First IFFR short

An important IFFR lesson is: never give away your one's and five's too soon with the voting opportunity the UPC audience appreciation leaflets give you. Because you never know whats going to happen at the next screening. You can sit in, let's say, a black and white Asian film, that is extremely slow, makes you fall asleep and pray for a sudden death of the main characters in a hope that it will end the movie. Which by the way, it didn't.
But! I'm very glad I gave this one a two (2=bad), so I could donate my one to the drama (not the genre) I witnessed today. One aka 1 aka very, very very bad; the kind of bad that makes you wish the sponsors pulled the plug a long time ago and possibly even change your political view in order to prevent such catastrophes from ever happening again. All I thought was: "I still have an episode of the Mentalist on video" and "I could be at home knitting right now". When I felt a pang of jealousy when someone did leave, and that person wasn't me, I decided it was time to ... give it another ten minutes. You know me, I'm an optimist and want to give things a chance. But even the subtitles were lacking. No realy; from every whole sentence that was spoken only 3 words came back at the bottom of the screen. So I saw crappy pictures of a cruiseship, with people speaking obscure languages and words like: 'aids money Bulgar', which left me clueless and wanting to go to H&M. Or at least go home and blog 'n bitch about it. The best bit about the film was a cute youtube-film about two kittens meowing a boring passenger watched on her laptop (I could tell even she was bored with the whole ordeal) and, eventually, tearing up the paper at the double thumbs down section. It was deliberating and should be a privilige extended to the rest of society. Nice checkout-lady at supermarket, kgggg, a 4. Dumb bastard cutting of with his car, kgggg, 1!
I'm still waiting for my 5, better luck next time.

Film festival widow

It's been a year since I wrote my Iffr tribute blog (I ffr, U ffr, we all ffr). Mainly because it's been a year since the last International Film Festival Rotterdam and let's face it, the rest is merely details.
So it's that time of year again. Even my regular colleagues are excited for me: "wow, two whole weeks of doing nothing but watching films". They think work ends as soon as a film is sold out, and how many films can you play? Sigh. The average of 70 screenings per day across 29 venues is just to abstract for them. So I had to correct this image; it also involves a lot of parties, dancing, fun people, drinks in the theatre (Schouwburg) and cruising from one cinema to the next depending if you're looking for the best film or the most comfortable chair (naptime advise: Pathe 7, back-corners). Oh, and work, lot's of hard work, obviously. You don't just take two weeks off of work just to watch films. That would be silly.
I started well this year, the crew-pre party was fun and I sat through the whole film without falling asleep! Fortunately it was a good one; a Chinese romantic comedy (Love in a Puff). So that's one down, 14 to go, if I don't want to look like a complete wimp in the eyes of my Iffr-friends.
I also attended a Q&A already. So what if it was by accident and had nothing to do with directors and actors but with Spanish Flamenco dancers who happened to perform in the Schouwburg for the Flamenco Biennale, when I was there for a birthday-party. Questions were asked. Answers were given. So I can cross Q&A of my list.
This year I also had to prepare my boyfriend Hook for his role of Film Festival widow, for he will suffer from movie-related neglect. I'll supply him with a stack of dvd's and a spare Therese-doll... My other preparation for the whole ordeal don't go much further than making the mother of all lasagna's so that I can eat something other than Daily Wok during these weeks, practising my poker-face; you never know when some-one wants his money back for a crappy film. For yes, this actually happens and I can't wait to blog about it.

