"He's a bit... Billy Graham, you know?"

Our Editor Writes:

On making a successful trailer

Not that we here at the 'Crow know too much about this - our previous efforts have involved wooden swords, parasols, and lots of running - but let's talk about trailer music for a moment, shall we?

I like the idea of The Adjustment Bureau. I really do - the whole 'rebelling against a destiny not planned by you' aspect. It's not an easy sell to the general public, necessarily - quasi-science fiction based on Philip K Dick rarely goes well (see A Scanner Darkly, for instance, or the troubles Blade Runner had in getting through production and out the other side, not least of which were monotone voice-overs). So, the film's destiny - even starring Matt Damon, Emily Blunt and Terence Stamp et al - is nebulous at best. Is it a love story? Or maybe science fiction? Or a contemporary science fiction love story? Something tells me that by the end love will have conquered the evil machinations of the Planners, but hey, I'm cynical like that.

Or is it the story of a mutant changed into an indestructible killing machine by the US government?

Funny thing, trailer music.

Go back to The Adjustment Bureau's trailers page. Watch the trailer from 1:23 onwards.

Now go here, and watch the trailer from the start.

Kind of similar, no?

Then again, both films feature protagonists confronted by shadowy conspiracies and who have to beat the conspiracy to find out the truth about their lives, their destiny and the woman they love.

It's just that one of them has an indestructible skeleton. So hey.

I know there's only so much music to go around, and that if a tune fits, work it... But seriously, do Universal want their viewers to subconsciously think of OTT fighting mutants instead of A Love Story That Defies Destiny?

Oh, it's on like Donkey Kong...

Our Editor Writes:


So, yes, by now you've probably realised that we sent our director to Film School.

I say 'probably realised', of course, as if there's anyone reading this. If there is, of course; hello! Thanks for stopping by. Pull up a chair and get comfortable, there's about forty or so plus entries to go through related to our slightly odd - charitably, 'idiosyncratic' - film company.


But I thought it a good idea to note that our director - such as he is - is, in fact, right. It's cheaper to pay his tuition fees than to hire him a camera and editing suite. Bear in mind that here in the Eton Crow offices we have two macs, one with final cut (express) and one with - Oh Lord - iMovie, and one or two consumer / low grade camcorders.


You can think of us as charmingly retro, or you can think of us as lo-fi, but in reality, we're cheap and we're proud. Well, I say proud. Kind of proud. The kind of proud that you can only really have when you don't have any other options.

But here's the thing. We have a sponsor. Not in the televangelical sense - but we have someone sufficiently interested in our Director to sponsor him while he does the learning thing and posting strange little blog entries with musical lyrics for post titles about being An Old Man Among Young People. This sponsor - hell, it's always going to be italicised - seems to believe that our Director has some potential of some sort, which is nice.

So here's a little secret. Right now, Eton Crow - as you've no doubt worked out, you smart cookie - isn't exactly a 'film company'. It's me and the director, and hey, I have a day job, so... I get to spend the occasional bit of time - evenings and weekends - reviewing the director's tapes. Don't get me wrong, he has to edit them himself 99% of the time, because, hey, he's being graded on them, but shit, even if Eton Crow is Me and Him and Him and Me (and we are all together), I do like to keep my hand in.

We do actually have stuff to show you, in case you were wondering if we're just an odd bunch of people talking about studying and filmmaking. So I figure it's time to show our working. Here's an example, in three parts;

The band are called Kamikaze Practice, as you can probably tell. This is only a part of why they're interesting, though. See, our director loves William Gibson (hell, let's test this Amazon Associates thing out; books like Pattern Recognition and Spook Country lay around our office whether I like it or not).

So the thing about Kamikaze Practice is that - according to our reputable sources, at least - they no longer exist. They glimmered brightly as a band since sometime towards the autumn of last year, played a few gigs, recorded a few songs, played the gig you see above and then broke up due to (a) musical differences and (b) one of their number apparently having other commitments, which we won't mention here.

