Hadeda Haven

Most people I know hate hadedas. I used to too. Especially when they wake me up at four am screeching like wounded babies. I even understood neighbours who set off crackers in their trees to chase resident hadeda families away. After all, everyone needs some peace.

And then a Hadeda was left at my doorstep. She wasn’t quite wrapped in swaddling clothes (let’s say it was a she) but her parents brought her to my back door because she couldn’t fly properly. Well, perhaps the parents didn’t actually see me as the SOS Hadeda’s Village. But the baby was left in my back garden while the concerned parents fretted nearby. Darkness fell. We still had a large aviary in our garden left over from my children’s enthusiastic bird loving days. So I gently guided the baby Hadeda into the aviary. Then I closed the large wire door on her. In the morning I opened the door a little when her parents returned. They spent the day with her, coming in and out as they fed her. After a few days she was gone. She was strong enough to fly. That was that, I thought.

I was wrong.

The mother and her babies began to arrive at my doorstep every morning. I threw out stale bread for them, pleased that they remembered my kindness. Over the years the mother has continued to bring her babies to my back door every morning. If they hear my voice in the front garden, they’ll flutter down and see if I have any treats for them there too. I must say that this familiarity from the Hadeda community has not pleased my Springer spaniel. Trained to chase everything with wings, she has a real battle every time I tell her to leave the Hadedas alone. Her nature arm-wrestles her nurture, and every now and then, when I’m not looking, she’ll chase them away in ecstatic doggie delight.

The younger generation of Hadedas have exceeded their mother’s trust in me. They’ve become so tame that they now walk into the kitchen to help themselves to my spaniel’s pellets. Pedigree is their favourite. They’ll even walk in when I’m sitting at the kitchen table having tea with my quieter friends. Noisier guests, who don’t know that we have visiting pterodactyl look-alikes, have frightened the Hadedas and themselves by walking into the kitchen boldly. A large feathery creature has often been scared into a state of apoplectic panic. Pot plants scatter and bird poo plops until I can grab the terrified Hadeda and guide it outside again. The worst case was when a Hadeda flew straight through the kitchen window. It was classic. There was a Hadeda shaped hole through the window and fortunately the Hadeda was back unharmed the next day.

R500 later, I now try to keep the kitchen’s security gate closed and throw dog pellets out every morning to prevent anymore damage. But the moment the door is left open, the Hadedas are back en masse.

After the recent bad storms I was distressed to see one of the younger Hadedas unable to walk. It had squatted down in the grass and then took off with a large string of plastic netting attached to its left claw. I spent ages trying to get closer to her so I could remove the netting. (I think she’s a “she” but who knows?) Each time I was close enough to touch her, she’d take off.

After a few days the trail of netting got shorter, and I was relieved when it fell off entirely. Unfortunately the bird’s claw is badly damaged. She just manages to hobble around. So I leave out special titbits for her, and talk to her, trying to encourage her to use her foot a bit more each day. She seems to be getting a little better. And when she isn’t eating, she rests on the grass just outside the back door.

I never thought I’d include a family of Hadedas in my menagerie but I’ve discovered that even the noisiest creature can have its attractive side. My spaniel, on the other hand, does not agree.

Published in The Witness on 10 December 2008.

THE HERO’S JOURNEY – WHAT IS IT AND HOW CAN IT HELP?

Good story tellers have always known one thing: people want to hear a story about the underdog who has to overcome huge obstacles against the odds, an underdog who has every evil twist of fate thrown at him to thwart his success, an underdog who looks like he might not actually make it to the end. And of course, every good story ensures that this poor, brow-beaten underdog is made of such indomitable spirit to overcome all the odds… In spite of it all our beloved underdog succeeds!

Oral story tellers relied on this formula for success; ancient mythologies used this recipe and even very good sport promoters use this outline… How many of us have cheered for the team which isn’t the favourite? For the player who has had the most injuries? Just think of South Africa and the 95 Rugby World Cup… Think of Lance Armstrong and his battle with cancer… Think of the South African cricket team… Actually, no. Scrap that last one. Perhaps the SA Cricket Squad is doomed forever to be tragic heroes! 

The point is that all good stories - the ones that keep you emotionally invested right until the end - usually have a hero or heroine we know and love in spite of his or her flaws, and who has to go through enormous battles to complete his or her journey of self discovery. Most religions and mythologies follow this pattern too. Just think of how abused Jesus was, how mocked and maligned. But his resurrection was a victory over the odds in the most supernatural way. 

