Dani

I don't write utterly scathing reviews hugely often, mostly because if I don't like a film or TV series I figure it's not worth my time to review it (if I give in to the temptation to waste time trashing it then the crap has won, and we can't have that, can we?)

But what the hell. Everyone has to cave once or twice. This currently awaiting approval on the IMDB message boards:

This apple fell rather too far from the tree.

The problem with making a film out of "Dracula" is that the book was pretty good to start with. Cinematically written, with well-measured pace changes, atmospheric description, three-dimensional characters and grand settings and vistas, it should transcribe perfectly to the screen. And, given the BBC's skill with period pieces and adaptations of classics (I mean, look at Pride and Prejudice), it should have transcribed perfectly. As far as I can see, the best explanation for its failure is that the creators didn't actually bother to read the book.

Written in large letters on the BBC's "Dracula" website are the words

"Returning to the original novel for his inspiration, Stewart Harcourt's script draws both on elements of Bram Stoker's own life and Victorian society to give this version of the vampire classic a new, modern sensibility."

Nice sentiment, but complete drivel. Harcourt seems instead to believe that throwing in trivial details from the original text (Dracula's "youthening", the Count's ability to walk in sunlight) grants him licence to ignore the original plot. It doesn't. The film begins decently enough (the first of the many syphilis references notwithstanding - I'll get to those later), but Jonathan Harker's death early on is more than enough to give the lie to the BBC's grand statement on its website.

And the syphilis. It seems to be the bounden duty of every pseudo-intellectual Dracula reader to insist that Bram Stoker was himself suffering from the disease when he wrote the book. In this adaptation that little shred of a hypothesis is blown up to cosmic proportions, and, while it's a nice way of saying "look at how educated we are", it doesn't stand up to the inflation, and it just doesn't work to hang an entire plot on it. Besides that, the simple fact of the matter is that Bram Stoker never did contract syphilis*, so the attempt at intellectualism is wasted.

It's okay to change plots if you have to. Disney does it to make classic stories more child- friendly. The National Theatre did it to make Northern Lights more adaptable to the stage. But to rip a classic and originally compelling story to shreds, piece it back together in the wrong order like some gross literary Frankenstein's monster, and then claim that the adaptation returns to the material of the original book...well, frankly that's just false advertising.

*The claim that Bram Stoker suffered from syphilis is based on the assertion of a single biographer that he died of "locomotor ataxy", a disease which, while occasionally associated with syphilis, has never been conclusively shown to be the same thing. Locomotor ataxy was certainly not recognised as an STD, which renders conclusively useless any theories that Stoker wrote Dracula as a commentary on syphilis and its associations with promiscuity or sexual deviance.

I've got it, I've got it, I've got it, I"ve got it! It was so simple, it was so obvious, it's wonderful, it's amazing and it just fits! Perfectly! See, I was so caught up in the big picture, in pasts and backstories and intrigue and fascination and so much stuff that was just too big for the little microcosm I'd put together, and then I thought about it and I thought it's not about the big picture at all, it's about the small picture. And then I thought about it some more and I realised it's not even about the small picture. It's just about the picture.

See, every character is defined by their pictures, and their pictures are defined by them. Richard is the bright splashes of colour, the slapdash and the vibrant and the loud and the warm and the friendly; Emma sketches and shades and it's all simple lines that are so clean and so simple they make the whole thing seem complex and unfathomable; Toni is the sharp angles and the eclectic and the strange and the perfectly judged and the stark and the "I don't care what everyone else thinks because this is what I am"; and that leaves Simon. And at first I thought Simon's pictures were just plain and ordinary, and then I thought they were incredibly detailed and perfect, and now I realise that they're not: they just look perfect if you're not Simon. Because he's all about the details and the tiny little flaws that only he sees, and he's looking for the perfect picture, and he's on the course because he's hoping that being immersed in art for two weeks will give him what he needs to paint the perfect picture, only of course it won't because the perfect picture doesn't exist!

It's perfect as a sub-plot: I can drag it out and drop hints and interweave it with the other lines. And the resolution...if you don't know what comes next it's beautiful, and if you do know then it's agonising. You could drown in the pathos. It's just so...it's like a piece in the jigsaw puzzle, the last piece: it fits, it slots into place, it finishes the pattern. I love it, wholly and totally and absolutely.

