Jaumear

Not long ago I published here a post about an advert for the web in which I participated as an actor. For those three or four who read it, we shot four different adverts, but in the end they only used two. Today, for the first time and for all of you… (drumroll) …THE FOUR VIDEOS. The first and second may sound familiar, but you can watch them again.

Thanks, Biel, for letting me have the videos.

The optimistic: the world smells like flowers.
The pessimistic: that is the smell of shit.
The cynical: you can stand anything with a good air freshener.

It happened almost a year ago, but I think it still deserves some comments and even a few further explanations. I am talking about the voice recording of Christian Bale in the set of the new Terminator movie where he tells a tecnician off for crossing the scene while the shooting is taking place. For those who never heard it, enjoy:

The recording itself is unbelievable. A guy so bigheaded to dare treat others like that. But the problem is not just his. Everybody has the right to be an asshole. But the limits of that assholeness come from outside. Try Christian’s behavior in your office or even in the street with the first guy you encounter. You will probably get kicked in the ass. Nobody would dare touch this mister, anyway, even if his childish behavior deserves a spanking. What I mean to say is that it is also our fault as consumers, because we allow this behavior, justifying or even defending it.

Some consider this man a great actor. I say you don’t need to be very good to use the same face for being angry than for having an organsm. There are thousands of good modest actors out there willing to work. Because a movie is not just about a jerk in front of a camera, you need secondary characters, extras, light operators, directors, atrezzo, dressing, planification, money, editors and a long etcetera that makes this guy look less important than we, spectators, make him. This man is there because he sells movies, well then, I suggest never to watch a film where Bale plays at the cinema. And if you really need to see his roast chicken performance, then try online or buying a pirate DVD. Changing the world starts with changing oneself. Join the cause: “Drag an asshole out from cinema”. Don’t be afraid, better actors will come if you give them the chance.

To end this post with a smile, a cut from Family Guy where they bring up the subject. Enjoy.

Today I would like to share with you a post dedicated to balls… basketballs. It turns out I was selected to play a role in some promotional videos for the Spanish national basketball league, ACB. The main theme is “Hambre de título” (Hunger for title), and the idea was to shoot a series of daily situations where basketball was the main character. We shot four sequences, from which only two were chosen to be aired, apparently for internal issues. It will take you no more than two minutes, so I encourage you to take them a look at:

www.hambredetitulo.com

It’s a contest, so if you want to shoot your own version and you like basketball, go ahead, there are prizes for the three most voted videos.

After an extremely busy week, saturday finally arrives. It doesn’t feel like going out and instead of dressing up, wearing a sports suit sounds like a very acceptable choice. Lazy day. But it’s ten to ten and the Madrid-Barça is about to start. No problem, we are in the modern era. Google: watch Madrid Barça online. Nothing. The only site I find demands a text message to a certain one four four crap. I keep looking. Nothing. I suck at this. The noises of the football supporters come to my ear through some neighbor’s television. Damn it. I spend more than ten minutes searching the web for some free pity. Nothing. Laura sits in front of the computer, erases the word “watch” from google, hits enter and voilà. She stares at me like saying “you don’t have a clue”. I try to excuse my massive clumsiness, but all of a sudden the match is on, life.

I hear the comments of the guys who broadcast the match with a certain level of indignation. It’s like they have a little piece of the Real Madrid stuck up their colons. I little bit of imparciality, please! All they say is nonsense. A Barça player fails a pass: the worst player ever, this team is sinking… A Madrid Player makes a foul: it’s no big deal, it was not on purpose. My eyes were wide-opened with amazement, because I understand objectivity is utopia, but this guys’ lack of interest to even approach it is evident. If I look to the screen and listen to the comments at the same time, it seems like this guys are watching a match that takes place in a parallel “unidiotsverse”.

Barça scores the first goal. Messi gets a pass from Xavi, puts the ball down with his chest, turns the waist in a form that would break some bones in an average human being and scores, defying the most elemental laws of physics. Goal. The commentator from La Sexta (Spanish TV channel) says goal while trying to find a way to discredit the great play. What is journalism? A dream, a made up concept? Facts are facts. Period and the ball inside Madrid’s net. Be professional for once in your life and put your pride together with that little piece of madridism forming a cyst in your large intestine. The commentators start plotting. Mr. Esteva can’t stand himself. If you search him in the wikipedia, it says he is a sports commentator. Mistake. Whoever wrote that entry, erase such a blasphemy, please. He flies into a childish rage and says that Messi used a hand in his chest control. Too much talking will get you into trouble. Replay. And even with the three different spots and the slow motion, there is clearly no hand anywhere. But rage and the fact of not being professional are an awful combination. “It’s obviously handball”. And he keeps saying it while almost seven millions of spectators see no hand at all. Fifteen minutes later, just before the half time adverts, the commentator admits, unwillingly, that it was a fair play. It’s a MIRACLE, either his sight is back or somebody gently told him to wear his glasses back.