This might explain why we never heard back from the band's singer about the videos that were edited and uploaded over the course of a month. (Well, the uploading took a week, primarily because our office broadband is capped at something like 2mb on a good fucking day, so that was a fun wait).

In Gibson terms, releasing a video of a band that's already broken up and reformed as someone else by the time the video was edited is, well, it's up there. W-a-y up high.

So while it's annoying that the video doesn't have the same meaning as, say, a video of a new band on to big things, it's still, to his mind, pretty cool.

To me, it's annoying. But I'm just the editor - i.e. the one who keeps the computers happy - so what would I know?

The director, by the way, is on a short holiday at the moment, but hey, he never reads any of the entries he posts anyway, so he probably won't even notice this one...

... But enjoy the videos. And if you like them, bear in mind that this may be the only exigent proof that the band in them ever existed...

And oh God, I hope I'm not stuck with this one

Our Director Writes:

Diary of a Mature Student: Summer Daze

All the things I know right now, if I'd only know them then...

Currently, I have two things: a newly-working scanner and an extensive photograph collection.

I mean, yes, I've got my hands, got my feet, got my heart, got my soul and, yes, my freedom, but right now the extensive photograph collection is proving interesting, to say the least.

At a conservative estimate, there are photograph wallets stretching back at least twelve years in here. Some of them relate to previous scanning attempts, but since the majority of them were probably lost in the Great Computer Fuckup of '09, it's worth scanning them all in again.

Memories, so big you can get lost in them...

For instance, there are quite a few photographs, pertinently, of the end of my first year last time around on the degree merry-go-round. Even though experience tells me otherwise, I desperately want to call them Class of Cirrhosis '99, being as most of them have an alcoholic drink in there somewhere. This isn't exactly unfair, because at least one of them did end up with cirrhosis of the liver, and I did hang around with a boozy bunch, the whereabouts of precisely one - the sensible one - I can trace now, ten years on, and only then because (a) sensible and (b) memorable surname.

Of the others, I know at least one dropped out and off the radar, and the others, no clue. That was, to be fair, a particularly weird social group, based entirely around hanging around the union bar. Not even the union union bar, considering we were something like seven tube stops from the main campus; no, this was a satellite union bar, for all those who didn't fancy the journey to the main union bar. You can possibly imagine the quality and style of people this attracted. The word 'calibre' springs to mind, but only in the case of 'small'.

I think these photos are of the last night on campus before going home for the summer. I say this only because at the end of the roll there are some shots of London by Night circa '99, where myself and two friends-at-the-time drove into the heart of London and out again, watching the sun go down. It was just about as cool as it sounds - so your mileage may vary - but it's also a timely reminder that, for me at least, friendships seem to have varying half-lives.

... Oh god. I've just reached the Polaroids from an old Joycam (tm) - a polaroid camera that too teeny, tiny photos - and I've just had to clean up what I'm hoping was dried coffee from the front of all of them, because if it was dried blood... Well... fuck.

Still, some cold water later, all good. This is a very, very strange experience, though, all tangled up in weird skeins of emotions long forgotten or long-hoped-forgotten.

Here's something. Go here for a moment and read up. (See? Educational and informative.) I've said it before, but none of you believed it then, so I'll say it again; working with Young People every day is a strange struggle not to Cassandra them into catatonia.

Students of 2010, I offer you one essential piece of advice:

Don't buy so much stupid shit!

This is less of a problem for you now than it was for my generation, such as I have one. Put it this way; look at your iTunes or your WMA files. If you've bought or downloaded your music from legitimate or illegitimate websites, then you have one distinct advantage on my generation, i.e. not having to own the bastard things physically.

Picture this, if you will. For me, first, there were cassette tapes; the advantage of these was being able to record whatever you wanted on to the blank ones (and I still have a soft spot in my heart for mixtapes) but the disadvantages were easy of breaking and the need to rewind them manually, like videotapes, to the point you wanted. Then came CDs; no recording what you liked - yet - but no rewinding, either, what with the whole 'track' thing. Then there were minidiscs, but the less said about them the better, although in passing it's worth noting that they combined the worst aspects of tapes - having, at least to begin with, to record songs in real time - with the worst aspects of CDs, i.e. they were a bugger to record over.

