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Short Films, Festivals and Feature Films

The more one plods along, the more one understands that the gap between feature filmmaking and short film production is one gaping big canyon.

A Stone Throw was finalist in an LA festival this month called Moondance. But that has little or no impact on the feature film we were writing last night.

If it had won an award, it would make no difference to what we are doing right now (there is only now, people).

I remember Australian filmmaker, Shirley Barret's Love Serenade (Two sisters will do anything to hook the right man) winning the Camera D'or at Cannes in 1996 . . .

"Notably, the stuntman used in the final sequences died while shooting the scene, and this scene was retained for the finished product: consequently Barrett, distraught, did not make another film for four years, and then it was the major disappointment WALK THE TALK" (leask81 review on IMDB)

What a thing to happen - and then to make Walk the Talk years after. It must have been heart-breaking. Going all that way - from humble short film beginnings in the late 80s to this momentous and horrible experience. Now she's working in TV. Naturally.

Phil and I are half way through our screenplay (page 45). Our synopsis is due next Tuesday and I'm currently clearing my desk of all student marking so I can make a start on our next project.

There is nothing I'd rather be doing than this right now. Writing this brilliant script . . . well, talking and pumping iron while Phil writes ;)

Writing a short screenplay and a feature movie are vastly different. It's the difference between one day and three months - or 3 days and 26 weeks. It's like comparing fixing a car with open heart surgery - or a 100m sprint with a 40km marathon. You're kind of doing the same thing with your hands, but your brain is doing somersaults.

It feels really close . . . The feature . . . I dunno why. It's a sterling script (if I may say so myself) and the creases are coming out easily. I don't know why this hasn't happened before.

Better go press my shirt . . .


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