Christ, now I'm exhausted.

You know what I really, really love about Chris (and I can say this safely because I'm pretty sure he doesn't know this journal exists)? He's never happy just to sit back and do all the thinking. And, while admittedly as director and self-proclaimed megalomaniac I need to have the final word over anything that goes into my project, I really, really need that. He's annoying as anything sometimes, and a lot of what he says is complete crap, and chances are if we each throw twenty ideas at a problem I'll end up using all of mine and none of his, but that's not what's important. What's important is that he keeps on throwing ideas at me, so that if they're good I have to find ways to use them and if they're crap I have to find ways to improve them, and if they're beyond salvaging I at least have to work out why. I'm not sure I can think of a single other of my friends who hasn't at one point or another said "okay, you work it out" and then detached from the problem. Which is great and ego-building and all that, but if I don't at least have a wall at which I can chuck ideas and watch them bounce, I grind myself into a rut and just get stuck.

Chris has never, ever done that. He's not a rival, he's not a back-seat driver, he's not contesting that, as director, I have final say...but he's never still or quiet about it either. He's never once told me that it's my project so he'll just let me work it out and bumble along for the ride. Working on something creative with Chris, there is no such thing as an awkward silence. It's like juggling with flaming batons. There's always something up in the air, and it's sometimes illuminating, sometimes fun, sometimes dangerous and sometimes just plain idiotic, but it's always exciting, and it's always something. And perhaps because it's late and I'm tired and I've had a beer and I'm thus more inclined to be emotional, but thinking about it now I realise just how lucky I am to be working with someone like that. He's no genius and no prodigy and certainly no Caesar, but I'm not sure I've ever worked with anyone quite as inspiring.

God bless Chris. Okay, he didn't actually say a whole lot, but he is an awesome creative foil. I throw ideas at him, and they bounce back in new and exciting forms. I now have subplot, which can be twisted and refracted to give the illusion of main plot, and which will be resolved in the penultimate scene so that the ultimate scene is that much more heart-attack-inducing. Okay, actually I lie: I don't have subplot yet, but I do have an angle from which to tackle the subplot, and that's leaps and bounds ahead of where I was when I wrote the last post. It's all about Simon. He's the key to the whole device. And then Toni can act as a foil to Simon, which means I can play the tension there, and that leaves Richard as foil for Emma, which gives good comic contrast, and then there are the links of dorm and class to tie the two pairs together, and then it all works.

So, of course, the tricky bit is finding a phenomenal Simon. Or, at least, that would be the tricky bit if I hadn't just done it this afternoon. God bless Rob. And Joe's volunteered to do the music, and James Reith is already down to do the credits song, and Ben wants to be an extra, and with a little persuading maybe Rose (or Alice; I can never remember which is the arty one) will play one of the bit parts, and we might have access to a good camera after all, and Chris and I went on location scout yesterday, and Lysandra's definitely down as Jeanetta...it might actually all be coming together. It'll still be difficult and intensive and require a lot of work behind the scenes...but I think we can do it. I already have so much of it planned in my head - again, Chris and I were talking camera angles and POVs and colour palettes and backstory and characterisations, and it just reminded me so much that this is what I want to do.

And Em, next time I see you, we're talking your death scene.

So I have a script, that I really need to get done in fairly short order, because there's a good chance I can actually film this one. And the problem is, the main plot is...well, not exactly weak, but a little abstract. It's complicated, but I need to disguise the main plot as effectively as possible so that it's not obvious until the very last scene that it's the main plot. It's a "watch this feature again" incentive. And also, the main plot - girl murders friend after three botched attempts - is a bit blatant. The bombshell, when it happens, needs to be an absolute bolt from the blue, something you don't see coming until it happens, at which point you realise that you should have seen it coming all along. And that's why I need to disguise it. I need to make it seem like there are other, more important things going on, but without their being so important they eclipse the little signs that lead up to the big heart-attacks-in-the-audience climax. Because if it's just a bolt from the blue then there's nothing clever about it, and it needs to be clever. Otherwise it doesn't make sense. Or at least, it only makes sense in the way that this convoluted and strange journal entry makes sense: if you're in on the plot already.