Scent of a boyfriend

Today (tuesday) it's my boyfriend's birthday. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I have a boyfriend, now all the lack of blogging makes sense, right? I was too busy doing other stuff. Now why does this man make me so happy that I temporarily had nothing to left to write about? He has a great ass and a lovely personality. And this last sentense will make him smile, for he thinks I am funny. Unlike my ex-boyfriend who did not think I was funny. He thought Vinterbergs 'Festen' was funny... Bare in mind, this is the same ex who told me to 'put your clothes back on then', when I sat halfnaked on his coach, looked him meaningfull in the eyes when I asked for a blanket because I was a bit chilly.
But back to my birthdayboy. He wasn't shy about his wishes, in fact the list that circulated the house was carefully put together and from me he wanted a new fragrance. Now I hardly made it through any of my exes birthdays, I even think the first and last time, I got away with buying a bucket of Sesamestreet crayons. And he turned 18. So calling this a 'challenge' would be an understatement, let alone buying men's perfume, which is really personal. I don't know the first thing about male scents. I've worn CK Obsession for 10 years now, before that, 5 years of Angel. So I'm very loyal, only occasionly flirting with CK One, and not without feeling guilty about it. Even free samples remain unused. My dad doesn't even wear deodorant. He covers his armpits with some sort of eco-friendly Tea Trea-stick. The office has been empty since before Christmas, so my colleagues can't help. I even started sniffing strangers in the street and on the bus, but apparantly blasting your music out loud through the speakers of your phone is deemed more appropriate. So after some warning glances from girlfriends and slightly annoyed busdrivers (come on! the sign says 'do not talk to the busdriver', it doesn't say 'do not not smell your busdriver'), I gave up that tactic. And randomly asking for 'Boss Men' at your local perfumestore doesn't help either; because, just so you know, there's more than one.
Eventually I did what any sane woman would do. I asked my Facebook friends. That triggered quite some usefull response (Boss In Motion, Chanel Allure, Kiton) and some not so usefull (onions? N. you are such a douche. And my FB wall is not the place to instigate a bitchfight, people!).
Eventually I got him Chanel Allure Sport, a home-sewn blanket (he seemed to like it, so he past that test) and I wrote him this blog. For he (I'll call him Hook) now belongs to the list of relevant topics in my life I want to talk about. You know, finding another job, new shoes, festivals and baking cookies.
Happy Birthday Hook!

Light and airy

Recently I stumbled upon an article on what to do and what not to do on a first date or when first meeting someone you would like to achieve a first date with. Yahoo likes making lists, I like reading lists, so there you go. It mentioned that you should keep conversation light and airy.
I panicked. I find 'light and airy' extremely difficult.
Light and airy is also the theme of lunchconversation at work. That's why I prefer eating alone behind my computer rather than listening to more talk about post-pensionplans that come into action 14 years from now, the pro's and cons of wintertyres and gossip about absent colleagues.
So I thought of topics that I could talk about, just in case I would meet someone new or old or anyone in general really. Light and airy. Light and airy, shallow is the way to go...
Aero-chocolatebars (Bros) are light and airy, but I wouldn't know what to say about those. Breathing usually is light and airy. Clothes? Music? Blankets? Ikea? Light and airy equals harmless, I suppose. Although I am capable of ruining something as innocent as 'babynames', with my response that "if you swop the A for a T, her name spells 'Cunt', and kids can be so cruel". I'm not proud of that one, but in my defense, he did ask what I thought of his newborn's name...
In practise it's even more difficult, because when someone asks you how you are, it is extremely difficult to steer the conversation towards chocolate or hairstyles. And even then, I don't think my current coupe falls in the category of light and airy. Dark and down, more likely. 'How are you?', is usually followed by a comment regarding work or lovelife; well, I think I can put a more positive spin on the Netherlands' current government, than those two aspects of my life.
My psychologist says that communication and social interaction is the hardest thing we have to do in this life. I couln't agree more. Conversation is a lot trickier than throwing around Twitter or Facebook-status oneliners.
The best opening-line I ever heard was 'what was your best moment this week?' at a speeddating event. Yes, I once went to a speeddating event, and No, I don't want to talk about it. I remember my answer; I cooked a lasagne at home and ate it lukewarm from a plastic container in the cinema. That's my guilty pleasure. I know, I'm such a bad-ass. His best moment that week was his his sister-in-law announcing she was pregnant and him rushing over with a cake and bottle of champagne to celebrate.
Should anyone ask me what my best moment was this week (light and airy, Therese, light and airy), I would say; the youth-theatre Hofplein reunion. Sitting in those coloured chairs again, watching former-children-now-grown-ups perform on stage, tearing up at the first tunes of 'Heksenklus' and actually climbing on that stage myself to dance the 'ghost-part' of the tap.
Ghosts! Well, that's light and airy for ya!
(and the blanket I made inspired by Vlieland has a light and airy feel to it, too)

New shoes...