The second half it’s more or less the same story, except Madrid players fight more. And, of course, there is some extra kicking and fouls and even some flying elbow. I’m not justifying the play, but it’s normal. They are losing in their field in a very intense match. However, the commentator friend who apparently lives in an imaginary world, sees very forgivable tackles and is just able to criticize the Barça players with ten-year-old-boy comments. Grow up! One must say that the catalan team played hard too, anything but angels were found on the field.

Barça scores for the second time and the poor man doesn’t even know what to say, or how. His pro Madrid arguments wither slowly. He shouts the last score: “Real Madrid: 0, Barça: 2″. And that “two” sounds powerless and filled with restrained rage. If that’s supposed to be journalism, I’m ashamed of being part of this profession. No, no way. The one who should feel ashamed is this man, who surely missed the class where objectivity was taught. Whoever wrote his wikipedia entry, please, go over the concepts in a dictionary and if it was himself, he should buy one.

Alves brings Cristiano down just outside the penalty area. Mejuto (Spanish referee) blows the whistle and the commentators instantly start a bar fight asking for the second yellow card for the player. I wonder what match are they watching. They keep talking, with the yellow card in the lips until a few seconds later, Sergio Ramos is the one who tackles another player, just scratching his second card. Silence. The referee doesn’t see much of a bad tackle (because there wasn’t any) and just declares foul. One of the commentators scream “warning”. The silliness is coming to an end. Iniesta enters the field and misses his first pass. They strike back and start saying that the player is playing with fear or is not as good as he used to and more bla bla bla which is typical in a football supporter but not in a so called journalist. Minutes later, as if he had heard them, the same Iniesta starts an astonishing play next to the side and they just go mad

The match is over. 0-2. Barça played well. Madrid didn’t play bad, but worse. They lacked team play and had too much ego from Cristiano Ronaldo, who wanted to score desperately and screwed too much chances with too much individual play. Today all pro Barça diaries fill their pages with articles talking about superiority and other stuff, but the truth is they also suffered against a Real Madrid who hasn’t siad their last word yet. They hardly tackled Messi, true, but the white team also got their kicking dose. It was a good match and the only despicable fact was the behavior of the La Sexta commentator, which was anything but professional. Obviously, those who broadcast a match have their preferences, but using the fact of having a microphone to express them openly is shameful. A chinese proverb says: before you talk, spin your tong inside your mouth ten times and then, shut up. Those who are wise know when to be quite. And those who have the power to be heard massively should be a little wise or, at least, learn the BASICS of their profession.

Everybody talks about publicity. Hard sell is a well known concept. I imagine a publicist beating up people in the street while shouting: “drink Coke, buy a Mercedes”. It surely crossed their minds but, of course, agression is illegal. Explicit violence previous step for selling is this What The Jaumefuckear. I found it in a seven eleven shop window. You can find anything in those stores. Even coffee.

This story begins with a visit to a website for actors which name is not relevant. There I find a casting RTVE (Spanish National TV Network) is going to do in order to find the cast for the musical version of Spanish well known tv series about the life of a family after the civil war called “Cuéntame” (Tell me), and which title is going to be “Cántame” (sing to me). I send my resume and some pictures where I look handsome (I don’t know how, but my friends are genius photographers). Two days after I receive a call from the studio to give me an appointment for the last March the 17th at 8:30 in the morning. I’m told to rehearse three different songs. So far so good. Weird things start: the girl who called asks if I’m going alone or with company. “Eeeeeeer… alone”, I reply. She tells me that I can take relatives and friends with me so they can dance and make the chorus while I sing. I flip. I recover, nevertheless, thinking of something rational that would explain such suggestions. Something rational I can’t recall, of course. I put down the phone and I stop turning it over in mind.

It’s the 17th. I’ve got all I need for the casting. I wake up at 7 to shower, get dressed and have enough time to reach the train station and grab a train to the place. It’s so cold in the street. I rehearsed three songs, including Robbie Williams’ “Angels”. I, poor dreamer, think I will impress them. After the train journey and a little five minutes walk I reach the studio. There are people queueing, but it’s still 8:15 in the morning so It doesn’t bother me much. Fifteen minutes later all remains the same, only now there are more people queueing behind me. I hear conversations of the people around me: some ladies brought their husbands and even some daughter (chan-chaaaaan), I have a feeling that this isn’t just right: are these people pros?

Nine o’clock. More people queueing. We still can’t go in. It is so cold I can’t even feel my feet. I feel a little breeze of madness coming up my throat. I breath. And swallow. Nine thirty in the morning. I no longer feel my calves. People starts singing the song “Cuéntame, cómo te ha ido…” (from “Formula V”) but changing the lyrics with “we wanna get in” and other stuff. We are all pissed off. I can see in the distance a worker from RTVE placing at the entrance of the main building a banner which goes: “Cuéntame, the musical”. This happens about twenty feet away from where we stand. I must add: in the freaking street. Chan-chaaaaaaaaaaaan. Second warning, that banner is not for us, it’s probably because they are about to film this whole circus. It’s some kind of talent show.

