Regarding to my list of films to see this year I did get to watch Prometheus, albeit in a non-fashionable way and also I watched it in bits over 30 times. So here it goes, the very unpleasant explanation.
At the end of May I was captured by a scary monster called Secret Cinema. I delved into the bowels of asbestos ridden hell (abandoned warehouse near Euston Station) and battled the monster that is known as pre-production. My GAWD. The amount of work and sweat and other liquids that goes into any sort of event like this is mind-blowing.
Shaken but not stirred a minefield of work was thrust upon me. Suddenly I was in charge of this production's build-up events to a following of over 130,000 people. Brain-sweating, yes I did a lot of that.
It was the last few days of May. I had to organise four missions. Four conditioning missions for future 'employees'. And here is episode 1 of 4.
Mission 1: Physical Conditioning.
You have to know. These little build-up events I pushed and squeezed them together in a matter of days. Secret Cinema stylee was always, ALWAYS last minute, as my co-workers always without fail would remind me. Suddenly my world was ram-packed with t-shirt printing orders (I ordered 1000 t-shirts), money, location scouting, money, props, lighting, etc. etc.
When the facebook event was launched the numbers began small. Familiar faces of co-workers and friends popped up in the attending bar. And then napalm was set alight. Hundreds and hundreds clicked attending and on the morning of the event 900 unfamiliar faces smiled at me from the screen, which meant that a third of them will actually drag themselves up and towards the meeting point (PR tip for you there). All I kept thinking was FUCK! Fuckety fuck.
It was like I was standing in on the precipice. The calm before the storm.
The first thing on the agenda. I had to get 1000 t-shirts (minus a few that the office stole) from the base site to Southbank. The transport system that we had hired dropped off the face of the earth at the last minute. And let me tell you, t-shirts are frickin' heavy.
Secondly. I had to get the running marshals all set up and ready. A few (a lot) cancelled last minute. Health and Safety.
Thirdly. There were around 400 people set to arrive and only one of me and 6+ volunteers to help (thank fuck for them) to cater to them.
7:30PM
So many questions. Giggling girls and awkward office bunnies still in their suits and ties asking if I had any exercise gear for them. There was a flurry of shoving the right t-shirt sizes to the right people. Tops whipped off and tops whipped back on. And when they left to go on the run I was left in a whirlwind of plastic wrappers (sorry Southbank), a disgruntled van driver, everyone's possessions in the van and more cardboard boxes.
They lined up in a row. And went through a series of warm-up exercises which from my view at the back looked like a lot of hip-gyrating and arm flapping. My colleagues asked if I was participating on the run. I scoffed, blinked and when I realised that they were genuinely asking if I was I walked away. It was a cacophony of megaphones and more giggling.
There were shouts of 'Brave New Ventures' and 'BNV' which I will always cringe whenever I hear its likeness to BMP. Oh dear.
Finally the last printed t-shirt wearing follower blasted away from my view, I slumped in the van and just mumbled and blinked. Fortunately the finishing line of the physical conditioning was a pub.