Meet my purple boots. I love them so much, I spent a large part of my life avoiding throwing them out. In fact, I love them so much I am willing and able to devote a complete blog to them, in fact, I am doing that right now.
But, lately, it appears they've had their best days. The stickytape that's holding the leather togheter is coming off, the already once repaired heels have worn to the floor (again) and discolouring has set in; the right one is definitely lighter than the left. Even my best friend, who keeps her shoes untill they fall of her feet, told me quietly that maybe it was time, because they look chewed up and spit out. Although I'm pretty sure that's the reason why they feel so nice.
As the saying goes, you shouldn't throw shoes out before you've got a new pair, so I looked everywhere for an identical pair in multiple cities, even online and on marketplace. Eventually I gave up and replaced them with a pair of new booties. Charming little ones, grey, (fake) suede and very comfortable. Still unable to chuck the purple ones, I walked into a shoe repairshop (slash key-copyer and umbrella-sellers, now why is that?) just to ease my mind. To find out that, no, they cannot be repaired, that yes, sometimes it's time to let go.
"Sure miss, give us an hour and I can put a whole new sole under them and fix the heel".
Now I did not see that one coming.
And so my favourite purple boots ended up on the operation-table for some emergency surgery.
Off course in the hour that followed I bumped into my purple boots. In black. All shiney, new and size 39. When I least expected it. Just like everyone said would happen with men. Well, sodd men. I prefer my boots. They go with everything and they'll last me a lot longer. Even though they won't give me babies, they also won't leave me for another woman. Not untill I throw them in the Salvation Army clothesbox anyway. After shelling out for a third pair of shoes that day, I sat myself down with an expensive coffee, in order to save the rest of my money, because at that rate, I would be bankrupt by the end of september.
Now, did I need any more shoes? No, off course not. I haven't needed extra pairs since 2002. Throwing out has never been my best skill. Besides, who else is going to fill that charity clothesbox with some hardly worn, neglected boots that got left behind in favour of the purple pair?

Jeugdcultuur in Pijnacker

Pijnacker is veranderd. Met pijn in het hart moet ik concluderen dat het groene, lieftallige dorp waar ik vroeger wel eens bij een vriendinnetje ging logeren, is veranderd. Mijn grootste jeugdzonde van destijds was dat ik, als ik er met de trein naartoe rees, zei dat ik in Berkel en Rodenrijs was ingestapt, terwijl dat in werkelijkheid station Bergweg was, om twee gulden te besparen op een enkeltje... Hoe weinig begreep ik toen al van jeugdcultuur, bedenk ik als ik de verslaglegging van een van de grotere loverboy-zaken van dit moment lees. Helaas is het dorp waar ik kaastosti’s met ketchup ontdekte en Stephen King’s IT voor de eerste keer zag, genadeloos veranderd. Met dank aan een van de grote loverboyzaken van dit moment, waarbij Delft en Den Haag als overige pleegplaatsen voor het gemak in de krantenkoppen worden weggelaten, om ook de onschuld van Pijnacker te verkrachten.

Volgens de verdediging van een van mensenhandel (en ontucht met minderjarigen en wapenbezit en verkrachting en kinderporno- en wapenbezit) verdachte jongeman valt het allemaal wel mee en heeft het allemaal te maken met hormonen. Deze verdediging (Peter Hermens) zou zich kapot moeten schamen (maar als ik ooit ga scheiden wil ik hem ook).