In the early twentieth century, Carl Jung, a student of Sigmund Freud, broke away from Freud’s sexual obsessions and devised his own belief system based largely on the idea that humanity shared a common set of symbols which are universally recognised. Jung studied dreams, mythologies, religions and cultures and asserted that humankind shared a common set of stock characters, to which all cultures related. He believed that there were standard recognisable characters which kept cropping up in stories and myths throughout the world and which played universally recognisable symbolic roles. He called these ‘Archetypes.’ Think of the Wise Old Man, for examples, a reoccurring figure in so many fairy tales and stories: Merlin, Gandalf the Grey, Dumbledore the Wizard, and wise old Sangomas. Think now of the young ingénue, the Innocent Virgin: Cinderella, Little Red Riding, Snow White. Think of the Wise Old Crones: the witches with supernatural insights in Macbeth, ancient female Sangomas. There are many more. But for good story telling purposes, the most important archetype is The Hero.

The Hero, who often has a flaw, overcomes many, many odds. He fights all the battles we wish we were strong enough to fight ourselves. He (or she) is one of our most powerful archetypes. Think of Ulysses, Moses, Hamlet, Indiana Jones, James Bond, Shrek and many, many more. 

Following in Jung’s footprints, a writer and academic named Joseph Campbell began to analyse the similarities between myths, legends and archetypes. He spent much of his life devoted to comparing common themes in world mythologies and great stories. Eventually he wrote a book which changed the way people viewed story telling. It was called The Hero with a Thousand Faces. In this he showed that there is a classic structure behind most, if not all, of the best stories in the world. He clarified this structure and wrote a blueprint which could be applied to most stories. In the 70’s a struggling first time writer/director discovered The Hero with a Thousand Faces. This writer/director had been stuck in development hell for years with his story about fictional, futuristic worlds in which a young man called Luke had to find his way. Desperate for help he applied Joseph Campbell’s structure to his unwieldly story and, like magic, found his way into a classic hero’s journey. The young writer/director was George Lucas. And his story was a little tale called Star Wars. 

In 1992, Christopher Vogler adapted Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces into a simpler structure, specifically for use in films. As Vogler says, ‘Campbell had broken the secret code of story, with its set of principles which govern the art of story telling.’ As a story analyst for Walt Disney, Vogler wrote a seven page memo as a practical guide to writing story. Soon this memo became required reading for Disney development executives. It led him to write The Writer’s Journey, Mythic Structure for Storytellers and Screenwriters. 

It is this simplified structure I use to help the scriptwriting students I lecture at UKZN, and it’s the same structure I use to solve any problems I have with scripts I am working on. Apply this to your screenplay and it will undoubtedly help clarify problems you might be having with your story.  

Essentially, Chris Vogler’s Hero’s Journey blueprint follows this simple pattern. The terms Vogler uses are on the left of this blueprint. I have equated the usual scriptwriting or playwriting terminology on the right to show it follows the usual patterns of traditional play structure. The Hero’s Journey is just more sophisticated.  

I have found this blueprint has helped me so much in teaching (with two of my students in consecutive years winning the M-Net EDiT awards) as well as in my own work. Ever since I began using this blueprint my screenplays and plays have become much more successful. There must be something in that!

THE HERO’S JOURNEY

Chris Vogler

(Vogler's terms in Italics)

SET UP (beginning)

 
Ordinary World ACT 1

Call to adventure

Refusal of the call  

Meeting the mentor  

Crossing the (first) threshold (First turning point – at +/- 30 mins/pages)

   
   
  CONFRONTATION (middle)


Tests, Allies, enemies ACT 2

Approach to the inner most cave  

Ordeal CRISIS – 2nd Turning Point

Reward (Seizing the Sword) (about 60 mins/pages)



  RESOLUTION (end)


The Road back ACT 3

Resurrection CLIMAX

Return with the elixir (about 30 mins/pages)


For in-depth study of scriptwriting one should always go back to the source, Joseph Cambell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. I cover this in my scriptwriting workshops. 

For more information go to www.janetvaneeden.com

School for Scoundrels

Education Minister Naledi Pandor should be going for lessons. While her education system seems fraught with problems such as teacher strikes, violence amongst pupils and teenage pregnancies, there are a number of institutions where conveying information to the students is definitely on the syllabus. Perhaps she needs to ask a few of these successful learning establishments how to put education back into her schools.

Firstly, there is the School for Training Truck Drivers. I don’t know exactly where it’s situated but its teachers are obviously doing their jobs exceptionally well. To a man (and occasionally, to a woman) truck drivers are so well-versed in their code of conduct that there is without doubt a single-minded vision behind their behaviour. You must have noticed. If you haven’t, I suggest a leisurely drive down to Durban on the N3. It is important, however, to have your affairs in order before you leave. One never knows when one’s next of kin might need to locate your will.

Once on the road you’ll soon see the results of successful communal truck driver education. As one, the trucks exhibit the same behaviour. A favourite trick is the way they snail up winding hills right until the very moment you (quite rightly in the fast lane) are about to overtake them. That’s when they morph into formula one drivers swerving out in front of you at the exact second you draw up alongside them. You-Tube extracts of your life flash before your eyes as twenty tonnes of juggernaut grazes your diminished car. If you don’t pass out with fear, you may notice a minuscule orange light ticking on the right side of the gargantuan beast. The truck driver has obeyed the rules of the road. He may have overtaken the truck in the slow lane ahead of him without looking behind. He may have endangered the lives of hundreds of drivers in his wake. But he did have his indicator on.

