Walk The Plank

I had a job interview on Tuesday at the English Faculty at Oxford University. I'm no good with interviews, and have had little practice, being a flaky temp for most of my working life.

The night before I kept dreaming about it. I'd dream that I'd got up and was heading to the interview, then wake up and realise I was still in bed. I don't know why I was so nervous. I didn't think I was. Perhaps my subconscious was making up for my superficial malaise.

The interview was fine in the end, even though I felt over-dressed in my (not really a) suit and tie. But they said they'd try and contact me that afternoon.

And I still haven't heard anything. That can't be a good sign, can it?

I hope it isn't, because this is like every other job prospect in my life. I've never applied for a job hoping I would get it. Just like George Costanza, I've never had a meeting where I wanted the other guy to show up.

I hope I never hear from them. At the moment I'm in a pleasant limbo where I've done all I can, but don't have to move on to the next bit of torture yet.

***

We went to see Juno today, so it's time for another film review!

It was good. Very good. But not amazing.

It's not the film's fault, but when you hear five-star reviews and Oscar-buzz, it builds up your expectations unfairly.

It was a charming film, full of good performances. I'm glad I went. But I wasn't blown away. I still recommend it though.

Before the film, we were bombarded by the usual anti-piracy ads. They're getting more and more forceful. We can't buy pirate videos, we aren't allowed to record the film, we can't download films.

The film companies are like cornered animals: spitting, growling, desperate.

I think in the not too distant future, we won't even be able to retain any memories of the film. After all, it's a kind-of recording, isn't it? Recording into our memory banks?

They'll have to play some brainwashing message at the end of the film, wiping our memories clean, so we can't go around telling people what happened (verbal piracy) or reminiscing about the plot (nostalgic piracy). We won't know we've been brainwashed, we just can't call any of the details of the film to mind.

Of course, it would mean mandatory searches on the way out of the cinema, to check people haven't written anything down about the plot. Otherwise the audience could write notes to their future selves, on post-its or scratched into their skin with razorblades. No knowledge of the film can escape the theatre.

(Except one brave patron might succeed in smuggling some paper in under their tongues, make notes during the film, then secrete it in a plastic bag up their own arse. Then, desperate and blank-minded, retrieve it at a later time and marvel at the plot points of Miss Congenialty 2: Armed and Fabulous. And the totalitarian obelisk would fall. Knowledge is power. And knowing the cool bits in films is... probably something comparable)

It could save the movie studios loads of money in the long run. They could just play the same film each time, and we wouldn't know. They wouldn't even need to play a film; just two hours of blank screen. And we'd leave, not remembering the details, but thinking the movie was alright, ok, pretty good I guess.

But that would rely on the audience staying for the full two hours. Which probably wouldn't happen, unless the cinema was full of pretentious art-film lovers who would laugh and nudge their companions knowingly after every ten minutes of fuck all.

For the masses, you'd need something to keep their attention. How about, just as they're tiring and starting to leave, you just flash an image of a tiger onto the screen. Just briefly. Then they'd sit down, thinking you were building to something.

But the only thing you're building to is a slave state, where mind-control saves millions of film-making money, and necessitates only a couple of stock tiger-shots to satisfy the desires of the public.

Pretty shocking, isn't it?

Well, what if I was to tell you that it's already happening. In cinemas all over the world, this practice is in effect. Do you remember what happened in Cloverfield? Do you? Any of the details? No.

"Something... I remember something... I see... orange and black stripes... and a proud, feline visage... and a voice telling me it's all okay, nothing important happening here... the film was alright, ok, pretty good I guess... and then... nothing."

Nothing.

Mark my words, we're losing the fight.

I will be taking razorblades on my next cinema visit. Will you?