Recently I wrote about making a film for the Melbourne 48 Hour Film Competition.
My film, “Faster, Stronger, Higher” screened last weekend at the BMW Edge and it was one of about 28 in competition.
Now it is one of the 12 City Best Finalists.
I am nervous. First prize is a scholarship and equipment hire.
If it wins I promise not to do a Gwyneth. I may however channel Sally Field – “Oh you like me, you really, really like me.”
I am tired, so very tired. Over the weekend I co-produced a four minute film for the 48 Hour Film Competition.
On Friday night at 7pm, Quinine Films team leader Olivia drew from the hat the genre of Sports Film.
And from then it was on.
By 11pm we had a plot. Casting decisions had been made. Prop makers organised and locations hurridly arranged.
We started filming at 9am Saturday and wrapped up about 13 hours later.
Olivia and Karl looked after the filming and sound.
I coached the actors and improvised with them.
We edited through the night and re-shot a scene on Sunday. And then we edited some more.
Karl made a four minue score using a synth and guitar.
We handed in our film at 6.57pm Sunday.
By 7.30 pm we were having a drink at Transport.
By 9.30 I was in a coma.
My flat is a mess. We filmed there.
My body aches. My brain hurts.
I am a vegetarian zombie today.
Gosh it was good fun.
Hello and welcome to the world Mia Kate, who was born very cute and cuddly yesterday, Thursday 18 October.
She is my second great-niece and a very welcome addition to my family.
Dear readers,
I am going to Brisvegas for a few days to wish Mummy bear a happy 80th birthday.
Normal blogging will resume around October 25, 2007. Until then enjoy reading and make sure you go and do things in the sun with your friends and family.
Soon you will all be regailed with tales of drunk 80 year olds wearing cotton tails on their heads.
Cheers
Michael
Two weeks ago I went out to have a drink with my neightbour. I was very single. I came home with a husband. What the fuck have I done? 
Don’t get me wrong, it is all good and I am very happy, but the change in my life in two short weeks is quite remarkable. After years of singledom and one night stands, I must now consider the needs of another.
Anyway, all good and a special hello to Damian if you are reading this.
Actually, Son you had better be reading this. Otherwise we will have words.
Filed under: Australia, Mary Kostakidis, Media, Personal, SBS, World News Australia
Yesterday I wrote about newsreader extraordinaire, Mary Kostakidis and my ongoing obsession with, err admiration of her. I wrote that I would turn for her. And while that is true, it in no way encapsulates my love for the Queen of Cool.
Dear readers come with me on a journey and cast your mind back to 1990, the year that I truly became a Kostaphille. It was the year that Australian children were scheduled to stop living in poverty. And it was the year I flew the parental coop by moving to Canberra to live as a poor arts student in a grotto.
Now Sydney is a just a short four-hour bus ride from Canberra, and SBS is in Sydney; so it was quite logical that Charlie Smith* and I would travel to Sydney to meet Ms Kostakidis. We did, arriving at Milsons Point on a cold, wet June day.
Once there Charlie and I stared nervously and excitedly at the non-descript building which housed our prey, err I mean the SBS newsroom. After an hour or two of waiting and hoping and wishing and praying and peering into cars, it became rather obvious that we weren’t going to meet her that way, and we decided that because the Lord helps those who help themselves, we needed to display some initiative. We did because we concocted a story that we were both journalism students from Sunshine TAFE who were great admirers of the news service and please mister, ”would it be possible to have a look at the newsroom and perhaps kidnap a presenter”? Or somefin like that.
With a final cigarette to steady our nerves, it was on. We walked to reception and asked in stern, butch voices to have a look at the newsroom. Sensing that the answer was to be no, Charlie spied a door and sneakily and surreptitiously walked towards it in a manly and resolute fashion. Having played spy games as a nipper I knew the score and desperately tried to distract the security guard. If I wasn’t going to meet Mary, then I sure as hell would do all I could within my power to help Charlie meet her.
After about thirty seconds Charlie returned to me at the reception desk. He looked deflated as he walked out of the utility room.
I never did meet Mary, and to my knowledge neither did Charlie.
*(Name changed to protect international law lecturers at Johns Hopkins University).
I seem to be suffering some sort of malaise, come existental crisis this week. And now I know why. I am a Lego man. And like the Lego man that washed up on the shores of the Dutch resort of Zandvoort earlier this week, I have realised there is a place for me in the sun, and that is at a Dutch resort.
Maybe I could be the Lego Mikey of Melbourne, and stand sentry at Port Philip Bay, or at the gates to the gated Docklands.
