The last two years has been a time of travel, film making and spending time with family and friends. My 2008 award winner “Whatever Turns You On” is still making festivals around the world and another short ‘The Bouquet’ has seen me in festivals in Germany, Romania and Ireland over the past year. I have a new short “Wedding Planners” in the can and am just trying to organise a premiere for it.

I’m temporarily living in a 250 year old Georgian house in Drogheda in order that I can be close to my folks and help to keep them mobile as the years weigh down on them. I’m still as focussed as ever on short films but I have a feature which I’m pretty excited about. Pins and Needles is centred around Santiago de Compostela and its famous walk or ‘Camino’. I walked the Portuguese way twice this year and have no doubt that I’ll be doing it again soon. The film is written in my head. I just have to get it down on paper. Time, however, is not my friend these days. I have quite a bit of governmental and corporate film work which is likely to have me busy for the first quarter of the year. My company Timesnap is involved in two international projects which will see me doing quite a bit of travel too. I’m also planning a week in Australia sometime in April.

That’s probably about it for an update. With a bit of luck I’ll manage to be a bit more regular with this blog

Berlin is an interesting city. I love it here. I can imagine that there are people who don’t but I can’t imagine that anyone could be neutral to it. It’s a city of contradictions where anything goes. On one hand there is a structure and functionality to everything. Trains run on time, people stop and wait for the green man before crossing the road and social etiquette is respected. At the same time it’s the most bombed city in the world with no space sacred from the aerosol cans of the graffiti artists. Some of the graffiti is undeniably art. A lot, however, is merely someone scrawling their name or a message with a paint can in a fashion that even the most supportive couldn’t call art. Just as the city is splashed with colour, so are the citizens. Just as pasta manufactureres will always have a job in Italy, tatoo artists won’t go hungry in Berlin. It reminds me of LA in that respect. Anything goes in Berlin. All the fashions of the world collide on its streets and often on the same person. From pastel pinks to tartan punks Berlin is home to all and Berliners don’t bat an eyelid at the weirdest looks imaginable. That’s quite refreshing, I must say. This non-judgemental attitude seems to boost confidence. Berlin woman will catch your eye and cooly appraise you without looking away. That’s not common anywhere else that I know.

Berlin is very much a people friendly city. It’s cheap to begin with, in rents, food and clothing. Its transport system is fantastic and it works. The climate is kind and the many bicycle paths are well used. It’s the kind of place to bring kids up in and lots of people seem to have had that very thought. I wonder if the bicycles outnumber the babies or vice versa… whichever, there are a lot of both.

In personal news my film ‘Whatever Turns You On’ is playing here in Berlin at the International Short Film Festival. It has also been chosen for the French scholastic programme. Our new short “Veronique”, written by my collleague Bill Tyson and directed by me, has been delivered to the Irish Film Board and Wildwave and premieres at Darklight Film Festival in October. I’m currently ploughing happily through my Ganglands feature script.

Vilnius is a really nice city and, this year, is European capital of culture. I’m there at present. The historic part of the city has beautifully designed and maintained old buildings, cobble stones and young people sitting out and enjoying life while eating good food and drinking good wine and beer. The pace is relaxing. Two nights ago I stayed in Trakai with its 15th century castle on a lake. It was there that I became uncomfortably aware of the Lithuanian builders’ great love of asbestos. Across the road from a restaurant I’d feasted upon little traditional Lithuanian pasties and zeppelins (zeppelin shaped filled potato dumplings) in there was a derelict house. The white, unweathered sections of the corrugated roof were clearly asbestos. It’s remote location in the tranquil beauty spot of Trakai had, I felt, seen it looked over by the men in safety suits and masks who had removed this deadly material years ago when it was found to kill people. I wondered if I should drop a friendly note to the Lithuanian government, warning them of the lurking menace in their midst. That was before I went to Kaunus.

Kaunus is a large, sprawling city about an hour and a half from Vilnius but two cities in the same country have never, I believe, been so drastically different. The road leading into Kaunus is long, drab and tasteless with boxy looking buildings and a general run down air. It’s a preparation for what lies ahead. Asbestos roofs abound upon decrepit buildings, often with glassless windows covered with torn plastic. If I was to shoot a holocaust movie I’d know where to come. The occasional piece of once tasteful architecture is now grey and depressing. Apparently there is a charming old town but I got lost on the way and stumbled across the monstrosity in the accompanying picture. The photograph does not portray how huge and horrible it is. My flight home is out of Kaunus but I couldn’t bring myself to stay another night there which is why I’m back in Vilnius as I write.

The key players in Drogheda are proving very clued-in and helpful about the project and it looks like we’re set to turn the North East region of the country into the unrivalled home of film making in this country. Watch this space.