Another of their skills is evident when trucks manage to take up all three lanes of the motorway at once, usually on a steep uphill, thereby slowing the traffic down to a crawl with a tailback all the way to Van Reenen’s Pass. Their ability to form a phalanx, blocking out any view of the road ahead for a mere Golf, is a tactical exercise worthy of Julius Caesar himself. Their education has certainly made them masters of the road.

Another successful institution imparting single-minded information is the one which teaches certain public servants to treat their clients as non-humans. Their foundation rule is: Never Make Eye Contact. That way they can never be expected to recognise that you are, in fact, a fellow human being. The person who has mastered the art, and who they must call in for demonstrations to beginners, is the man in the traffic licence department. You know the one I mean. He’s in charge of finger printing when he isn’t Heil-Hitlering on the forecourt. His training has taught him to man-handle your, well, hand really, as he extracts a blackened print for your driver’s licence. His disdain for your humanity is blatant as he laughs and talks disparagingly about you to his friend while you try to make polite conversation. His dehumanising skill is immense. And those in Home Affairs can only dream of reaching his disdainful heights.

Education for assistants in expensive jewellery stores has also shown pleasing results. Most jewellery shop assistants have practiced their “You could not possibly afford to buy anything in this shop” look to perfection as they scan your non-designer clothes while you hand over your well-worn watch for a new battery. They are trained to make you feel deeply unworthy. As are the assistants behind beauty counters in chain stores. Years of training have taught them to treat people as if they just aren’t quite beautiful enough.

So Mrs Pandor, your task is simple. Find these secret purveyors of skills and ask them to help your schools. All I need now is to find a school to teach me how to deal with the frustration that threatens to explode whenever I’m forced to deal with a product of the Schools for Scoundrels.

First pubished in The Sunday Independent, 21 September 2008.

At Home with Bob the Builder.

As I type to you from under the kitchen table where my spaniel and I are sharing a bottle of Rescue tablets, I wonder about the few certainties in life. Everyone knows the first two. They are of course: death and taxes. But the third one is kept a dark secret for fear of terrifying the life out of potential home owners. This third certainty is that sometime in one’s home-owning life, one will have to call in The Builders. I think they deserve capital letters of their very own, as their influence on your well-being is greater than that of most presidents of most countries. After all, your standard politician usually consists of hot air and has no tangible effect on your daily life. Unless, of course, you count Robert Mugabe and you live in Zimbabwe. In fact, he has exactly the same effect as most builders. That’s probably why they named that programme after him: Bob the Builder.

The thing is, builders by the very nature of their work, are essentially destructive. Ask any of them, Uncle Bob included, and they will tell you that you have to break down in order to rebuild; that destruction is just the other side of the creative coin; that it’s all for your own good. Somehow that’s hard to believe when you have five men stomping on your roof removing the only thing between you and the eternal heavens.

You see, our house suffered severe flood damage in a recent big storm. At one point during the downpour I was up to my ankles in water in my bedroom, soaked through, in spite of an umbrella which I carried over my head as a sardonic statement. My statement seemed, well, overstated, as the bed floated by. After many years of dealing with mini-floods and every receptacle in the house having served its term of duty as a water catcher, we decided to call in the insurance assessor.

A brave young man came to look at the results of the flood. As he inspected the inside damage to the bedroom, he made the deduction that the root cause of the flooding came from the roof itself. As I held the ladder on one side of the building, he tripped up and across the rooftops like someone from Mary Poppins. A loud cry from out of my line of vision led me to wonder whether he’d met a group of chimney sweeps. I shouted to hear if he was alright or wanted to borrow a pair of dancing shoes but no answer came. I just hoped he hadn’t taken flight with the previously mentioned umbrella.

Eventually, after much walking around the house and calling up into the trees, I spied him waist deep in the middle of red tiles. The poor man had fallen right through the roof which he said was as rotten as the Zimbabwean reserve bank records. Once he’d hauled himself out and we were assured that he was reasonably undamaged, his happy news was that the beams holding up the roof were like powder. They had to be replaced as soon as possible if we were to sleep through another night without the sky falling on our heads. Of course the decay of the beams was not covered by insurance as this was classified as wear and tear. His initial quote of R100 000.00 to replace the broken beams led to a minor crisis with us considering whether to paint and run to the nearest estate agents. But a friend with building experience stepped in to rescue us from an ethical dilemma. And from the roof collapsing on our tender skulls, obviously. For a fifth of the quoted price he could bring his team of builders to do the same job. The very next day.

So that is why I am typing this column sheltering under the kitchen table and considering the words ‘necessary evil.’ At least I’ll be able to save the umbrella for outside use in future. Or perhaps Bob would like to borrow it for his upcoming elections. He might need it as I’m sure he will experience just a bit of storm damage too.

