Friend?

Men and women can’t be friends. Many will argue vehemently against this, but it’s true. Let me clarify…men and women can’t be friends unless the love/lust/sex issue has been resolved, which means that either they were involved/attracted and it didn’t work out, or one or both of them is involved with someone else or one or both of them is gay. A single man and a single woman who appear to be genuinely just good friends – not real. At least that’s my take on it. Mine and Billy Crystal’s.

“When Harry met Sally” was possibly the first honest romantic comedy to come our way. Writer Nora Ephron and director Rob Reiner sat and discussed every myth and misconception they had about the other gender, from friendship to faking orgasms, and they delivered a classic movie about dating and relationships.

So, in their words, as delivered by the sublime Billy Crystal and the precocious Meg Ryan, here is why men and women just can’t be friends…in two parts...

Thursday Thought

Choosy Ears

I’m told, particularly by my married friends, that men have selective hearing. 

A woman will walk into the bathroom, see a puddle of clothes on the floor, infuriatingly close to the laundry basket, and yell at her husband in exasperation, “YOU think of ME as the maid! You take your clothes off, throw them on the floor and think that they’ll magically make their way into the basket!! I’m sick of picking up after you!!”

She finishes her tirade, exasperated, and is surprised to see an expression of anticipation on her husband’s face. The reason for his eager smile is selective hearing, because all he got from that speech was: “You…me…clothes off…on the floor!”

My father is also proof that men suffer from selective hearing.

When my parents moved into their new house, my mother gave my father the task of updating our address with the electricity company. She gave him the water bill (which had the new address on) to take with as a reference. She explained that he needed to go down to the electricity company and show them the new address on the water bill so they could update their records. He nodded irritably saying that he would take care of it.

What did he do? He went and paid the water bill.

Selective hearing, must be a nice way to live.

Movie Moments - In the Land of Blood and Honey

A movie with a message...this is the trailer for "In the Land of Blood and Honey" written and directed by the formidable Angelina Jolie. It was recently nominated for best foreign language film at this year's Golden Globes.

Dating Diaries - Proxi Queens

If you’re a single girl in Cyprus, there is one call you will inevitably receive from your mother. It starts like this:

Mother: I’m going to tell you something but don’t get angry…

This means only one thing: your phone number has been given to a random single man whose mother/aunt/meddling relative thought would be a great match for you.

This is what elder women do in Cyprus. They dream of achieving ultimate matchmaker status by marrying off as many people as possible and taking the credit for it for as long as the couple is together. Forty years ago these arranged marriages were called Proxenio. This may no longer be common practice but they are doing their best to keep the tradition alive. We call these women the Proxi-Queens.

They mean well, but their strategies are very flawed. Allow me to demonstrate the extent of their subtlety and foresight:

Mother: Lets go have coffee at your aunt’s house!

Daughter: Why?

Mother: Just to see her, she invited us.

Daughter: Why would she invite me?

Mother: What’s wrong with inviting you?

Daughter: You go, tell her I can’t make it.

Mother: No no! You HAVE to come!

Daughter: Why?

Mother: (Sighing in resignation) Her friend’s son will be there. You could meet him!

Cue big argument ending with:

Daughter: You essentially want me to have a blind date in front of my aunt and mother!! How would that even work?!

Mother: No, we’ll be quiet, we won’t disturb you…

Daughter: Are you crazy?! And what guy would go for this?!

Then the two factors which all expat mothers in Cyprus believe will seal the deal:

Mother: He’s an accountant and he speaks English!

Daughter: Well then bring the priest too and I’ll race him to the altar!

If the daughter manages to get out of it, she will feel a fleeting moment of relief…but it aint over yet. After all, pitbulls inherit their skills from these aunts. The daughter will then receive the following irate call:

Aunt: You have put me in a very difficult position!!

Daughter: What? Why?!

Aunt: I’m so embarrassed! I can’t show my face in public!!

Daughter: What are you talking about?!