Then came .mp3s, and suddenly, slowly, a shift began towards a world where the physical form of the media didn't actually matter any more.

Which means that the five hundred odd CDs and DVDs are now a massive pain in the arse to store, but not as bad as the cassette tapes, floppy discs and goddamn video tapes currently clogging up the garage. Add to this the books I read for pleasure plus the books I read to study and hey, you can see my problem.

I tried to alleviate this last year. Ten dustbin bags of clothes, CDs, books and videos went to the charity shops. Another ten went to the local municipal dump. Curiously, this only seemed to make things worse. Suddenly, the upstairs storage was filled with boxes from the downstairs storage, and the downstairs storage couldn't even be gotten into without crampons and hefty climbing boots.

Like I say, this is less of a problem for The Current Generation, raised as they were on .mp3s, torrents, filesharing, and anything other than having to actually pay for the damn thing. And, without condoning criminal activity, good for them, because it means that, in ten years time, they won't be spending hours of their lives going over everything they every bought and trying to work out why they bought it in the first place...

There's a Chinese cigarette case, and the rest you can keep

Our Director Writes:

Diary of a Mature Student, End of First Year

Note my ability to go for the obvious Apocalypse Now / The Doors quote. Tempting as it was.

So here's the thing. Have you seen Four Lions yet? No? See if it's showing nearby. Go and see it. Go on, this'll still be here when you get back. Seriously. Go see.

I saw it this afternoon in a packed cinema local cinema with two other people in attendance. Now, in the annals of matinee showings, this is a new point - low or high, your choice - for me. I like empty cinemas on general principle - the only cinema I like when it's full is a local independent one which has been retrofitted for comfort and style - but three people? Surely it costs more to employ the projectionist for two hours than they took for the ticket prices?

Anyway.

There aren't many things that British films can do that can't be done better by other, more powerful, more monied filmmakers. One of the things they can do, to butcher-quote Paul Cornell, is to create a 'unique mix of tragedy up against comedy which other cultures don't quite get.' Let's talk subject matter; Four Lions is about a small cell of English would-be jihadi terrorists, which means the film will go down with a mainstream American audience - the holy grail of film production, apparently - like a fart in a crowded lift.

Which is a shame. To get all political'n'shit for a moment, treating terrorism as an untouchable subject legitimises its' impact, which is, one might think, the desired effect. Turning terrorism into farce? Showing the comedy in bomb-making, training camps and martyrdom? This should hopefully remove some of the seriousness behind the concept.

Of course, given that the film will get a limited release and be watched only by cult filmgoers and Chris Morris fans, its' impart may be somewhat limited, which is, again, a shame.

But go and see it. I won't beg - not because I'm too proud, but because begging via a blog is like firing an AK47 at a B-52, pointless for one in a billion chances - but yes, go, go see, go see soon. The tragedy is comic and the comedy is tragic, a point curiously lost on my two fellow theatregoers who laughed at everything, which is always an interesting sign.

So anyway. It's done. the first year, the trial, the occasional tribulations. It feels like it was only a moment that you had to step by and let it pass, but hey, I've got something like sixteen quicktime videos to prove I've been doing something with my time other than reading, writing strange little essays and spending time hunched in front of the editing suite, My Brand New Deity.

I have to come out and say something; even having been a crap student my first time around, I don't understand the crap students of the modern generation. In my year, there are seventy students on my course. On average, that means there are five insanely committed, monomaniacal filmmakers, five to ten theorists and five to ten looking for industry work. Out of the remaining 40-45, there are varying degrees of commitment in 50-75%, and the bottom 25% simply don't care.