“Het zijn gewoon jongens met een hoog testosteron-gehalte, zoals zoveel tieners”. De jongeman in kwestie is inmiddels 21 jaar, in alle mogelijke opzichten volwassen dus. Het gedrag van deze ‘tiener’ en zijn vrienden wordt afgedaan als straat- en jeugdcultuur. Let wel, we hebben het hier niet over nachtelijk voetballen op een veldje (nou nou), rondhangen op een schoolplein (poe poe) of het achterlaten van bierblikjes en koekjesverpakkingen op een hangplek (zo kan die wel weer). Nee, het gaat om groepsseks op feestjes en het filmen ervan met mobiele telefoons, veelvuldig gebruik van alcohol en blowen en minderjarige meisjes proberen te dwingen tot prostitutie. Jeugdcultuur.

De verdachte gaf wel aan zich te schamen voor het filmen van de meisjes. Dit weerhield de verdachte er echter niet van tientallen filmpjes op zijn computer te bewaren en ze te delen met zijn vrienden. De meisjes én de filmpjes; niemand kan hem ervan beschuldigen een slechte vriend te zijn die nooit iets deelt.

Ook het “Nee!”, dat een slachtoffer roept, voordat zij door verschillende door hormonen bevangen jongens wordt gepenetreerd (vast geen woord dat door betrokken partijen gebruikt wordt), kan volgens de verdediging óók betekenen dat zij liever niet gefilmd wil worden of dat ze liever niet heeft dat het licht wordt uitgedaan. De rechter ging mee in het verhaal dat de meisjes zich gewillig lieten drogeren en ‘betasten’ en achtte verkrachting niet bewezen.

Ik weet niet wie ik eerder met mijn handtas in zijn gezicht zou slaan, de hoofdverdachte, zijn raadsman of die rechter. En ja, dit mag opgevat worden als ‘belediging’, strafbaar gesteld in artikel 266 wetboek van strafrecht. Alleen; ik ben momenteel ongesteld, en we weten allemaal welke hormonen daarbij vrijkomen.

Oh ja (alsof het nog niet genoeg was), de wapens, XTC-grondstoffen en het valse geld waren natuurlijk ook niet van de verdachte. Want elke jeugdcultuur-respecterende tiener heeft natuurlijk een tot huiskamer omgebouwde kelderbox met daarin een XTC-lab, een aantal vuurwapens en een leger bij de pizzeria opgepikte minderjarige meisjes die gewillig liggen te wachten en het het liefste met het licht áán doen.

Jeugdcultuur. Ik ben toch blij dat mijn idee van jeugdcultuur logeren bij Lineke in een twee-onder-een- kap-woning te Pijnacker was, en niet verkracht worden door Yousef A., Adil H. en Jamal D. in een kelderbox te Pijnacker.


bronnen: artikelen uit Trouw, de Volkskrant en RTL.nl
voetnoot: dit is een blog die uit boosheid nav de berichtgeving geschreven is, dus puur een mening, en niet op feiten is gecheckt bij de desbetreffende verdachten.

Confessions of a Werchter diary

I lost my festival-virginity to Pinkpop a long, long time ago. I'm pretty sure it was 1996 when I heard Pennywise's 'Bro hymn' live for the very first time and 14 years and 22 (!) multiple-day festivals later, you can still hear the 'oooh oooh ooh oh, oooh oooh oooh oh', if you listen carefully.
Twenty-two; I can't help but being impressed by that number; that's 11x Lowlands, 6x Pinkpop, 1x Torhout, 3x Werchter and 1x Into the great wide open. In all fainess; they blend into each other, I can't say what or who happened where or when. So this year, I took notes. Because really, I'm getting to old for this shit (I'm writing this from my bed I'm sharing with a ton of hankies and kiwi's and a pot of tea).
The best thing about looking back (not just at festivals, but at life in general) is selective memory. Mine sets in on the first day. We arrive on camping A4 after 6,5 hours in slow traffic in an AC-free car, that's four hours after Thomas announced us near Antwerp 'that we would be another 30 minutes'. You've gotta love an optimist. As we put up our tents, Phoenix is playing 'If I ever feel better' in the background and I appreciate the irony. I was desperate to see them, but eh, we're here and I will feel better. After all, the tailback ended the 'Kyteman-versus-Jeugd van Tegenwoordig' dilemma, I would have faced if I was at the fields at 16:30... Now we were still near Antwerp. But it really was a fun trip that ended with Take That blasting from our stereo as we pulled up on the parking-lot (don't look at me, it was Tanja's Ipod!).