First Published in The Witness, 17 March 2008.

Load Shedding Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry.

I like load-shedding. For one thing, load shedding means never having to say you’re sorry. Or was that love? I forget. But just think of the many, many things you can blame on load shedding. You’ve missed an important deadline for an article? No problem. Just tell the boss: “I’m sorry I couldn’t finish it because the computer ate it during load shedding.” You forgot an important appointment? Don’t worry. Tell your doctor, accountant, bank manager: “I simply couldn’t get there. The traffic snarls in the centre of town were impassable. None of the traffic lights were working because of load shedding” And there’s more. If you haven’t got your act together shopping for the days’ groceries and there’s nothing decent for supper, tell the starving masses: “I’m sorry but the moment I walked into the supermarket, everything went black. I couldn’t buy a thing.” Try not to let anyone find out about Raymond Ackerman’s devious plan to keep counters ticking over with treacherous generators in spite of Eskom’s best efforts. Honestly. Where’s his community spirit?

But seriously, I really do like these enforced electricity free moments. The sudden silence descending on a household of teenagers caused only by Eskom having its daily nap is worthy of a column in itself. It’s the only time in our house when the hum of computers and the blare of televisions, CD players and stereos are reduced to nothing less than absolutely blissful quiet. So don’t fret if you can’t keep doing your work on the computer when the lights go out. I’ve discovered a rare antique device which is quite good at keeping one’s thoughts flowing. It’s called a pen and it works quite well once you get used to it. And it operates by candle-light too.

Honestly, I think Eskom is doing us all a favour. In this age of computer addiction where many hours are wasted answering boring emails or pondering one’s next move on Scrabulous (a habit I must admit to, I’m afraid) electricity-less days allow us to fall back on our own resources. Boiling a kettle over a gas bottle can’t help but bring back memories of gentler times, when people went camping with their friends and families. Or did that happen only in Famous Five novels? There are many more benefits to an unlit life. Bathing by candle light, for example, has its own rewards. For one thing, you can’t see your less than perfect reflection in the mirror anymore. And a mere flick of a match introduces an instant romantic mood. Meals as simple as bread and cheese are enhanced with a golden glow when lit by the flickering flame of a candle. Bread and cheese is usually the only thing on the menu due to the lack of cooking facilities and the aforementioned power cuts in supermarkets. Allegedly. There are one or two drawbacks to life under the flickering flames, though. When the lights do eventually come back on there are perhaps a few too many creative patterns made by black smoke and candle wax on every surface in the house. But you get my general drift.

So I think we should stop moaning about the power outages and begin to enjoy the fruits of this unusual opportunity to step out of the rat race and live life more peacefully. The next time the lights go out, don’t get angry and call the minister of Energy and Lack of Resources rude names. Slow down and listen to the sound of the birds twittering in the trees, the hoot of the neighbourhood owl, and the smack of heavy metal against heavy metal as trucks veer into one another at robot-less intersections. Will anyone ever get the hang of the four way stop?

Another big bonus is that the many, many governmental voices on radio and television telling us to have an early night so that we can become cleverer are also silenced. Briefly. Perhaps they should have had an early night or two themselves.

I do hope my Pollyanna approach doesn’t make you want to electrocute me in fury. If it does, well, sorry for you. It’s just about time for my load shedding.

First published in The Witness, 27 February, 2008.

First Worlds

Landing at O.R. Tambo airport after almost a month in the UK, my pleasure at seeing wide open skies and bright sunshine deepened as I was greeted – or not – by the passport control woman. She was very busy, deeply engaged with her colleague in an intense personal discussion which obviously took precedence over my more itinerant needs. Having spanned three continents in two days, I thought I deserved a little of her attention. She did not. After an eternity, she grudgingly attended to me. I was glad to see that people still have their priorities right in this country. Communication amongst peers is certainly of more importance than dealing with mere travellers. After all, you never know where they’ve been.

This interaction was soon followed by another airport staff member shouting out “Number Four!” every time I asked him on which carousel the Dubai flight’s luggage would arrive. There were two flights arriving from Dubai at the same time and when I tried to ask him if it was the SAA or Emirates flight, he just shouted, with extreme aggression for added comfort, “Number Four!” I was most pleased to see that he too was conserving energy for more important things: getting over his hangover for example would have been a good priority judging by his alcoholically tinged breath. I resigned myself to a long wait and threw off my incipient exhaustion to consider the contrasts between England and South Africa.