This isn't meant in an apathetic sense. One student, who myself and a colleague track out of interest, turned up for six of forty-six lectures last semester. I'm sure the rest of their time was spent living life to the full, taking coke, getting laid and drunkenly watching the sunrise, but to pay the current tuition fees - and as ruinous as they are, they're probably going to get worse to do something you could do just by moving to the town anyway seems bizarre. Even at my lowest depths, I still cared about passing my courses and getting my degree. This is because, however, I'm basically very stubborn.

Another thing; pass a single filmmakers skillset class and you have access, availability pending, to all the equipment the department has and is willing to let you. (It turns out these criteria are a movable feast, because if they don't want to give you something, either you can't have it or it's not available, dependent. But still.) So this semester, there are four course units. That's eight hours a week. There are three exercises, four essays, and three exams at the end of it all. So once you've done your eight hours a week plus another, what, sixteen of work and revision for good measure, do you think "I could be making a film, I'll head down to the lab" at this point?

Apparently not.

My colleague and I are two of the monomaniacal, obsessed filmmakers. We're also the only two who make any extra effort in filmmaking.

Don't get me wrong, this is The Mature Student Effect; not living on campus, I only have to socialise when I'm there, and don't have to worry about drinking, living it up, being young etc. This is why I do so much extra work; it's because I've done the boozing, sexing, living lifestyle of the young student. It was kind of fun, and kind of not, all rolled up into one. So now I'm a dedicated student simply because my support network means I can't not be.

It would be nice, however, if there were one, or two, extra students in my year who had, at their age, the kind of passion that means you go out and record more film just because you can, not because you have to.

There is a time for complaining, however, and a time to put these childish things away, because next year starts in...

...

...

...

Five Months?

Dammit.

My dreams they gotta catch me 'cause I don't get sleep

Our Director Writes:

Diary of a Mature Student: Semester Two, The End Is Nigh

Election Special

Oh, fuck that.

Election Special Goodbye Halcyon Days

So yes, the last two entries had kind of an odd... disconnect. Going from "Here's the story of a person whose behaviour has hurt me" to "Isn't Bleach great?" is a little odd, I grant you.

It's a little strange, that's all, to have someone just not talk to you, or even acknowledge your existence if they can avoid it. Yesterday, I was blanked three times, which was... nice. Today, we ended up ignoring each other while other people talked around us.

But it's interesting, because one of my fellow students keeps recommending I find some sort of closure, which is a nice, American word for 'not letting stupid shit go'. He maintains that I should send some sort of message along the lines of

Hi!

Sorry we don't seem to get along anymore. Good luck for the future!

Which is a nice sentiment, but it's how I can tell that he's Young. I used to be a resolutionist, too, believing that the Best Thing Ever is to not leave any loose ends. But life isn't like that. The loose ends eventually end up outnumbering the tied-off stumps of the things we do.

Let's put this to the test - not least a test of whether anyone actually reads this - and ask; if someone came on strong to you, then realised that was a bad idea, backtracked, and left it seemingly amiable, then blanked you, ignored you and would seemingly prefer you not to exist for two and a half months, would you feel that charitable?

Anyway.

Deep, cleansing breaths.

Breathe in,
Breathe out.

Breathe In,
Breathe Out.



It's very strange to feel that this first year is around 70, 75% over. Only a couple of presentations, a few exams and some rather roughshod essays to go, and it's all done with for now.

Hence, Goodbye Halcyon Days, because, well, things only get more difficult from now on.

For instance, the modules actually start to matter. This is in opposition to the modules at the moment where, as has been noted the lecturers actively tell you not to care as long as you pass, and given that in some cases you would have to be clinically dead not to pass, you're probably best off not worrying about the mercurial nature of life and mortality's sudden eclipsing of your accomplishments as opposed to, for instance, The Paramount Decision of 1948.

Is it wrong to think of the first year as a fundamentally broken system? In an ideal world, the first year of a university course is suppose to challenge you just enough to raise your game to the level you'll need for the rest of the modules.