Aunt: I was at a funeral yesterday and I couldn’t look my friend’s in the eye. They’re insulted because you think you’re too good for their son!

Daughter: I never said –

Aunt: They go to all that trouble to introduce him and you turn your nose up to him!

Daughter: But I never asked to –

Aunt: These are some of my oldest friends and I can’t have my relationship ruined like this! And their son is such a good boy! I just don’t know what to do!!

Daughter: (worn down by the high pitch avalanche of words) FINE! I’ll meet him!

Aunt: Really?

Daughter: Yes! Just let me know when I should come over…

Aunt: Oh no! You have to call him this time. His pride is hurt, you can’t expect him to organize this again!

Daughter: What?!

Aunt: Hold on, let me give you his number…

Daughter: I don’t even know this guy!!

Aunt: I have known these people for 30 years! Please don’t embarrass me!

Daughter: But I had nothing to do with this!!!

Aunt: His number is…

Proxi-Queens. Unparalleled genius.

Thursday Thought

Mind the Gap

A couple of days ago I mentioned the infamous corridor at my cousins’ house which served as the stage to many mischievous acts. At the very end of this long corridor was my aunt and uncle’s bedroom, equipped with a TV and always full of children.

One night, my cousins Demetri, Georgie, Barbara and I were sprawled on the bed watching TV. We must have all been aged about 4 to 7 years old, Demetri being the oldest, followed by Georgie and the rest of us. Georgie was starting to lose his milk teeth so on this particular night, Demetri offered to help him pull one out. Barbara and I, quite used to their antics, kept watching TV, unphased.

I don’t know if your parents ever tried this technique, but it was quite popular to tie a piece of cotton string around the loose tooth and then tie the other end to a door handle and then slam the door shut. This was supposed to yank the tooth out quickly and (hopefully) painlessly. This was Demetri’s plan…and if you’ve ever tied cotton string around anything, you know that it doesn’t come off with any amount of force.

So the string is tied to Georgie’s bottom middle tooth. Demetri decides to eliminate the door from the equation and just yank the tooth out himself. To this day, I still don’t know why Georgie ever agreed to this. Barbara and I just watched calmly.

Demetri yanks on the string. Nothing. He yanks again, this time getting nothing but a yelp of pain from Georgie. By now Georgie is rethinking this plan. Demetri, however, decides there’s only one thing to do…he tightens his grip on his end of the string and starts running down the corridor! Georgie is thrown down on all fours by the force and literally dragged by the tooth down the corridor, howling all the way!

Demetri ran until the tooth came out. 

The unfortunate end to this tale is that it turned out that this tooth was not a milk tooth, but a permanent one. So to this day, Georgie has a gap in the middle of his bottom row of teeth, and a lifetime reminder of brotherly…um…love.

Movie Moments - Scent of a Woman

Undoubtedly the most sensuous film scene of all time...for me, anyway.

Al Pacino and Gabrielle Anwar in Martin Brest's "Scent of a Woman"...

Hair-raising family stories

Growing up Greek means growing up with cousins. Lots of them. I don’t have any brothers but with the hoard of hooligans I grew up with, I never missed out on the obligatory rite of childhood torture, for example:

I spent a lot of time with my slightly older cousins Demetri and Georgie, and slightly younger cousin Barbara. Their house had a long corridor ideal for races. The boys and I would take our marks at the one end and race towards their parents’ bedroom on the other end. I must have been about five at the time and despite my girlie appearance with hair down to my waist, I was always up for roughing it with boys.

“On your marks…”

One cousin on either side of me…

”Get set…”

I tensed my legs, ready to shoot off in a blaze, my eyes on the finishing line…

“Go!!”

I shoot off only to feel a prickly pain at the back of my head. I slide to the middle of the corridor and turn back to see two little brats, still at the starting position, grinning and holding tufts of hair, MY hair, in their hands.