So my problem is filler. Finding the little ways to pad the story and draw attention subtly away from the main character and the main plot, without either coming up with a whole new plot arc that'll eclipse the one I've got, or it just being mindless filler dialogue. Because I can't stand mindless filler dialogue. And mindless filler isn't clever, and it needs to be clever. Like I've already stated.

I've got little ideas, snatches of story that I'm tossing up in the air and watching as they fall. A hint of a romance-that-might-have-been between two of my principals. Some friendly animosity between two others. Other bits and snatches currently too vague and ephemeral even to put down here. But my cast of characters is so small, and they all center around the one character who drives the main plot, and, like I said, I need to keep that as veiled as possible.

I feel like an illusionist, like a brilliant magician with poor showmanship, like Borden in "The Prestige". I have the trick, I have the mechanics, I'm obsessed with the details, the cleverness and the subtleties, but I don't have a show. I lack the stagecraft to put the audience where I want them so that they're thinking what I want them to think when I pull the curtain away and reveal the Prestige. I've planned the exact twist of my wrist to bring that curtain down in just the right way, but I don't know how to get the audience to forget the curtain or what I put behind it at the beginning of the show so that I can get the most out of the trick when I do reveal it; I don't have enough material to build a show around the big trick. I don't have enough places to drop hints.

And now I have to go to orchestra, so that puts paid to that for a while, but there is my dilemma. I have a morass out of which to pull myself before I can get this script finished.

Well, seems like 'tis shaping up to be a pretty good half term, actually. I ran six miles today (topped out at eight yesterday); I was going to do another two but it's chucking it down with rain, I've already showered and my quadruceps feel like they're being used as knitting yarn. But still, I feel good. Trim, healthy, blah blah blah. Very nice feeling. Got whistled and honked at by many random men today, though that may have had something to do with the fact that I was running in a very mini crop top. I hate the feeling of fabric sticking to my sweaty skin; what was I supposed to do?

So the one thing I still haven't done is work. That's still okay. When I hit Wednesday and realise I *still* haven't done any work, that'll be a bit less okay. But I'm going to do some sewing tomorrow. I have a concert dress plan that oughta look absolutely awesome. Slightly Victorian, but there's a lot to be said for a good corset!

Um...what else...

Actually, screw it. I'm tired and can't remember what I was going to say, and I think I just wanted to show off my sportiness. Catch me at the end of the week and I'll show off my figure.

Well, I just went out for my second run of the day, so I'm now at a total of...*tots up*...about six miles. I was going to do the two-miler this morning and the four-miler just now (thought I'd ease myself in gently), but I got the two routes mixed up and ended up switching them over. Consequently the four-miler was a little fragmented, what with having to stop every so often and think "now where the hell am I?" or "is it just me or have I run further than I ought?" Still, it was a run, and that's already a fairly vast improvement on most of the last term. Between the asthma and the exams and the laziness, I haven't really gone at more than a gentle trot for weeks - oh, except for one 100m sprint which I immediately regretted. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't entirely sure I'd be able to make even the two miles, which is why I intended to start out with that route, but I seem to have hit a kind of rhythm. I still can't go more that a couple of hundred metres without having to walk a bit and replenish my oxygen supply, but I am starting to get used to my minimum latency period, so I can run for longer and walk for shorter.

( Details of bodily functions under the cut, so skip it if you don't want to know. )

So, I feel good. Perhaps more importantly, I feel productive. I haven't done any actual work yet, but at least I've done something more than eat, sleep and watch TV (though I've done my fair share of all those too). I'm not sure I will work today; I'll watch Doctor Who, go on another run, shower and go to bed. But that's okay, because I've got off to a good start. So I'll be in the mood to maybe do a maths paper and a chemistry paper tomorrow. And sew a bit. And other stuff.

Not bad, all things considering.

Oh, and while I was going to finish on that nice snappy note, here's some amusement for you sadists out there: my face looks so much like a minefield at the moment I've resorted to self-bribery to stop myself picking at it. 24 hours without touching damaged skin except to wash it, and I can drink nice wine with dinner. It's a good incentive.

I know I haven\'t posted in a while, and that\'s party due to lack of time and partly due to frustration with these stupid web proxies that screw up my formatting. But anyway, just wanted to share some snippets of something I found in the Plumptre printer, which really brightened up my morning. These are from an actual GCSE English essay, and I hope the author has no idea this journal exists!