On a personal level I’ve been watching The Lord of the Rings with mum and dad each evening. We’ve followed Frodo over hill and dale with good ol’ Sam traipsing along heroically. It’s only when one watches something with one’s parents that certain realisations dawn. For example, there are a large number of body parts chopped off during the course of that film. Heads roll with reckless abandon, in fact. I was a little uneasy but my parents coped with the bloodshed with admirable equanimity. True the heads are, without exception, orc heads – which, it must be said, strikes me as a little racist. When any of the ‘good guys’ involuntarily shakes his mortal coil it is with body intact and normally a few well chosen words or a lingering look which speaks poetic volumes. Orcs, on the other hand, are not afforded wise words nor poetic lingering looks. They part the world impaled or with body parts flying around dangerously. In the rare case when an orc is not dispatched on the spot it is inevitably so that he can attempt something dastardly in his dying moments before being dispatched with a little more drama before he can achieve it. It struck me that I should be thankful for being born Irish and not orcish…

I repotted as best I could and lavished care (well, water to be exact) on them but their survival is, I feel, touch and go. I compounded the damage in trying to fix it. As I lifted one branch with five promising tomatoes on it it snapped under the weight and the tomatoes dropped like Leonardo di Caprio sinking into the icy depths at the end of Titanic. In all, of my crop of 26, eight tomatoes didn’t make it and I absentmindedly ate a further two before realising what I was doing. I have to keep my chin up and soldier on for those that are left but tomorrow I’m planning to put a little monument in the planter – a kind of ‘Tomb of the Unknown Tomato”. Both director Kevin Abosch and actor Richard Wall had been in the apartment so the likelihood is that it was one of them. Abosch, however, flew back to Paris in the wee hours and Richard, when confronted, denied everything before pointing out that one can buy a whole punnet of tomatoes for 59 cents in one of the supermarkets…

Meanwhile, I’ve viewed two apartments in Drogheda and two commercial premises. The masterplan for training, short film festival and other various film industry activities in Louth is progressing well. I fly to Lithuania on Wednesday so I need to have moved by then. I’m also preparing for a video shoot on Saturday in Athboy with Irish hip hop champion crew ‘Raw Edge’. I’m looking forward to it.

Later tonight we’ll be out in the Rathmines area so if you happen to spy us feel free to talk us out of the madness

In other news I’ll be in Drogheda tomorrow looking at apartments and commercial premises. Things are starting to roll on a film and television training course I’ve been setting up. It may kick off, now, as early as mid October.

I began preparations for a new short film “The Tramp” which I intend to shoot in about six weeks. It’s not funded so it’s a ‘no budget’ project. My favourite DP, Shane Tobin has agreed to row in on the project. We’re looking to use the new Canon 5 Mark II. I saw really good footage from it in LA last month. We just have to find a really good female lead who loves the script so much she’ll do it for free, a theatre and a convenience store…

…An ex girlfriend had once asked me if I individually dyed hairs on my goatee beard thingy because they are all different shades. I suspect it may have been the subconscious influence of the Captain Jack Sparrow wannabe guy in the local dive bar with his luxurious black beard in with it’s two miniature plaits but when I saw the beard dye in the pharmacy I was doomed. “Hmmm,” I thought. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a regular dark brown beard instead of this flecked one that mocks me with the passing years every time I clean my teeth?” It was the work of a moment to pop it into my shopping basket. It took longer, however, to buy a whole load of sensible, masculine items aimed at counteracting the embarrassment at the checkout I felt in making such a purchase. This morning was ‘B’ (beard) day. I carefully read the instructions. They involved mixing equal quantities of foul smelling chemicals from two tubes into a little plastic bath and then applying the concoction to my beard and moustache. After my shower I set about the operation and, before long, was staring at my goo-ridden lower face, wondering if it would work. The instructions said to wash it off after five minutes. Just enough time, I thought, to get the tub of organic pasteurised egg whites I’d been delighted to find in the health store, mix them with chopped up coriander and set my India inspired scrambled egg breakfast in motion on the stove top. The coriander leaves, or cilantro as they call it here, went into a bowl. The egg white tub came out of the fridge. I cleverly twisted off the cap without having to break the plastic seal. That’s when I realised that I wasn’t the first to have cleverly done so. The circular aluminium seal which should have been firmly covering the opening of the tub was peeled back at one side and egg whites had congealed where the air had got in. My egg whites had been tampered with. For a moment I considered using them and then recalled the stories of glass in baby food and all sorts of such horrors. I am, after all, in America – land of opportunity and nut-cases with weapons. I resealed the tub and went rummaging for the receipt. My taste buds could already savour the scrambled eggs and I was not going to be outdone. I found the plastic bag and the receipt within. Carefully packing the container I popped on my sunglasses and left for the store.

