Dance & Drink & Screw

Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psycho by Stephen Rebello

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

On one level, this book is about the making of "Psycho" - from the story based on Ed Gein's killings that germinated the novel of the same name to the massive cultural phenomenon it became upon release, almost turning into a success Hitchcock could never escape from. On another level, this book was to me a great example of how storytelling should work; how to craft a narrative, how to create characters, setting, plot and suspense - all through observing how Hitchcock handled his material.

Film buffs will love the way Rebello shows what happened behind the scenes: the shooting of the famous shower scene, Hitchcock's relationships with the studio execs and stars, and the techniques he used to achieve certain camera shots.

I thought the marketing campaign around Psycho was particularly interesting. Hitchcock filmed a featurette at the house and Bates Motel, giving the viewer a tour of a place "now for sale" after the "terrible events that took place there." It's nicely macabre and tongue-in-cheek. He also did something unheard of at the time: he asked/insisted that film goers watch the film from the beginning, instead of just wandering in halfway through (as was bizarrely the custom at the time.) People were outraged that they had to wait in line until the start of the film, instead of popping in whenever they wanted, but their curiosity won over as the word-of-mouth grew stronger, and a new filmgoing habit was born.

I'd recommend watching Psycho before reading this book, even if you've seen it before.

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I woke up yesterday at 7.30am. wink_martindale made me scrambled eggs on toast and coffee for breakfast while I checked my e-mail. I left for work at 8.30 and traveled on a fairly empty District line until South Kensington, where I switched to the Circle line (is it just me or the Tube is emptier on Fridays?) I spent the whole day tying up urgent marketing stuff related to an upcoming festival we are promoting. The office was quiet and I managed to get a lot done, finally feeling more in control of my role after five days of feeling anxious about the festival. My new line manager has been good at reassuring me that we can only do our best and not worry about what's beyond our control.

When I got home, there were two gifts waiting for me: a copy of Tim Moore's Spanish Steps and the Oulipo Compendium. We shared some cod, chips and Coca-Cola from the local chippy while watching two queer films: Gay Sex in the 70s and Circuit. The first one is a documentary on how wild and excessive the gay scene was in the 70s - a carefree time that was short-lived and will never return. Did you know Bette Midler started her career singing in gay baths, wriggling her tits to gay men and throwing poppers to the crowds?! Or that saunas had dancefloors where gay men disco danced with only towels wrapped around their bodies? It's like another planet to me. The second film was a dreadful piece of porn acting without the porn, as Wink put it, about a horsey-looking gay cop that moves to L.A. and joins its gay party circuit. All the clichés wheeled out over laugh-out-loud lines. A great stoner movie actually.

Today, woke up at 5am to a frozen London. Played a bit of Nintendo then met a friend for breakfast in Stratford before heading to the community garden. Stratford is the new Hyde Park Corner: every few meters there's a God-bothering nutter screaming off their head or singing religious songs. The sunshine was great but as soon as you stepped into a shadow your blood cooled. Did some weeding then participated in a meeting about the future of the garden. Hopped on the tube and met up with loveinsuburbia and yaruar in a café by Islington Green. A couple of their friends joined us and they bought me a piece of cheese cake with a cappuccino before we browsed a nearby art store.

Hopped on the No. 277 back home and got comfortable on the couch as Wink prepared dinner. Now we are watching the X Factor and complaining about the lack of chocolate and popcorn in the house.

I'll never grow a moustache.

I was standing outside the cinema's ticket booth when Melanie Griffith approached. She wore large sunglasses. I came over to say hello and she said:

'You know what that columnist from The Sun said about me being a fan of neenaw?'

'Yeah. Is it true?' I asked.

'Yes.'

I was meeting Neenaw anyway so when she showed up, I gently stirred her towards Melanie and introduced them. There was a bit of awkwardness at first, followed by a quick kiss to the lips. When Melanie left I said to Neenaw:

'I can't believe you just snogged Melanie Griffith!' There I was again, exaggerating a little kiss. Neenaw had her rollerblades on; she skated down the road and disappeared into the horizon.

I was sharing a flat at the time with three other people: a young guy bound to a wheelchair and two girls (one of which looked like Beyonce.) It was a brand new flat with large rooms and wooden floors. During one of our trips out of the flat, we left our wheel-chair bound friend alone and he got murdered by a psycho with a drill who was hiding underneath our floorboards. The builder in charge of fixing the kitchen found some of his blood on the chopping counter, but the body was never retrieved.

I always wondered about the floorboards in that particular part of the flat. I could hear someone underneath it unscrew them and slide out when nobody was around - a large, hairy man in jeans overalls who claimed that we had stolen real estate from him. He came for the girls afterwards with his killer drill. When he murdered the blond one in our garden while disinterested joggers went by, Beyonce lookalike had already moved out.

I've got an idea for a new American TV drama. It centres around Muslim teenagers in the U.S. and it has Kim Wilde's "Kids in America" as its theme song. And yes, it's set in the 80s.

I also want to know why there are no hauntings or poltergeists in EastEnders seeing that so many corpses litter its history? (Even going so far, as margotmetroland pointed out, of having one open the show's first episode?) I want to write for EastEnders and have the recently murdered Archie haunt the Queen Vic. Mirrors cracked from side to side. People thrown down stairs. Heads spinning. Projectile vomitings. Just another Christmas Special. I'd get those ratings through the roof.

