One of the very few perks of the writer's world is that books are tax deductable. With my limited understanding of accounting, as far as I'm concerned that means I'm getting them for free. I wouldn't care to explain that statement any further, but it works wonders as I attempt to justify random purchases. It also works with train travel, CDs, computer gadgets, software, DVDs and cinema tickets. All free. Gratis.
I prefer to think.
Today's (work) present to myself is the most recent edition of David Thomson's Biographical Dictionary of Film*, which is a brilliantly entertaining, thought-provoking, affectionate and joyous book about film. Apart from David Thomson's Suspects, which is not only the best book about film, film narrative, American popular culture and criticism I've read, but the book I would have aspired to write if I'd persisted with the unhappy delusion I could be a literary author. And which, as you'll see if you click on the link, is finally and at last being republished. Yay for niche publishers!
Those two books are enough to usefully define the difference between critics - the David Thomsons, Susan Sontags, and Robert Hughess of the world - and reviewers, the people who write the snarky columns you see in newspapers, a job open to anyone with a basic command of grammar, over-confidence in the value of their opinion, and snarling resentment that they can't practice the thing they snark at.
Meeting with an Important Person at the Beeb today, whose job title seems to have changed three times since I first met him a couple of months ago, but which seems to be getting ever longer and more impressive. It'd probably be simpler if he wore a T-shirt with "I'm the fucking boss" written on it, in which case I could do as my agent's assistant suggested and wear one with "I'm the fucking talent" on it.
Which I could see drawing a few interested looks in the TV Centre lobby (by the way, have you seen where they've stuck series drama now? Miles from the impressive and rather intimidating lobby through vast sheds, past cafes and canteens, over zebra crossings, through huge warehouses containing stuff that seems to be junk but could also be the original Tardis. An indication of the esteem in which it is held...?).
It's one of those odd "get to know each other" meetings where you kind of prowl round each other working out whether;
- they're any good,
- you can trust them or not,
- what you can get out of each other,
I'll let you know how it goes.
Because of the undermentioned Exec bombshell, I'll have to work on the train going up, which is obviously bad, but also quite good, because I can look busy and practice my "don't interrupt my creative concentration" look, a vital skill for the accomplished writer to master. Bulky headphones and a partial frown help, I find.
*Ignore Torbjorn W. Stornes comment; I reckon young Torbjorn was embittered because Mr. Thomson dissed his favourite director/actor. The joy of the book is its witty, hugely informed and informative subjectivity.
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