>A sonnet is originally a poem of 14 lines, which has deprived from the 13th century.

>Shakespeare\'s sonnet is quite obviously in Shakespearean form.

>This shows that he thinks love is always there and, will never chante, if it is true love, that is.

>Fiorstyly, I\'ll talk of Wordsworth and his sonnet.

And they say we ain\'t being teached proper.

Do I take the risk and write myself a bottom E? Because, of course, there\\\'s no guarantee I\\\'ll be able to hit it once my cold goes. On the other hand, it\\\'s so damn satisfying being able to actually sing it that I\\\'m tempted to write it and screw the consequences. Ah, dammit. I guess I can always write it out later. Besides, Elphaba has a bottom E in \\\"I\\\'m not that girl\\\", and as I want to sing her role in some capacity or other sometime in my life, I suppose I\\\'d better get used to singing down by the bedrock.

Okay, this is so not funny. My voice just dropped again. As in, I just sang a D below middle C. For those of you who don\'t know that\'s...well, that\'s bloody low. As in, tenor-type low. As in the note on the middle line in the bass clef. As in wasn\'t I a soprano in June?

Okay, so I have a cold, which generally makes your voice lower anyway, but that\'s a diminished fifth below my lowest note pre-June, and that\'s just absurd. It\'s literally tenor-low. It\'s verging on baritone-low.

I was writing a song, and I needed to move the walking bass from the bass part to the second alto, and I\'d got myself into A minor which is an awkward key for singing walking basses if you\'re an alto because you can\'t get low enough to call it a bass and you can\'t get high enough to call it a descant. And I was playing around with it and trying to do a strange switching-octaves thing which was just sounding bizarre, and I thought oh, wouldn\'t it be nice if an alto could go just a minor third lower but an alto can\'t and I\'m supposed to be singing this and I know I can\'t, and just to prove it I...sang it. Thereby disproving it and rendering myself slightly freaked out. I don\'t want to be a tenor!

Okay, before I say anything else...

My brother has a girlfriend!!!!!!!!!

He asked Amanda's best friend out, and she said yes! And now we're all going to tease him mercilessly for the rest of his life, because that's what families are for! Isn't it sweet?

Anyway, moving on.

I spent New Year's Eve with Piano Joe, Peter and some friends of friends of friends (don't worry, the friends and the friends of friends were there too). It was lovely. We ate good food, drank mulled wine, watched fireworks from the park, toasted the new year with champagne that had been given to one of the guests by Paul McCartney (I kid you not) and watched Bridget Jones' Diary until half past two in the morning. Then Peter and I went back to Joe's house and we reminisced about Bryanston and discussed filming and Joe showed me his amazing camcorder and I nearly died with envy. But never mind!

So, New Year's resolutions. I don't have any. I thought I'd look back at how I've changed over 2006 instead. So here goes:

I've started painting again.

I've grown taller.

I've lost weight (apparently quite a bit of it. Damned if I know where it's gone.)

I've got better at writing (more importantly, I've discovered the necessary staying power to stick at something for more than ten pages).

I've changed my haircut.

I've given up on science and gone for classics.

I've started to take an interest in politics (MUN - yeah!)

I've discovered the curse.

I've got braver.

I've become an alto.

I've applied to university.

I've done a lot of other, little things, that I can't remember well enough to put down here. But all in all, it's been a very good year. Very eventful, very fulfilling. Here's to hoping 2007 is just as good!

So, I go on holiday for a few weeks, and what happens? I turn into a fucking vegetable. I woke up at not-quite-five in the afternoon today. I wasted a whole goddamn day. And you know the annoying thing? It's not even a day in which I would really have done anything. Yeah, I would have lounged around, eaten stuff that probably can't really be classified as food, watched stuff that can't really be classified as TV, gone to a movie with my parents - the five o'clock showing, which, of course, we missed - and then lounged around some more in the evening. I wouldn't have done that painting I want to do, I wouldn't have done those past papers I need to do, I wouldn't have done any violin practice and I sure as hell wouldn't have finished my university applications. I would still have wasted a whole fucking day.