This same corridor would also be the scene of the ultimate act of sibling torture. This time, between the boys. Tune in on Wednesday to find out why little boys should never be left alone with cotton.

 TO BE CONTINUED...

Dating Diaries: How to Spot a Player

You’ve seen them in their natural habitats of bars and clubs, you may have even had the misfortune of dating one, so after years of field work, I’ve put together a handy list of traits to help you recognize them and hopefully, for your sake, avoid them.

Age range: They can start young but by their thirties, they have mastered the art, the older, the more dangerous. The good news is that one day, without them realizing, they become old losers and those are easy to spot.

Appearance: This is the intriguing part, the real Players are usually not the most attractive men. Those are Pretty Boys and they are a whole other topic but fairly harmless. The Players are the bitter boys who were overlooked as youths and had to compensate for their average appearance with character. The problem is that there is no substance to their character, it’s an illusion. Like everything, they have gone for a quick fix with their character too. Go ahead, try to have a full-length conversation with one, you’ll see.  Also, they always seem to have a full head of hair, like Samson and Delilah.

Clothing: They dress well, but not too well because they don’t want to give the impression that they care. So picture designer jeans with flip flops for example.

Name: Like a wannabe Superman, you will never know their real name, or at least, they will never answer to it. It is always an obscure nickname or a shortening of their real name. It was cute when they were four, not forty.

Movement: They are never still. They are the life of the party, they talk to everyone and no-one at the same time. Their eyes are always scanning the room for new talent, even when they are talking to you.

Cyber-activity: This varies, but they will either not have a presence on the internet at all, or their Facebook page is a veritable shrine to themselves. Lots of pictures of themselves, as in, just them in the photo, and lots of pictures with cute girls. And statuses affirming what a great free-spirited party of a life they’re having. I don’t know about you, but when I’m having such a knock-out good time, I don’t have time to write about it on Facebook.

Approach: This is the clincher. This is what gets you. He is friendly, upfront, attentive and direct. Everything you’ve ever wanted in a man. He comes right up to you and he flirts and he makes it clear that he wants you. And you feel fabulous because we all want to feel desirable. What you don’t know is that he only wants you until the next girl with a pulse comes along.

The truth is that players are just very insecure men and it is from this insecurity that they have cultivated their many talents and of course their need to validate themselves with multiple conquests. It is also this insecurity that triggers the savior complex in women and draws us to them like moths to assholes. We all want to be the urban myth that turned the bad boy into our adoring angel. Here’s what I say, let him save himself and you go find a real man who is worthy of you. After all, if you take the “Play” out of “Playboy” all you’re left with is…a boy. And who wants that?

Thursday Thought

This quote makes me think of this great scene...

Movie Moments - Risky Business

Imitated many times over, but nothing quite like the original...filmed almost 30 years ago in 1983, it's Tom Cruise in the infamous dance scene from Risky Business...

Fast forward to present day where he finally gets to play a real rockstar in the star-studded musical "Rock of Ages".

A Classically "Sweet" Greek Cookie Story

I thought it fitting for the first "Fanouropita" story of the new year to be about Greek cookies and Greek mothers. I cannot take credit for this piece as I came across it by chance in an old chain e-mail, so unfortunately I don't know who the writer is, but I had to share it. 


It captures the Greek essence perfectly...read on...

An elderly Greek man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of  impending  death, he suddenly  smelled  the  aroma of his favorite Greek cookies, koulourakia,  wafting  up  the stairs.  Gathering his remaining strength, he lifted himself from the bed.

Leaning  against  the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with  even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands he crawled downstairs. With laboured breath, he leaned against the doorframe, gazing into the kitchen. Where, if not for death's agony, he would have thought himself  already  in heaven. For there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favorite Greek cookies...koulourakia.

Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted Greek wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man? Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a crumpled posture. His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the koulouraki was already in his mouth, seemingly bringing him back to life. 

The aged and withered hand trembled on its way to a cookie at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife. "Get out of here," she shouted, "They're for the funeral!"