This is, not to put too fine a point on it, a lie. The first year has the following problems;

- Courses have to be easy enough that students from any educational background stand a chance of passing them;

- Courses have to be easy enough to guarantee a generous pass rate - making the lecturers look better, because this reflects on their abilities;

- But they can't be too easy, or they're open to scrutiny, so the person setting them has to walk the fine line between the two.

- Meanwhile, some of the courses have to be prerequisites for other courses, which means if you want to guarantee some measure of attendance for the higher-level courses.

- These courses, meanwhile, go towards the overall averall pass rate for the academic school. The school needs to guarantee an average pass rate in order to continue receiving the requisite funding level.

This means lots and lots of factors depend on students passing enough of their first year, which in turn means making it hard enough to make the students work but easy enough to guarantee some sort of respectable pass rate and average grade.

There we go, anyway. I've loved my first year, but I'm an Old Man, so I'm there to use the cameras and make the films, and the essays are kind of a side bonus, along with the exams.

Maybe tomorrow, in the light of a new government - or maybe a Labour government hanging on by it's fingernails - you'll start to see a newer, less cynical, more positive Eton Crow Director's blog, because it really is a good world out there, sometimes, somewhere, somehow.

Just not after this week, because it's been - for students, at least - backbreaking...

Close your eyes and listen hard, maybe you'll hear a "Goodbye"

Our Director Writes:

Diary of a Mature Student: Semester Two, Week Thirteen-ish

Do you ever have one of those days?

No, not bad ones necessarily. Just the days when something very odd occurs to you?

For instance, I'm coming around to the theory that the British university system is a lot like Bleach. The series, not the cleaning product.

Here's the thing. Bleach deals with a high-school student plucked from obscurity by virtue of a misunderstood talent and an encounter with a Soul Reaper, which leaves him doing the soul reaper-y work. Eventually, he travels to another world, infiltrates a secret society and exposes the corruption going on therein before another afterlife secret society comes after the first one, and fighting ensues. Lots of fighting ensues. Lots and lots of fighting. Wall-to-wall, in fact.

The first afterlife afterworld is called Soul Society. This consists of an outside world - Rukongai - where all the souls of the dead are reborn - and Seireitei, the walled-off enclosure at the centre where only those with high spiritual pressure, i.e. those who have the ability to become soul reapers, go to be trained and sent back into the real world to do the aforementioned reaper-y duties. Rukongai is organised into districts (80, if I remember rightly), with 80 being the roughest all the way up to an unforseen 1. Never mind about Rukongai District 9, of course.

Here's the first similarity, at least in terms of the way people treat students; if you're at university, you're expected to be intelligent enough to be there and talented enough in one area to progress through the course. It's not literally walled off from the Real World, of course - although some act like they'd like to be - but one thing that makes me want to bash peoples' heads together is when you get the stereotyped Student Elite who think they're above Normal People by virtue of education. I've seen them, I've met them, and they never get any better. So if the wall isn't literal, it's attitudinal and intellectual, then.

Within Seireitei, the soul reapers complete their training and are then assigned to a division (within this analogy, an academic discipline), where if they're really talented they become a seated officer, and if they have the necessary power they become a captain or a vice-captain. The morass of unseated officers is never really portrayed, but think of them in terms of the morass of undergraduates; some will stay on and be smart or tenacious enough to be postgraduate students, some of these will then go on to do P.h.Ds, and when that's completed, they can work their way towards being a lecturer, a researcher, or - shock and horror and shock - maybe even the department head one day.

The first year at university has felt kind of like this; a seething, roiling mixture of undergraduates, some of who care about their degrees, some of whom don't; some of who do the work, some of whom don't; some of who will go on to do well, some of whom won't, etc, etc. It's seeding and weeding time, ladies and gentlemen; the lecturers, after twenty-eight weeks of dealing with us, know who speaks up in class, who doesn't turn up, who does the work, and, thanks to immensely lax security systems, who's taken what out from our library when.

(Seriously. The library computer system is open and unsecure here. A more devious person than me could check out their fellow students' reading habits without muss, fuss or even bother.)