As you might remember, it was boiling hot this past weekend, a steady 39 degrees Celcius. Selective memory erased the knowledge that there is no proper shower to speak of at camping A4. I once spend three weeks in Marocco and the traveljournal that was published after this trip, was called 'Showering out of a coolbox'. At camping A4, I would have killed for a coolbox. All we had was a 2-liter Bar-le-Duc carton, we lovingly kept reffering to as 'the instant shower' and we dragged it along for 4 days. I had a nice brown colour on monday, unfortunately it washed of at home in the shower. One morning after waking up in my sauna formerly known as tent, I'm looking for something to wear and all I can come up with is yesterday's bikini-top. It's funny, I've never been more heavy in my life yet never cared less about what I look like. It's just too damn hot. I shake my head and sigh as I look at the legging, black longsleeved shirt, skinny jeans and woollen (!) legwarmers (!!) I so carefully packed. I must have had a good reason for bringing those, because after 14 years I still make packing-lists for every trip. All explanation has melted away though. I also wonder if it's a good idea to use my 'refreshing' Nivea deodorant stick for my whole body and not just my armpits. I don't even get that far, because it has melted into a cream.
Luckily, I don't stand out in my bikini-top, because it is the fashion item this year. Bikini-tops for girls and towels for men. Men also wear those 'Wife beater' tops, in Belgium called 'Marcellekes'. I thought that was funny. The fashion-craze that only lasted 20 minutes was the good old plastic poncho (with or without commercial print).

After all these years, I still learn something new every festival. At Wechter 2010 I learned that in the Dixie-toilets (and I use the term 'toilets' loosely... a blue puddle without a flush really isn't a toilet) on the right of the Pyramid Marquee, you can hear the music from both stages. Which is handy if you can't choose between Pink and Empire of the sun. That is, untill this dual experience is interrupted by a girl having noisy sex in a Dixie behind mine. It was either that, or she was having a really good poo.

I also learned that the Belgians aren't very fond of those 'loud and rude' Dutchmen (and women). One Flemmish guy wash shocked and put his hand in front of his mouth when I told him that I don't like football and that I had to ask my boyfriend whether a game is boring or not, because to me, all sportsgames are boring. Funnily enough this Werchter was the first time I got not one, but two indecent proposals and someone pinched my lovehandles when I wouldn't let him stand in front of me at the Pearl Jam show.

I'm pretty sure I confessed to being an easy cryer. This Werchter was no exception. It's a bit embarressing, but I appreciate cheap emotion-triggers, when I see them, so here it goes.
Green day: when Billy-Joe pulled a twelve-year old boy with glasses on the stage and some fireworks started when the child counted to four (it does seem a bit silly when I see this in writing).
Corinne Bailey Rae: when she started singing the beautiful 'Like a star' and it dawned on me that this lovely, gorgeous, talented lady lost her husband last year.
The Temper Trap: What can I say? I still tear up when I hear 'Sweet Redemption' on the radio.
Pearl Jam: Just Breathe. It's Eddie Vedder in combination with lack of sleep, a smiling Tanja next to me and a very good weekend. No apologies there.
Pink: Ok. I do apologize for this one. But the woman has a good voice, she's pretty, a great performer and can hold up a fantastic show. The same can be said about Florence and the machine; so I guess it all boils down to taste. Me, I'm on team Pink (For Christ'sake; she was twirling up in the air in a harnas and still carried a tune!). I apologize again.

Next one is Into the great wide open; talking about selective memories. I do remember yelling 'Never ever again', after that hardship; tents destroyed if not blown away, non-stop rain, a 7 hour journey to Vlieland and crappy organisation (the volunteer-rota's weren't ready untill the shifts had already commenced). But on the bright side: Whitest Boy Alive is confirmed, but more importantly, the toilets flush!