Two years ago the band I’m in recorded a charity Christmas single, and I had an idea for a video. What started with me emailing a rough outline ended with me sitting on a toilet dressed as Santa while young people filmed me. After that day I embarked on a period of keeping my ideas to myself.
At the beginning of last year the band released an album, and even though I had another idea for a video, I didn’t say anything for a long time. Eventually, however, I was persuaded to explain the idea to a director called Martin over lunch.
“It’s basically about this deluded loser,” I said, waving a fork, “living in a sad flat and dreaming of escape.”
Months later, this conversation yields predictable results.
“Someday this band is gonna make a video where I don’t sit on a toilet,” I say, sitting on a toilet. Young people are shining lights on me.
“It’s sort of a signature thing for you now, isn’t it?” says Martin, from behind the camera.
“I guess,” I say.
“Let’s go again,” he says.
When you are making a film about a deluded loser living in a soulless flat, securing a location requires tact. You can’t just walk into someone’s living room and say, “This is perfect!” It took some diplomacy to ask the bass player for permission to transform his really very nice flat using dim lighting, unflattering angles and set-dressing.
When it came to casting the deluded loser, however, no such delicacy was involved.
“It’s got to be you,” Martin tells me.
“Really?” I say. “I had, I don’t know, a younger loser in mind.”
“No,” he says. “Definitely you.”
My reluctance to play the part has nothing to do with my age, or the possibility that I’m central casting’s idea of a loser. It’s because I can’t act.
When I say I can’t act, I do not mean that I find it difficult to inhabit a character fully, or that I struggle to summon authentic emotions on cue. I mean that I am incapable of following simple instructions while a camera is trained on me. I find this painful to admit, because there was a time in my life when, having done no acting, I thought I might secretly be good at it.
On the night before the video shoot, my wife talks about going to see a film.
“I can’t do tomorrow,” I say. “I have this video thing.”
“From when to when?” she says.
“I have to be there all day,” I say, “because I’m basically the star of it.”
“How did that happen?” she says.
“The director feels I have certain qualities,” I say.
“Does he know you can’t act?” she says.
On my way to the shoot, I decide it is important to be upfront with Martin, who is a professional.
“The thing is, I can’t act,” I tell him.
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s not The Iceman Cometh.”
He soon finds out what I’m talking about, as he directs a third take of me opening a fridge, removing a carton, and filling a glass from it. There is a camera over my right shoulder, and another one inside the fridge, making the acting doubly hard.
“And cut,” says Martin.
“How was that?” I say.
“That was good,” he says. “Maybe a bit faster next time.”
“Faster,” I say. “Got it.”
But the simple sequence of movements suddenly seems monstrously complicated. On opening the fridge I find myself pretending to search for the carton, even though it’s the only thing in there. I think: your character would never do that. Focus!
“Cut,” says Martin.
“I spilled some,” I say.
“Try not filling it quite so full,” he says.
After eight more takes we progress to the next scene, which requires me to sit and stare forlornly at a computer screen. This should be easy – it’s what I do for a living – but Martin has ideas.
“Maybe take a sip from the glass,” he says.
“What, at the same time?” I say.
By the time the rest of the band turn up to change into their matador costumes, the sun is already setting. I am exhausted.
“How’s he been doing?” the guitar player asks Martin, pointing at me. Martin pauses, as if composing a diplomatic response.
“He takes it quite seriously,” he says.
Weeks later when the video is finished, I watch myself take the carton from the fridge several times. It’s amazing how hard I make it look.
