Tuesday, 29 November 2011

Write turns

Cue the sweeping fields of tumble-weed rolling through Charmed Central.

With Resurrection still out with the grown-ups to play with, it has been an especially quiet week. Jake has now retired from office life completely to take on paid interweb-thingy employment for a few weeks (and to stoically battle through a dose of the man-flu), leaving me to rattle around the flat on my own.

And what does a man do when he has nothing other than the internet to entertain him? He contemplates. Contemplates like a caged chimp.

I won’t bore you with the mundane details of any existential angst, except to say that it centres on the problem of what to do once the movie’s done. While Jake is keen to move into throwing a camera about professionally, my ideal scenario is slightly more nebulous – how can I parlay the Resurrection credit into a proper screenwriting gig?

And so, the Phelpenmusings this week have been mostly about the next movie.

In any case, it can’t hurt to have other projects in the stable when we come to sell the movie next year. We can’t have us coming across as a couple of chancers that have taken a year out from what we should be doing just to waste everybody’s time. *Sigh*.

Anyway, the one thing that we did manage to do last week is pick up some more photos from the shoot from the obscenely talented Rob Luckins. If you haven’t already taken a trip to the dark slide to check out his fabulous portraiture, go now; however, he also managed to capture another couple of thousand photos from the set.

So, with kind permission, here are a bunch of our grateful dead. Hell, it’s all we’ve got till the real mess arrives. Snappy.

 Ross and Alex practice their scary.

Wayne’s wound. Party on, indeed.

Zombie school - Milling 101; remedial class.

Stu. Don’t worry, ladies, that’s not his real hair. It’s Ant MacFarlane’s, apparently.

And there’s why. Stu II gets hoiked into frame for a thorough skewering, while Rup and Matt squat in a pool of prematurely-spilled stage blood and Director’s tears.

Loz. We weren’t even allowed to touch his hair.

A triptych of the splattered dead – Lauren, Peter and Susi. They all left set smelling vaguely of mint and curdling milk; apologies to their respective better halves.
Our beautiful horde, completely ruined by a couple of under-dressed wankers at the front.

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