“Press ‘Play’ on that one, and ‘Record’ on that one.”

January 29, 2010

I heard someone say it today at STV.  It about sums up the best of my childhood, that.  From copying a rental edition of Empire Strikes Back (later paying for it twice on VHS and again on DVD, not to mention the cinema tickets for the re-release) to making mix tapes to impress a girl, “Press ‘play’ on that one, and ‘Record’ on that one,” made magic happen.

I had finished for the day.  I’d saved my project, closed the application, shut down the computer and gathered my things.  On the way to the door I heard a woman say it.  Looking instinctively in her direction, I saw her regarding a video tape deck, probably DigiBeta, and a DVD recorder.  Although both formats were digital, they were linked by a fat, umbilically analogue cable.

I assumed they were transferring the tape’s contents onto DVD, but it could easily have been the opposite. It didn’t matter.  It mattered only that one was to play, and the other was to record.

I was instantly reminded how lucky I am to have a job that lets me do for a living what, in childhood, I did for fun.  Or, if not for fun, because it seemed the right thing to do while I was in that blissful state of having two hard-working individuals subsidise my entire existence.  The options weren’t infinite during that time, but they were multitudinous, and I often chose among that wealth of possibilities to press ‘Play’ on one machine and ‘Record’ on another.

Sometimes I was taking possession of something I had only paid to rent, sometimes I was sharing culture.  I was stealing.  I was giving.  Plus I edited my first film by hooking two VHS recorders up and learning how many seconds it took one of them to actually start recording after you hit the button (slightly nearer four than three seconds, FYI).

What I do for a living now amounts to making copies.  The camera copies what it sees onto film, or tape, or solid state media.  I copy that information onto a hard drive, reorganise it and make multiple copies of my derivative work.  In TV, I deliver some of those copies to various places and other people make many more copies, broadcasting them, analogue and  digital, over the airwaves and hosting them on streaming web platforms. Then any interested home users (if we’re fortunate enough to have any) copy them to their local systems and put yet more copies on YouTube and similar sites.)  Frankly, the more the merrier.

There’s a hysterical crisis over copying at the moment, but I won’t get into it here, except to say that, broadly, I’m all for copying and always have been.  I’m for preservation, for sharing and, yes, for paying what I deem fit (which ranges from nothing to far in excess of what is being asked).

For me, it started with, “Press ‘Play’ on that one, and ‘Record’ on that one,” and I’m so glad that within the broadcast industry it’s still, on occasion, considered a solution rather than a problem.

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Categories: complaint, confession, DRM, editing, Personal, politics, Recommendation, tv, Work.

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Coffee morning

January 10, 2010

We had our new coffee machine wake us up with a fresh pot this morning.  I’ve never been much of a coffee-drinker, but now I’m beginning to feel like I did when the family took its first foreign holiday (to Rimini, Italy) when I was fourteen or so and I discovered that I did like spaghetti.  Up until then I had liked the look of spaghetti; that and the fact that it could be bought in the shape of whatever the toy fad was at any given time.  I’d made my mum buy me dinosaur spaghetti, Transformers spaghetti, He-man spaghetti and a million other kinds, only to spit the first mouthful back onto my plate and demand that she make me something else.  My problem had been the disgusting tinned pasta that Heinz and others thought somehow would ‘do’ and the lazy way they used the same tomato sauce they used for their baked beans.  Then, in the restaurant of our Rimini hotel, when there really had been nothing else I could stomach the thought of on the menu, I had surrendered and asked for spaghetti bolognaise.  The joy of al dente pasta and a sauce that someone, somewhere had given a shit about flooded my being.  I was in love with pasta instantly, and my passion has never waned.

Now, having picked up a coffee-maker in the post-Christmas sales — reasonably priced and coming without the advertised instruction manual and measuring spoon — I’m discovering that freeze-dried, instant coffee isn’t really coffee at all.  Mo tells me it’s not tolerated by anyone in the United States and I’m immediately ashamed that there are millions of the people who can simultaneously vote for George W. Bush and hold more sophisticated tastes than I.

This new coffee is a revelation.  I’m already an addict, and proud of it.

So, this morning the timer on the machine had coffee ready for us at 9am.  Mo poured it and brought her mug and mine back to bed.  She also made the first run for refills, I made the second, and after our third cup I was so awake that I wondered why I’d waited over three decades to start the day with this jolt of awareness.  It struck me that half the planet starts the day this way, so I’ve really had no excuse not to give it a try.  Now, now I can see their point.

What other wonders await me?  Do I really not like tuna?  Can the eight tenths of the world’s population that smother everything in mayonaise all be wrong?

As these radical ideas bravely burn new pathways in my extra-alert brain, I realise that my cup is empty.  Mo offers to refill it, but I claim the chore for my own.  For one thing, I’m getting restless just sitting here.  Honestly, how much of my life have I spent at rest?  How could I have tolerated it?  I’ve got to move around, dammit.  There’s also the fact that the coffee machine is my new toy, and I want to play with it.  If they made coffee-machine-shaped spaghetti, I’d probably go and buy some right now.

Cup refilled, I ingest the goodness.  It’s been over a week since I last had a beer, but I’ve a new monkey on my back, and he’s very friendly.  Next time I see you, I’ll introduce you.  Name’s Joe.

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Films that remind you other films that you’d rather be watching.

January 10, 2010

Here’s a list of films that take the bold and unwise decision to remind their audience of better movies:

 

Film: Sleeping With the Enemy

Better Film: The Shining

Reminder: Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique (specifically, the fifth movement), used extensively on the soundtrack for SWtE, but forever associated with the opening credits of TS as they accompany the greatest opening helicopter shot in cinema history.

 

Film: Enemy of the State

Better film: The Conversation

Reminder: Because the Gene Hackman characters in both are similar, Tony Scott and co. “cleverly” use a picture of him from TC for his EotS character’s file. Bad move.

 

Film: Ocean’s Thirteen

Better films: Sea of Love and The Godfather part III

Reminders: OT is so bad I was clutching at straws while sitting through it for any ray of hope.  Just seeing Al Pacino play against Ellen Barkin (as he did in SoL) and Andy Garcia (as in TGpIII) made me pine for those superior thrillers.

 

I’ll add to this as I think of more.

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Sighthill Cemetery

January 9, 2010

A lie in today, then to Tesco, then to Sighthill Cemetery for dog-walking.

 

It wasn’t only dead people whose remains we roamed among.  Check out these high rise flats (now a lot flatter than once they were):

 

 

 

Why walk the dog in a cemetery?  It was there.

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