In London, airport staff were scattered all over Gatwick with only one aim in mind: to help you. For example, on our flight over, I was in extreme distress, dashing madly through the vast airport trying to find my connecting flight with only thirty minutes to spare due to two delays on previous flights. The Gatwick staff didn’t have a clue how to deal with the situation properly. They should have taken a lesson from their South African colleagues. Instead, they ushered me and my daughter to the front of security queues and passport checks, and guided us through the nail-biting minutes and even let us onto the connecting flight after that airline had shut its gates. And they were pleasant about it too. Why, you’d almost think it was their job to help air travellers. How misguided of them. They could have spent their working hours far more valuably chatting to their friends. After all, it was nearly Christmas and there was a lot to talk about.

Once in the heart of the British countryside, the differences continued. Staying with family in Northumberland the recycling processes which they tried to convey to me as a matter of national importance took on the hue of rocket science. This was serious stuff and mistakes would not be tolerated. Paper and all its derivatives went into the greeny-grey wheelie bin outside the back door. Plastics and all its derivatives went into the browny-black wheelie bin outside the same back door. Bottles and glass containers had to be drained and washed and then placed in cardboard carriers to be taken to the bottle bank down the road. Organic matter was destined for another wheelie bin whose colour my mind had simply blanked out by then.

I thought nostalgically of our much simpler and more effective method of recycling back home. We put our black bin bags out onto the grass verges outside our homes with the rubbish neatly arranged in well-mixed piles of organic, non-organic and who-gives-a-damnic. And then we wait for the poorest of the poor, those who might have benefited from a social security grant had our hard-pressed government not been engaged in buying national essentials such as armoured tanks for our own good, you understand. These impoverished human beings come on bicycle and on foot to sort through the debris of our lives and reclaim it as their own. It doesn’t take long before the fag ends of our lives are scattered all across the pavements. Rubbish even the destitute reject are then clinically picked over by hadedas and neghbourhood dogs. It’s a far less complicated method I think and it’s much more “circle of life.” And of course it’s much cheaper too.

And then there’s London: more people per square inch than there are ants in the Kruger Park. And all of them trying to get onto the tubes at the same time as me. Who designed this system, I want to know? What made them think of tunnelling underground so that a network of trains can ferry you to anyplace in the city within a matter of minutes? Where’s the fun in that?

In South Africa we cater for our national need for human interaction by having the good old taxi system. In this way, people have much more fun. The taxis challenge every road user and passenger to test their wits on daily journeys as they break the rules of the road and of civilization as we know it. This innovative method of keeping passengers and other road users entertained does have a fairly dangerous edge, but at least we appreciate the fact that we’re alive. None of that quiet complacency for us. After all, wasn’t it Dylan Thomas who said we should meet our end with a bang and not a whimper? Or was that the Minister of Transport? I forget.

Whatever or whoever, South Africa makes you relish every precious moment that you are still breathing. Ah, it’s good to be home.

First published in Sunday Independent, 24 February, 2008.

Emma Thompson, Stephen Fry and Me.