I mean, come on. This is me. This is the same girl who can run nineteen-hour days at school and use every second. And even then I don't feel like I'm doing enough. All those people who say they find me intimidating because of how much I do, well, they should see me now. They'd fucking laugh. I mean, I know I would. What in God's name is wrong with me? And that's not even a rhetorical question, because, quite frankly, something must be wrong. I'm supposed to be motivated, I'm supposed to be driven, I'm supposed to get out and do stuff. It's not that I've hit burnout. Maybe that'd excuse a few days of idleness. But not two weeks. No amount of running myself right into the ground gives me two weeks of doing absolutely fuck-all. I take a look at what I've done - what I've actually achieved - this holiday, and I honestly make myself sick. One drawing, on the very first day I'm home. One painting, and even then only as the result of sickeningly selfish motives. I haven't done any writing, I haven't done any schoolwork, I haven't even gone out for a walk. I have wasted so much fucking time.

And the really horrible thing is that it's not time I can make up. I have modular exams in January. I have a Greek course I'm supposed to be teaching myself. I have a lunchtime concert the week I get back to school. I should be working even harder here than I do at school. And instead I end up sleeping until ridiculous hours and spending what little time I do awake watching a screen. I'm not even spending time with my family at all. Just hiding out here with my computer or with the DVD player. I don't want to spend time with my family. I want my own time.

I've never ever been good at working with other people around. I keep postponing things here at home because I know that there's always going to be someone looking over my shoulder, or offering to make me a cup of tea, or whatever. And I hate that. I hate not having my own space or my own time. At school I have the common room at five-thirty in the morning. Or my room when Lavinia's out after school. Or a practice room in Mullins, or anything. I don't care. Whatever: it's my space and my time. Here it isn't. And I want people who inspire me, and there aren't any of those here either. It's not that my parents and siblings aren't great - they are. But they're not inspiring. They don't make me want to get out and do stuff, and they especially don't make me want to get out and do stuff while they're around.

You know what's really stupid? What makes no sense? At school I spend most of my time hoping I'll hit burnout. That if I can just get up that little bit earlier or do that one more thing or run that little bit further in cross-country, I'll blow a fuse or something and just knock myself out. So I can prove, more to myself than to anyone else, that I've done absolutely everything I can. So that if I can't be the best at what I do - because no matter what I do, I'm never the best, there's always someone who plays the violin better than me or who draws better than me or who writes or speaks or acts or composes better than me - I can at least be the person who tries the hardest. Like whichever cross-country it was, when even though Mr Padgett told me to turn around and just run back, I completed the course and then some and finished an hour and several extra miles behind everyone else. So I wasn't the fastest or the strongest or anything, but I ran the most. I proved that I cared, and that I was trying, and it felt amazing.

So why the fuck can't I do that here? It's just not good enough to say I've got sleep to catch up on, or I deserve some down-time, or I can't work when my family's around (probably all true, but that's not the point). I'm letting myself down. The only thing I'm doing a good job of right now is feeling useless. Like all I ever do is coast, and rely on good looks and smooth talking to get me by. Because honestly, that's how it is. Honestly, I'm so afraid of failure I'm not sure I ever really do anything.

Why is it that every painting I do seems determined to eat my soul??? I mean, it was supposed to be a Christmas doodle, for chrissake!

Maybe it's the watercolour. It must be the watercolour. I'm sure I didn't have this kind of trouble when I painted with...hang on, have I ever actually painted with anything else?

Right, that's it. I'm getting the oils out. In about twelve hours, when I've had some decent sleep!

A less interesting/erudite/whatever title than normal, but I'm slightly drunk and exceptionally happy, so yay!

For starters, just had the most lovely Chanukah ever. Nice food, fun presents (mostly DVDs), lots and lots of kir (which is why I'm slightly drunk - that stuff is lethal); we played dreidel and lit the menorahs and then we played my dad's Chanukah present, which was a Top Gear board game. I'm not sure *why* something so geekish-sounding was just so damn fun, but it was amazing! We all laughed so much I'm pretty sure i burst a blood vessel somewhere. And Rafi was losing so he chucked one of his playing pieces at me as a joke, and it hit me on the head, bounced off, hit the flowerpot, bounced off that and ended up flying halfway across the living room and burying itself behind the sofa...well, I guess you had to have been there. We also listened to Mummy's present, which was a John Barrowman CD, and that was amazing too. Even my brother thinks John Barrowman has a sexy voice!

