So ya know, ya know. Saw Danielsen a coupla times during the festival, spoke to him here and there, seemed alright enough. Busy man, plus I wasn’t interested in getting anything off him in particular, so just let him get on with it.
At the last night of the Delegate Centre (the press centre where some of the most obnoxious media cunts on the face of the fucking planet descend every year in my fucking city to stroke each other’s fevered egos and talk complete and utter shite for the duration) I got talking to a young Australian animation student. She was somewhat overawed by the size of the festival and hadn’t made any good contacts. I told her she still had a day to do so and should talk to Danielsen, whom she told me came from Melbourne, her home city. I told her to work those angles and talk to him.
I introduced them and walked away as he sat and talked to her for a while and bought her a beer, which was cool. I had no agenda in this; just trying to help somebody out who had to leave the following night and who had found the Festival somewhat wanting in her experience. And I didn’t want her to say she came to Scotland and no Scotsman ever tried to help her. I had nothing to gain from this whatsoever.
After they had finished talking, I went up to him and told him I found him much more approachable than Lizzie Francke, and this was cool. I thought I was paying him a compliment. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to score points off me,” he snarled. I looked at him blankly. “That’s the second time you’ve dissed Lizzie,” he said, (I would assume that me telling him that this year’s lineup was better than they previous year’s was taken by him as some sort of slight towards dear Lizzie) “and Lizzie’s a friend of mine.”
“I’m not trying to score points,” I said to him in bafflement. I was merely making what I thought to be a genuine statement. I don’t go in for the whole backslapping praise from backstabbing men angle. Of course, I was not playing The Game and had insulted one of his high-level friends. Like I gave a fuck. Score points. Consider the arrogance and delusion implicit in this statement. This…character assumes that his existence actually means anything to me, and that I would try to sycophantically butter him up for…whatever reason. He may get that from a lot of the festival muppets (and festival groupies working there – not that I saw him disappearing into the night with one young woman who works behind the industry office press desk one night, oh no) he was used to dealing with…but he fucking well doesn’t know me very well.
His Alpha male king-of-the-celluloid-shitheap agenda means less than fucking shit to me. He is no friend of mine; never has been, never will be. He has never done a thing for me; never has done, never will do. What this man forgets is that he is a guest in my country. I have been coming to this festival for far longer than he has; will be here long after he has swanned off to take over some fame asslicker flameball somewhere else. I was at the festival because of love of film pure and simple; these festival cunts can take their pretentious wee asshole-hierarchy and pathological celluloid powertrip fantasies and jam them where the sun doesn’t shine.
Oops, did I say that out loud? (chuckles)
Angry? Naaaaaaaaaw. Just sick and fed up of horseshit from obnoxious fools. The film media are some of the dumbest, most pretentious people you could ever meet. They descend on Edinburgh like locusts on fields of crops every August and sully up the place with their asshole presence, talking about films, flickering shadows on a wall, like they’re truly (chuckle) important or something. And I truly can’t take anymore of it. Next year I won’t be applying for a press pass and if I see one more pathetic wee cunt wandering the streets with these celluloid talismans round their neck as if they’re important I will strangle the fuckers with it. Somehow (chuckle) I don’t think they’d give me one after this ramblerant anyway.
I will buy tickets for a select few films and enjoy them with real people. This will mean I can avoid groupies and Directors and press fucks…and we’ll all be happier for it. Because the only tourists I truly want to see in Edinburgh at this time of year are my mother and my gorgeous wee five-year-old niece Caitlynn, so I can take the wee darling down to Princes Street Gardens and we can go on the carousel on her favorite horse Honey and we can have the best time ever. The only thing I truly care about is family, friends and writing. The rest of you cunts – especially film cunts – can eat shit and die as far as I’m concerned.
Ooooh Graham, such vitriol and such a limited vocabulary. You truly seem incapable of meaningful polysyllabic discourse, and your expletive-laden colloquial brogue is truly terrible.
That is correct.
Anyway. After that rant, I might as well write a thing or two about the Festival: the films I saw, the shit I did. There are some people who won’t like it, but, well, hey – real life is a hard, harsh mistress. And this is just me letting off several years’ worth of steam. This is for any of you who have wanted to tell a film festival asshole where to get off. So sit back and enjoy…
Buckle up for some reviews and more festival fury in part four of THE 56TH EDINBURGH INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL: PLANET WANNA-BE HOLLYWOOD>>>

Posted on September 10, 2002 in Festivals by

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