Whoever's worth the effort can consider themself seeded; they can go to ask for help, or advice, or anything without fear of being shut out. Those who are being weeded, then, either drop out or plod on, and on, and Ariston.

I know it's not the best analogy, but it's all I've got of a Friday afternoon, and coming up on the end of the year, it feels righteous somehow. Granted, it'd work a bit better if the worse students were eaten by Hollows, but hey, you can't have everything.

It's testing and exams for the next few weeks, script kiddies; expect fun.

Because I just set them up to knock them down

Our Director Writes

Diary of a Mature Student: Semester Two, Week Twelve

It's probably time to talk about The Girl.

It's been about eight weeks, after all.

Mature students get an odd perception when it comes to the opposite sex, dating and further such alien concepts. On my first go on the merry-go-round, there was a mature student - who ended up an object of mild ridicule thanks to his strange pony-tail and trying to relate punk to Shakespeare, sometimes bold, sometimes just odd - and he ended up dating what was One Of Us at the time, and they seemed... Very happy together. It helped that they were both functionally the same personality type, i.e. Alphas, really, ignoring anyone else's point-of-view if it didn't mesh with their own.

I don't know what happened to them. I hope nothing particularly tragic.

I have no romantic expectations upon my return to university, because being an Old Man surrounded by eighteen and nineteen-year old girls is a strange enough experience to begin with. Seriously, it is; it's difficult to put into words, somehow.

Maybe it's because I went back to university to, well, study; friendships are great, I've met a lot of people on roughly the same wavelength as me, and that's really good. But romance? Love? Tales of the heart? Oh no. No, no, no.

Part of this is because - charitably - I'm really not a catch. Chunky body type, prematurely grey temples, broke, student; ladies, I know the line stretches around the block, but you'll just have to wait your turn, because, obviously, I'm a busy man. [/sarcasm]

So it was kind of a shock when I ended up the object of some strange mildly romantic fascination, albeit all-too-briefly. A friend - a good friend, the sort who you can make laugh with only a few words, and who you can make light up with the right sentence - went from being friendly to being complementary, then being overly complementary, about my looks, my style (hah!) and various other personal attributes. Don't worry, I did check if she'd had a sight test recently.

After this, there was a day's grace, then the always amazing Let's Just Be Friends email.

And, curiously enough, I was okay with this. Because, as I say, Not A Catch as far as prime male rib goes. So I thought that was that done with, and we could just go on in some altered form and live with it.

Except, not so much.

I don't want this to be the sort of tale where I make myself sound perfect and the other person sound broken. I really don't. So in all honesty there were two awkward weeks where we still talked to each other - stilted, strange sentences, for the most part, with nothing personal or open to misinterpretation. At the time, my main thoughts were, well, such is life.

So when I thought it would thaw out after a while, I didn't realise quite how much of an error that was.

There then followed six weeks of the most blistering awkwardness I have ever experienced. It was like going straight from meeting someone and getting along to the post-divorce inevitably difficult interations without anything in between. For choice, she would not speak to me, and when she had to, I often wished she hadn't bothered. While helping a friend on a short film, we ended up in the same room for twenty minutes alone. In the words of Don Mclean, 'not a word was spoken'.

This continued up until the easter holidays, and I'm assuming it's continuing now because I haven't seen The Girl since then. Technically, before the end of the semester I will have to interact with her - i.e. be in the same lectures - three times. Which is going to be difficult, frankly, if things haven't changed at all. It would be nice to think that absence would make the heart grow fonder, but... It's just not going to happen.

It's been eight weeks of towering awkwardness, which is do-able; but the idea that I can't make this person that used to matter to me laugh anymore, or light up like she used to, is even more difficult to live with.

But live with it, obviously, I must. Let's put it to song;




Besides, what would my employers and my patron think if they thought I'd just gone back to university for the dating opportunities? That's a hell of an expensive dating service, even when you amortize the cost of camera hire...