So there I was sitting in the second from the front row of the Market Theatre in Newtown Johannesburg waiting for Emma Thomson and Stephen Fry to take an all day workshop on Comedy. Yes, Emma Thompson and Stephen Fry. In South Africa. And I was going to be in the same room. And I had a plan that was making my heart beat wildly.
It hadn’t been easy to get there. I’d just returned from Cape Town where I’d been flown by a producer to discuss turning two of my plays into an M-Net drama and a TV series that I received the press release about the workshop. Emma Thompson and Stephen Fry were coming to Joburg. The workshop was supposed to be about Comic Writing and there was something included in the press releases about the premiere of a film about Ingrid Jonker too. The workshop would start on the 13th Feb and would go on til the 14th and the premiere of the documentary about Ingrid Jonker’s life would be screened on the following Sunday night at Rosebank. It seemed too soon after my Cape Town trip and I was still broke after the Christmas drought and my scriptwriting lectures were due to start on Tuesday 12th Feb. But it was Stephen Fry and Emma! I’ve watched almost every film or TV series they’ve made. I couldn’t miss them.
But how could I afford a trip? Where would I stay? I don’t have anyone to stay with in Joburg now that Ian has sold his house. And I couldn’t bear to impose on anyone I didn’t know well enough. I couldn’t see how I could do it. But still, I answered the press release seemingly emanating from Ster Kinekor who organized the workshop at such short notice. Ever the optimist, I booked for the Thursday workshop when Emma and Stephen would be talking on comedy.
On Monday before the workshop I still had no idea where I would stay or even how I would afford the petrol for the trip. I felt it was all beyond me somehow. And then the phone rang and a sweet person on the line asked me if I would like an overdraft on my account. I told her she was an angel from heaven! I decided to increase my overdraft just enough to cover my petrol costs and two nights stay at the cheapest B and B I could find. And then I emailed the editor of Screen Africa to ask if she wanted me to cover the story for her publication. She said she would love me to write about it. This would cover the cost of my new overdraft. My cash flow problem was sorted out! Suddenly everything seemed possible again.
I left on Wednesday morning, found my B and B just off Jan Smuts Road and met a good friend for a late supper. We tired to ignore that we were surrounded by Valentine’s Day lovers drowning in each other’s eyes.
And then it was D-Day. I was in the Market Theatre in a seat second row from the front. After all, I didn’t want to appear too eager, although I was more than eager underneath my apparently calm exterior. Apart from being in the presence of the hallowed two and having to write an article for Screen Africa, I did have an ulterior motive: I had one of my best plays in my bag and was determined to give it to either Stephen or Emma to pass on to their agents. And how I was going to do that completely audacious thing made my heart beat three times faster than normal.
It was quite – I won’t say surreal – remarkable to see ET and SF in the flesh. They were accompanied by Greg Wise, ET’s dishy husband and his sister, head of the UK film council and producer Clare Wise, as well as the writer of the screenplay on Ingrid Jonker as well as maker of the documentary on her life, Helena Nonguera. And the strange thing was that no one sat in front of me in the front row. I had a direct line of eye contact to the revered ones.
People whooped with delight as their highnesses made their entrance. The Queen herself - the real one and not Helen Mirren - would have received no less an enthusiastic response. Malcolm Purkey, head of the Market Theatre, introduced them to the audience. And then the workshop was underway. Apparently, the prestigious panel had been attacked the previous day for being too "colonial" in holding court and "telling" the audience what they thought. All I can say is thank goodness I wasn’t there to see it. I would have died of embarrassment to hear these gracious and generous people accused of paternalism. To counteract the previous day’s attack, Emma and Stephen acted out scenes from Helena Nonguera’s screenplay based on Ingrid Jonker’s life and then asked for the audience to give them advice as to how to play the roles better. Two times Oscar winner, Emma, listened patiently while an apparently twelve year old drama 101 student lectured her ad infinitum as to how she could act better. I sank my head onto my chest and couldn’t help catching ET’s eye as I did so. I was mortified by the young girl’s arrogance. Especially as she was speaking such utter rubbish! Emma held her pose of rapt attention while the girl rabbitted on until the audience told her to shut up. After a brief moment of silence, Emma turned to the girl and asked her if she planned to be a director. The irony was huge.
Emma then continued. "All I can say to those of you who want to become directors, remember two things when you give advice to actors: 1) Keep it short and 2) Be practical." Amid hoots of laughter, she continued: "Sir Laurence Olivier was directing a young man who was completely lost in how to play his character. He came up to Sir Laurence and asked him what to do. Sir Laurence turned to him thoughtfully and after a long moment he replied, ‘Your character is very… hot.’"
And Miss Thompson and Sir Laurence left it at that. Masterful. All potential grade twelve directors in the audience were silenced.
Another cringe-making moment in the morning’s workshop came when pompous ex-academics began to pontificate on the life and times of Ingrid Jonker. Seven syllabic words abounded as the academic high up in the audience made us aware of her doctorates and accolades. I turned to see who was embarrassing me yet again, catching Stephen Fry’s eye as I did so. We shared an ironic smile. I wasn’t too surprised to see it was an academic who recently left UKZN and who was secretly referred to as Miss Lavish for her self important ways. I smiled even more. Emma answered the academic’s vague question, and Malcolm Purkey congratulated Emma on not using the words Post Modern or Post Colonial once! Another shared smile between those on the podium and me in the second from the front row.