When wink_martindale and I first moved to London, we lived with some crazy lesbians in Stoke Newington. Two of them were big EastEnders fans and they immediately set about unraveling for us the show's Gordian Knot. Somebody gave birth without knowing they were pregnant in the first place? Someone discovered their sister was actually their mom? Sounded like your typical brasilian soap!

My favourite character was Janine, a sort of village punchbag who couldn't help being malicious and starting trouble wherever she went. Her high point came when she "accidentally" killed off her husband Barry after enduring a descent into homelessness and prostitution. But elsewhere, the characters and storylines didn't grab me. Where were the qualities that I loved in brasilian soaps? The magic realism? The werewolves? It was all a bit miserable to the sound of the wrong soundtrack. (Characters listening to Lloyd Cole and the Commotions' "Perfect Skin" while eating their toast at the local caf would have kept me hooked.)

I gave up on EastEnders and went on my merry way downloading brasilian soaps and the great American series of this past decade.

Then a few months ago, I took a writing workshop for a Pakistani soap opera... and I loved it! Why couldn't I get paid to do this every day? Create a whole universe of characters then put them through the grill? Having so many years of LJ Drama under my belt, it all came very easily to me. Coincidentally, my brasilian friend Vini Bambini alerted me at the time to EastEnders introducing a gay romance involving a British Muslim, with flagrant kisses before the watershed thrown into the mix. At the start of these holidays I finally caught an episode and was hooked. Would the two unbelievably good looking men elope to Barcelona? Or would the young Muslim continue to live a lie for the sake of his family and get married to a woman? And to complicate matters, a major murder plot was introduced making nearly every character in the show a suspect.

Now I've got wink_martindale moaning at me because I'm not only hooked on A Favorita but now I need to know who killed Archie in EastEnders and if Janine is going to have a bad end (as my gut seems to tell me.) What I really should be doing is working on my CV and applying for jobs.

2010? Script Writing for TV courses here I come!

Michael Connelly, The Concrete Blonde, 1994
This is the third in Hieronymus "Harry" Bosch's crime novels (which don't necessarily need to be read in order), set in a gritty Los Angeles barely recovered from the Rodney King riots. Harry is on trial for the unlawful shooting of the Dollmaker, a serial killer known for strangling prostitutes and then garishly painting their faces with their own makeup. But as the trial begins and Harry finds himself facing L.A.'s toughest lawyer, Honey "Money" Chandler, a note arrives at the police precinct with the Dollmaker's signature. Did Harry kill the wrong person? Or is there somebody out there imitating the Dollmaker? At times, I felt as if the answer would be very obvious and disappointing - the narrative seemed to be heading down a fairly good but unsurprising court drama, with the occasional police procedure thrown in. But this is Connelly and I should have known that the suspense would go up a few notches towards the end, one or two bodies littering the way. If anything, the only slight disappointment in this fun page turner are the cliche ridden romantic scenes between Harry and his girlfriend Sylvia (they even have sex at one point on a blanket laid out in front of a fireplace). Recommended summer read.

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Get rid of any bodies before they attract flies.

* Kevin got a viral infection at the start of the week and now, just as he got better, a cold settled in his chest. It's freezin' and 'orrible outside and we have no money. The apartment is a tip and there's no getting away from the fact I'll have to clean it today, by myself. I very much expect this guy to show up Monday night.

* I got all tarted up for the gym this morning, only to arrive and discover they are shut down for a training day. So I went to Woolworths instead.

* I've worked for the last five weeks in a prestigious university's press office. It was one of my best working experiences: everyone was kind and friendly, the work was interesting and yesterday's goodbyes were genuinely full of good wishes. I have a job interview in the new year for a job I really, really want, with a small charity that works with gays, lesbians and transexuals. And they pay good. And I have a few days off during the week which I can use for my writing or temp work. Fingers crossed I don't fuck up.

* Russell Brand is going to be in Morrissey's next music video. I hope Morrissey gets his thugs band to hold him down and shave that awful hair of his.

* I love crazy cults, in particular American ones. They always seem to twist the Bible into something a lot worse than it is. Don't you just love their brain-washed stares? The old leaders who sleep with pre-pubescent virgins in the name of the Lord? Channel 4's documentary The End of World Cult was an unmissable, terrifying and sad story of people with no education, in the middle of nowhere, who make me all the more thankful I'm not a religious person.

* My last meal in death row will consist of freshly-baked bread, salty butter and a cup of coffee with milk and two sugars.

I was at my gym last evening, using the chest machine, when a guy stopped in front of me. He had a pony tail and a hair net, big mothafucka muscles and a bottle probably containing the latest creatine/muscle-regenerator product. He asked if he could take turns with me and, when I stood up, he laughed at my T-shit. My T-shirt says "Evil begets Evil, Good begets Good". He liked that.

Later, when I was exercising my shoulders, he came up to me and, in all seriousness, said 'Your T-shirt says on its front "Evil begets Evil and Good begets Good", but what it should say in the back is "Familiarity breeds Contempt". I smiled nervously back and told him I'd get the slogan added to my T-shirt.

Was he having a go at me? Or was he making a comment on what it's like to use a gym every single day of your life?