Some times you can slog through months, make the 7kg camera bag your tortoise shell, rot in an edit room for 12 hours a day for weeks on end, produce an almost decent film- and then ruin it all on the screening by simply opening your mouth.
There are films which will be saved if the director does it a service by staying at home. Self's film is definitely one among them.
It was home turf and self walked in confidently with not an iota of preparation apart from the customary nervousness about talking to more than four people at a time.Was in that airy state which reads a bit like "have slogged my ass off to make that little thing on dvd. Now relax, sit back, watch it and give me a few seconds of 'filmmaker' glory"
Of course such an attitude is sure to end in a slipping fall with a decent amount of sound effects. To cut a long story short, self managed to dismantle almost every thing the film stood for through a few badly timed sentences. Through a few twists and turns self drove the film right into the heart of the ghetto from which it was trying to run away from. The ice cold look on the face of the adorable but right wing kid honked it way too loud-boss, you are in the wrong lane.
Hell, if left alone, the film would have tried its best to do that tight rope journey to where it was supposed to go. But what to do if you have the albatross of a 'filmmaker' to bear , that too one who is hell bent on plonking every thing.
While walking back, wished it wasn't home turf.Then, you could just walk away from the mess into the sunset with a "THE END" swagger. There will be no guilt of making any little cute kid a bit more of Hitler's cousin
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