In Dublin it would have become apparent after the first person I met because they would have stared then pointed and started laughing, probably inventing some new, colourfully descriptive words to add to their mirthful assault. But this is Hollywood where freaks and fanatics are as common as potatoes back home. I was half way to the supermarket when it slowly dawned on me that I was attracting more subtle glances than I had become accustomed to here in LA and that the ‘good mornings’ from passersby were slightly fraught with anxiety. I put my hand to my chin in a sudden revelation of horror. There was a viscous, warm substance on my goatee.

The trip home was made with one hand over my lower face and at record speed. In the bathroom the full disaster was revealed. If I got a black permanent marker, gave it to a two-year-old and said “draw a beard and moustache on me” the results would have been pretty much the same. Even by weirdo Hollywood standards I’d reached new lows. I scrubbed with soap, a pot scourer and finally laundry detergent until my skin glowed pink under the black mess. Finally, by chopping the hair so short that the black stubble was somewhat softened by the gaps around it I managed to look simply like an idiot rather than a dangerous lunatic. I’ll be wearing sunglasses inside and out today and if I should happen to win an award at the ceremony tonight it might very well go uncollected…

Incidentally, if anyone wants the full story behind the boob in the bar I’ve cut and pasted the main bit below:

From ‘The Great Escape’ entry at my website blog (http://url.ie/27xb) Wednesday, July 29, 2009.

… Afterwards, being out late and right beside Sunset Strip I decided to make good on the plans of the night before. I made my way to Bar Marmont – a legendary LA nightspot for celebs and whatnot. I was happily sipping a $14 Jameson when a bunch of girls who looked like they’d walked straight out of an episode of an MTV Beverly Hills show (in fact, they may well have) arrived at the bar. One bumped into me.
“So sorry”.
“That’s fine”.
“OMG. The accent!”
We chatted amicably until 1.30pm when they had to go. It was a lesson in LA partylife. Everything shuts here, alcoholwise, at 2am by law so if you’re going to continue the party you need to be in a liquor store before that time to buy booze to take to your house party. With my screening taking place today house parties were off the agenda for me. The girls moved away and, in doing so, revealed the iBOM (International Blonde of Mystery – a phrase I have just coined to go with my iPhone, iPod, iTrip etc.). She was perched atop a tall barstool with heels that nearly bridged the two foot gap to the floor. Her mother of pearl coloured dress shimmered with a life of its own. It’s designer, in deference, no doubt, to the recession, had economised greatly on the amount of material employed. Her hair was a showpiece of the hair stylist’s art. With one perfectly manicured finger she beckoned. I sidled  across the four foot gap, determined not to pass up on my James Bond experience.

It could not have started  with more promise.
“Those gehrls,” she purred in a distinctly Russian spy sounding voice. “Pwhhh.”
She swatted their memory like a fly with an exquisite backhanded movement. “You are ffffrrom Europe. I live in Dubai. Americans are not so sophisticated.”
I played my part. When it came my turn to talk she’d sip on her Cosmo and listen attentively, then she’d offer some view on politics or fashion. The initial charm faded, however, when I started paying attention to what she was actually saying. She was repeating herself and talking about her worldly possessions in a way that made Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’ song sound like communism. The magic was broken and her hithertofore mysterious Russian voice began to remind me of Borat. It was as this thought struck me that she beckoned for me, with the patent manicured finger trick, to lean in closer so that she could whisper something. I leaned. She leaned. She talked. I heard nothing. Four inches from my nose her right boob was making a bid for freedom. Her nipple was peaking from the edge of the silk to see if the way was clear. I was aghast. The mumble of her words and the warmth of her breath on my right ear were a mere backing track to the drama being played out literally beneath my nose. It was the work of a few seconds for the nipple to decide that the sentries were off duty  and the boob made a break for it. It succeeded. She talked on unaware.

My parents brought me up well. I know which fork is for which dish. I know that a lady goes first unless it’s into a crowded public room where it is more polite for a man to enter and take the brunt of the idle curiosity. I always walk on the roadside. I’m groomed. However, nothing in my training or life experience had prepared me for this moment. My mind went into overdrive as I considered the options. One was to gingerly take a piece of silk, above and below, and draw it across the offending nipple – rather like tucking an errant child back to bed. I dismissed this. America, after all, is a litigious society. I ran the risk of being misunderstood. Perhaps to stop her flow of whispered conversation with a: ‘sorry to interrupt but your boob just popped out’ would have been the obvious thing to do but she had been posing so very much and this would have been an embarrassment on such a scale that I wasn’t sure she’d ever recover. I felt that if I bided my time the runaway boob might just have the decency to pop itself back in.