Stephen and Emma re-enacted the same scene again, taking the advice from those less pompous advisors and turned it into a very moving piece. The scene was between Ingrid and her father. She was telling him she wanted to go to University and he was saying that girls don’t need to as they will marry and have children. Ingrid also mentioned in this scene that her mother slit her own wrists. I had said nothing until this point, swearing that I would only speak when I had something life-alteringly important to say. Now, all I wanted to say was that the line from Ingrid about her mother slitting her wrists didn’t quite ring true to me. It was too ‘on the nose.’ People spoke about all manner of random things and I kept trying to catch the eye of Craig Higginson, Literary Manager of the Market Theatre, who was chairing the session.
Higginson saw me near the end of the Q and A and said that he would take my question after the next script reading. I stated very strongly that I needed to be heard right then as it had everything to do with the section they had just done. "Please please please please," I shouted. And he relented. And so I spoke for the first time that day.
"I love subtext in a script," I said passionately. "And your comment earlier, Emma (she looked up surprised) about the woman saying to her husband at the table, ‘Pass the butter, dear,’ when she is in fact saying, ‘You have ruined my life,’ is meat and drink to me. I love finding the motivation behind lines of dialogue more than anything. And Emma and Stephen," I continued boldly, "I just love what your work, but my question now is for Helena, the scriptwriter." Helena looked very surprised as no one had spoken to her the whole day. "Helena, I love what I’ve seen so far but I’m just wondering about the whole idea of reality and interpretation. I know one should never let the truth get in the way of a good story but I’m just concerned about Ingrid being as blatant about her mother’s suicide as she is in the script as it’s written now. She states blatantly to her father, in a 1940’s repressive Afrikaner household, that her mother cut her wrists which is a direct contradiction to him saying her mother had died of cancer. That worries me."
At that moment Stephen Fry interrupted both of us by holding up his script and saying querulously to Emma, "Emma’s been reading that line wrong all morning."
Emma looked up very annoyed. "No I haven’t" she said.
"Yes you have," he continued. "Look," he said, holding out the script to her. "The father says of the mother, ‘She died of cancer,’ and Ingrid says ‘It was very sharp,’ and then her father asks, ‘What?’ and Ingrid replies, ‘It cut her wrists.’ You’ve been reading ‘She cut her wrists.’ That’s very different."
"Stephen’s version’s much better!" I shouted from my seat in the second row.
"My script doesn’t have the new line," shouted a wounded Emma.
It was a recently made change which Stephen’s script had and Emma’s script was still the old one. I spooked myself a bit realizing I’d picked up the single script change, made for the very reasons I’d objected to in the first place, in a four hour session. Emma still looked a bit miffed but looked at me thoughtfully.
I went on to discuss how much one should change one’s script to please a funder. For example a funder wants to sponsor my film about a real person but he wants me to change the ending so that the person who is supposed to be a martyr for his cause doesn’t die. Clare Wise went on to answer me by saying that you have to ensure that the funder has the same vision as you have. She spoke about the film United 93 which was made in Britain as the producers were sure they would be forced to make the plane not crash (even though it was about one of the planes hijacked on 9/11) just to make sure it had a Hollywood ending if they received funding from the USA.
I laughed and breathed again and watched the next session without saying a word, satisfied that I hadn’t made a complete fool of myself. Yet. I still had that script in my bag. And my heart raced at the thought of handing it over to the illustrious ones.
The afternoon continued with a so-called Comedy Workshop. Pieter Dirk Uys and Mark Banks joined ET, SF and GW on the stage and the session was chaired by Alan Swerdlow. The audience was full to capacity now with comic actors of great stature in this country. Tobie Cronje, Bill Flynn, Grethe Fox, Desmond Dube, David Kau, Irene Stefanoui, to name just a few were there with the cast of the new comic film Bunny Chow which has just been released in Toronto. The Bunny Chow cast sat in the front row and included Kim Engelbrecht and Kagiso Mtwewa. The afternoon was about comedy in general and I made extensive notes for the article which I kept having to remind myself I was writing for Screen Africa. I was embarrassed a few more times. And the eye contact continued with the now tired looking Stephen, while Emma kept encouraging some of the younger actors to come on stage and strut their stuff. Some of them were the cause of the embarrassment, it has to be said. I think I will say no more on the subject except to say thank goodness for Pieter Dirk Uys and Mark Banks. They showed their intelligence and didn’t make South African humour seem like a complete oxymoron.
Then Malcolm Purkey asked if any press were in the audience. Cautiously I raised my hand. Stephen then looked at me and said "A pox on the press!" with a wry smile. I shook my head at him and said a quiet, "Now, now, no need for that…" but he continued to smile and say rude things about the press. Purkey cleared the auditorium so that the rest of the press could come in, but I’d been there all day and just HAD to have a loo break. So I asked him to wait until I returned before he started the press conference. I know how monstrous the press is in Britain, and could never quite get over the viciousness of the Tabloid press in all the five years I was there, but I still felt a little wounded by Stephen’s comments. Especially after all those moments we’d shared…Shouldn’t eye contact count for something?
Anyway, as I rushed to the loo, realizing that the script hand over would have to take place as soon as possible after the press conference I felt abject fear. I knew it would be my only chance to make contact with people I felt such an affinity to, whose advice to young writers was exactly the same as that I give to my script writing students. And I had no idea how to do it. As I ran to the loo, I prayed to God, my ancestors, guardian angels, and any off duty positive deities who might have a free moment to help!! me!! As I went past one of the many Honours’ boards in the building my eye caught the name "Richard E." It wasn’t Grant but it made me think of him. Aha! I had it! I should tell Stephen that I know Richard E. Grant! Of course! That would be a point of contact. SF had cast him in his film Bright Young Things. I thanked the deities for their advice and concentrated on getting into a very full loo, and back into the auditorium in five minutes.