And even better - my SAT results came in! 98% on the Critical Reading, 91% on the Math and 99% on the Writing, with full marks on the essay! I am *so* going to Harvard!

And my hair has been re-reddified and it looks gorgeous *and* it's behaving, and I'm about to watch one of my Chanukah presents, and I've just had the most lovely evening. And I think I'm going to further increase my blood alcohol level now by drinking some of my dad's lovely fruit liquer, and then I'm going to go to bed and sleep for a very long time.

I am so, so, so, so happy and I love everyone!

Because the web proxy I use prevents me from friendslocking or filtering things, this is going to be one of those infuriating \"If you don\'t understand the title I\'m not going to explain it to you\" posts. Sorry, I hate them as much as anyone else, but I want feedback from the people who do get it!

Lydia is acting on my behalf, which makes it sound like legal proceedings, but that\'s okay because legalese doesn\'t scare me (much). Anyway, it\'s less of a carpo than a carpam, but at least it\'s a carp!

I have discovered that running cross country is probably no longer the smartest thing I could do. I ran on Monday - in pouring rain and gale force winds, I\'ll have you know - and after about a mile discovered I couldn\'t breathe. At all. My airways were so restricted that I was actually making noises when I tried to inhale. Reached the first rendezvous point, and Mr Padgett obviously saw my discomfort, because he asked me very pointedly whether I wanted just to go back in the minibus. My brain proved its lack of oxygen by making the words \"No, I\'ll keep running\" come out of my mouth. Well, they came out eventually, after a lot of wheezing and opening and shutting my mouth like an asphyxiated goldfish. Mr Padgett looked rather dubious, but he let me go on. Another few minutes of oxygen-deprived hell, and then I caught up with Jazzie, who was walking and thus gave me an excuse to walk as well. And thus the next three miles passed in alternating walking through the mud and running through an anaerobic haze.

Got back to school, dripping wet (literally). Plumptre showers were broken. I put on a very big fleece and curled up on one of the common room sofas, coughing practically non-stop and feeling thoroughly miserable. Eleanor took pity on me and made me a very large mug of Earl Grey, which I think actually saved my life. Two hours later I was still coughing without respite, and now my chest was starting to hurt from being coughed to ribbons. So, of course, I upped and went to string chamber orchestra. Sensible girl, ain\'t I?

Well, there I am at SCO, still feeling miserable, still coughing, and then I start getting stabbing pains in the left side of my chest that make me wince every time I move (not great when trying to play the violin with any degree of enthusiasm. At this point I start thinking that maybe a trip to the school medical block is in order. Actually, if I\'m being honest, at this point I start getting very scared. Then I consider a trip to the medical block. Which, of course, shuts long before SCO finishes. So I go back to house, still feeling miserable, and go to bed and curl up in something that\'s a few degrees up from discomfort but still thankfully down from agony.

Tuesday morning: chest pains still there, cough not so bad. I go to the medical block instead of early morning practice and book myself an appointment with the doctor. The nurse on duty tells me I\'ve probably pulled a muscle. I think about it on my way back to house to vegetate until lesson three. Nah, I pulled an intercostal muscle last year (during cross country, incidentally), and it felt totally different. But I digress. Pain comes and goes, along with the cough, until lunchbreak when I have my doctor\'s appointment. At that point, of course, it\'s all fine, so when I get prodded with the stethoscope he can\'t find anything actually wrong. So I describe my symptoms with as much detail as possible, and get told I probably have asthma and should come back next week for some proper tests.

Not entirely sure how to feel about that, to be honest. On the one hand, it\'s a bloody nuisance. I do like my cross country (except when there\'s pouring rain and gale-force winds), and having asthma isn\'t going to make running any easier. And I have been noticing more and more difficulty breathing when I run. Legs, arms, muscles are all fine. Lungs tend to give up and die long before I do. On the other hand, of course, asthma is a relatively small evil, and it\'s comforting to be able to put the name of such a small evil to whatever it is that has been killing me slowly since Monday.

And, in the meantime, here I sit in the common room feeling like I\'ve been hit in the left side with a mallet and wondering wehter that can of cider at sixth form drinks was really the smartest thing I could have done. Life is good.