In the meantime, however, my parents’ good breeding did dictate that I avert my gaze. The decision of which direction to look was easier to make. Averting to the right would simply have left me staring at the other boob which was acting like a prisoner who has seen his mate escape and is waiting to see if the outbreak succeeds before following. I therefore averted my gaze to the left. My eyes met those of the barman. He was resting his chin on his crossed-arms atop the bar so that he had an eye-level view and was watching proceedings with a sort of detached interest. The Borat sounding whisper continued in my ear as the barman and I had a wordless conversation.
“What should I do?” I signed with appropriate contortions of my face.
“I’ve no clue,” he responded with a gallic shrug.
My immediate difficulty was solved as she finished whatever she was saying and I was able to straighten up. She smiled, confident, I gathered, that our relationship had moved up a notch. I returned the smile weakly and took the opportunity of her lunge towards her depleting Cosmo to check the situation vis-a-vis wandering body parts. The boob remained at large.

As she turned back towards me, however, the motion sent the errant globe scurrying towards cover but the flimsy fabric was no match for the nipple which resisted the attempt of a return to captivity.
“If only she had turned more aggressively,” I thought, “All would be right with the world.”
That’s when the idea flashed into my head like a well organised landing party beamed in by Star Trek’s Scotty. To think is to do, with me, so I put the plan into action immediately. I let my gaze wander to the extreme right then, widened my eyes and blurted out, in my best Hollywood accent: “Oh My God! It’s Robert De Niro!”

They say that in the moment before death, time is distorted and a person’s life flashes by them in slow motion. I understand that now. Her head and torso twisted with a movement that reminded me of Michael Jackson in the Thriller video. The bulging eyes added to the similarity. In that micro second, however, I watched in slow motion as the silk of her dress billowed, the boob poised, whiplashed for a moment, and then shot beneath the skimpy material. Mission accomplished. It was that ‘hi-five’ moment at the end of the movie but life, in this case, didn’t imitate art.
“Where?”
While the plan itself had been a masterstroke, I had not worked out such details.
“Oh… eh… actually, that’s not him at all, is it?”
I nodded towards the only person in the vicinity that I had indicated. It was a rather swarthy latin lady. The iBOM stared and then looked at me suspiciously.
“That,” she said, with marked distain, “Is a hairy woman.”
I raised my eyebrows in polite surprise. She studied her once more then returned her verdict.
“Probably Greek.”

My good deed done I now felt that it was time to beat a hasty retreat to the comfort of my bed. The iBOM, I soon found out, had also made up her mind to beat a hasty retreat to the comfort of my bed.

“I’m very flattered,” I said, when she had made her intentions clear “but I really can’t. I’m… er… still getting over my ex.”
“Well, you must see me back to my hotel, then,” she finally compromised after some verbal toing and froing.
Given her advanced stage of inebriation at this point I felt that that was the gentlemanly thing to do. Twenty minutes later we were pulling up outside her posh hotel on Santa Monica Boulevard. I helped her out and began walking to the hotel. The taxi man, a scowling monobrowed Armenian, bounded from the cab looking for his money.
“I’m coming back,” I explained.
“You go to her room?” he asked with a puzzled expression which turned his monobrow into the letter ‘v’.
“Absolutely not,” I returned and out of the corner of my eye was chilled to see the knowing smirk on the iBOM’s face. The taxi driver obviously saw it too. He followed us, doggedly, like Samwise Gangee, undaunted by Frodo’s attempts to dismiss him. Indeed, when the doors of the lift opened moments later the analogy couldn’t have been more apt. It was like staring into the gates of Mordor.
“What floor?” I asked as she slinked into the elevator with me half peering in at the buttons and the taxi man standing by on code red alert.
She told me and then looked into the mirror to check her make up. It was one of those ‘now or never’ moments and I recognised it as such in a flash. Faster than President Obama can swat a fly on live television, I pressed the button and stepped out. The doors started to close as she turned. I’ve never seen so many emotions flit so rapidly across a face as I did in the moment before the doors came together. Shock turned to confusion and then to rage and, just has her face disappeared from view I thought I caught a hint of dismay but I could have been wrong. The taxi man and I were running for freedom as the hotel exploded in a huge fireball behind us. Well, actually, that didn’t happen and we walked rapidly rather than running – but it felt like that movie…
The cab driver put the key in the ignition then paused. He turned and looked me in the eye.
“You’re a real gentleman,” he said.
“Why, thank you.”
He started the engine, began to pull away then glanced at me in the rear view.
“Did you notice,” he confided, his monobrow arcing softly in joyful recollection, “that her nipple was sticking out?”