Once back in my seat, second from the front, Purkey prepared for the press conference. Cameras had been there throughout the day with telephoto lenses the size of small planets and now there were even more. Stephen kept looking at me and muttering rude things about the press with a wry smile all the while. Mics were used now for people in the auditorium and the first person who spoke was a young girl from 5FM. She asked Emma something fairly innocuous about what she thought of South Africa. I can’t remember her answer. I was by now rehearsing my opening line which I’d planned days before.
Then it was my turn. I took the mic and looked at Emma and Stephen who were literally cringing on the stage. I suppose they expected me to ask them about their sex life and whether they frequented toilets in the hope of finding rent boys. I don’t know. But this is what I said.
"Hi. My name is Janet van Eeden and I’m from Horse and Hound." I think Emma and Stephen must have thought I’d said a foreign name or something because they didn’t respond at all. But Greg Wise got it. He turned towards me and simply BEAMED! For the first time in the day, irony was coming from the audience. He got the reference to Hugh Grant’s character in Notting Hill when he poses as a journalist for Horse and Hound magazine. I felt encouraged.
I went on hoping that at least Greg would continue to get the irony. "I must say, however, that I have been deeply wounded by His Highness Mr Fry’s rude comments about the press."(Frozen cringing from ET and SF on stage, much beaming from clever and dishy Greg) "Especially as I am a full time screenwriter and playwright and do journalism only to cover my costs, having come all the way from the provinces to be here for this workshop. In this instance I am writing for Screen Africa, the national film journal for whom I write quite often, and which is the final word on film in this country. And so – (addressing Emma and Stephen directly now) – Emma and Stephen, I WORSHIP your work, but I’m going to ask Screen Africa-type questions now, and I’d like to ask Helena how she managed to get Clare to produce her film, and what the production schedule is like, and so on."
I went on to ask very business-like questions ofHelena and Clare Wise – only the second time in the day that they’d been addressed – and Emma and Stephen sat in stunned silence.
The rest of the press conference rattled on and I heard Fiona Ramsey (Ohmigod did she hear me say such silly things!?) and a few other familiar voices ask very unthreatening questions. Then it was over. Just before Purkey thanked everyone, Stephen thanked the press for not being like the British Press, and Emma then said that we should be congratulated for not being like the British Press. I told them so, I said with my eyes.
And then everyone was supposed to go home. This was it. My moment. Almost incoherent with fear, I remembered that I still had to take photos with my tiny digital camera. Okay, so that’s the first step to get onto the stage.
I pushed through the people who were all wanting to touch the cloak of the famous ones, and finally made it to Stephen. He turned towards me and beamed hugely. I told him that in Afrikaans my state of the art (not) camera is called a Mik en Druk – a Point and Press camera so I had to get really close to take reasonable pictures. He beamed like the star he is. And that’s when I took my chance.
As he was packing up his bag I said casually, "I’m a friend of Richard E. Grant’s."
"Oh yes, Richard," he answered warmly. "He’s from Botswana isn’t he?"
"Swaziland, actually," I smiled forgivingly, "but it’s easy to get them confused. And Richard is the person who first encouraged me to write."
"Is he?" he answered, still not completely bored.
"Yes," I said. "And look, there’s no easy way to do this, but I’ve brought a script I’d really love you to read. I’m sure you would enjoy it."
A little more wary now but still very kind. "Alright, as long as it’s not too long. I don’t have much time, you know."
"Oh no, it’s great fun and it’s a really quick read. I promise you’ll enjoy it. I’ll just fetch it then?"
Remembering to take Greg Wise’s pic on the way of course. I turned to Greg and said something deeply meaningful like "I think you’re just wonderful," to which he beamed as I snapped.
And then to Emma, who seemed to be having her ears pinned back yet again by another twelve year old girl. Maybe this one was telling her how to write this time? As I stepped towards her, Emma turned to me with what I think was relief. She also lit up and gave me 150% of her incandescent presence. She really is remarkable in that way. Also she’d spoken throughout the day about her feminist work, even when Stephen didn’t know what she was on about and told her to stop wingeing. But I related to it hugely. Now I said that I had to take her picture, and she gave me seraphic smiles. And then I spoke to her too. From the bottom of my heart.
"You are just iconic to me, Emma,".I said. "Really.Your work has meant so much to me over the years and especially your feminist work. I’ve really related to it."
She accepted my adulation with much grace.
"And," I continued, "I feel like such an arsehole asking you to do this, but I can’t see any other way. I’m giving one of my scripts to Stephen to ask him to read it and I wondered, if you thought it was good enough, if you would pass it on to your agents? I know it’s a really terrible thing to ask but I’m desperate here. I have a script for you too if you’d like?"
"Of course!" she said warmly. "Don’t worry about giving me another copy. I’ll get it from Stephen – I’m with him all the time - and I promise I’ll give it to my people…"
"Would you really?" I said, almost crying with relief now.
"Yes, I will. Promise."
And I think I thanked her and I remember giving my script to Stephen who said (a little grumpily now) that it looked very long and me telling him quite firmly that he could shoot me if he didn’t enjoy it and then getting Clare Wise’s business card before finally leaping off the stage. I left the auditorium as fast as I could to dash to the loo where I sobbed for a solid ten minutes.
I was so overwrought by the whole experience. And yes they could throw my script in the bin and yes perhaps they thought I was a complete idiot but I would never have forgiven myself if I hadn’t taken the chance. As my friend Ian said to me later when I sobbed through the re-telling of the whole story, it was a calculated risk, and I had to take it. And take a risk I did. It took me days to recover. And my work and the deities now have to do their bit.