Nine forty-five. Four camera guys exit the main building, everyone accompanied by another sound guy with mics and all. No chan-chaaan no crap, this smells like scam. Some girls with papers in their hands also appear and they start speaking with the people outside. One of them begins her interviews with the people who stands three spots ahead of me. It’s a woman and her husband. Interviewer question: “why did you come to the casting?”, woman’s answer: “because I always loved singing”, thought in my head: “Where the hell am I?”. Next group of people. Another woman. “You came alone?”, “no, my husband is over there, pretty upset for the waiting”. And which was the interviewer’s answer?

Option a: I’m very sorry, madam, but we had some trouble getting started.
Option b: He better get used to it, madam.
Option c: Mint is my favourite ice-cream flavor.

Hint: the girl didn’t have much manners and it was certainly too cold to think of ice-cream. So yes, the only answer left is b. That’s right. No apologies nor shit, they are a big TV channel and they begin the castings whenever they please, hell yeah. Another wave of madness comes to my head. On the other hand, the woman just replies with a slight laughter. She wasn’t professional either. Next: the girl just in front of me who comes accompanied by her father. “Can you sing?”, and pay attention here, because the answer is absolutely true and must not be missed: “yes, I can, in the shower”. No words. I’m out. My turn.

I ask: what is the schedule?
She answers: we will stay here for some time.
Me: time, how long?
She: whatever it takes, that’s the way castings are.
Me: no, they are not.
She: well, those for TV are.
Me: eeeeeer, no. I worked for TV and their are not this way either.
She: god knows what TV you were in. But, hey, good start…
Me: (an answer pops to my throat: in a TV where castings started on time; but I hold my horses) ok, you’re right, I’m an asshole. The only thing I want to know is how long do you plan on ending the casting.
She: don’t even thing of going back home until ten p.m.
Me: well then, I’m out. Thanks for everything.

And that is the way my little trip to RTVE lands ended, ladies and gentleman. Be nobody is rough. If some day this happens the other way around, I hope to remember this day. The big ones should be there to protect the little ones. They step on them instead. Greetings and good luck, you are going to need it if you are a little fish.

A morning like any other. Well, at least that’s what I think. The world outside must be the same as yesterday… Nope, there it is, that power some will call God and others climatic change, to show me the universe might be a lot of things but predictible. I walk out the room towards the bathroom and a snow rain (literally, none porno metaphores), falls at the other side of the living room’s window. Awesome. I go back to my room: “hon, it’s snowing”, I say with an unknown heat in my voice after waking up. She, still in the mental struggle to defeat the cold and rip the sheets out of her body, answers with a half dead “aha”. Like it happens all the time! If I said the backstreet boys were in the living room completlely naked, things would be very different.

A couple of hours later we step on the street with clear minds, clean bodies and our best antifreezing suits. This is what appears before us:

It’s snowing. It’s snowing hard. And at sea level. It occurs to me maybe destroying the ecosystem wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The camera gets wet. “Come on, run”, “comiiiiiiing”. People covers with no success under jaquets, waterproof coats and umbrellas.

¡It’s war! Everybody walks on the streets in a flurry. Those who work stare outside from inside their customers empty stores. Waiters, on the other hand, move crazy from table to table, serving hot chocolate, coffes and other stuff, not even noticing the snow. We head to the dubbing school, inside our coats and dodging pedestrians, under the miserable protection of a broken umbrella. We arrive to the metro station. “Do we get in or do we go on foot?” We can’t make a choice. Anyway we start walking while I argue something stupid about how close we are. Two steps further we turn back and enter the metro, like absorbed for a friendly force: the subterranean heat. My feet are wet. I put my hood away and some snow falls into my pullover and slides through my back: Good morning, friends! After a line transfer and three or four stops we are in the street again. What we see is not much better.

The floor is slippy, all covered in mood and footsteps. A viscous and brown fluid which used to be white and fragile fills the sidewalks and the asphalt. Little avalanches fall on the pedestrians like cluster bombs from balconies and roofs. This is better than medal of honor. We reach the school at last. We go in. “Hi, wassup…” We record a take, “come on, we are closing because nobody came”. The official version is they close for the students safety. I don’t clock in until eight, so we stay in the bar talking about life, love and other nonsense stuff with some school mates and the teacher.

Great day. I hope yours was even better.

After taking the play of Cyrano de Bergerac to every corner of Spain during the last year, the nosy character lands in Barcelona. Therefore since the last january 28th and until the same day on february, you can enjoy the magnificent play written by Edmond Rostand at the Guasch Theater. Thursdays at 21:00, Fridays and Saturdays at 22:00 and Sundays at 19:30. Who would tell, I’m allowed to perform in a professional stage…

During last year’s Cyrano’s campaign I had to perform the role of Christian de Neuvillet, a.k.a. “the handsome”. Although afterwards I also played different characters in different emergency replacements. This meant turning myself into “the ugly” or mister Bergerac and “the bad” or count de Guiche. Clint Eastwood’s copycat, ladies and gentelmen. But in the moment of truth I’m neither handsome, ugly nor bad. What then?, you may ask. Well, I’m the guy who dies in the first scene. But I die with tons of style and after an astonishing sword combat. Here my character, Viscount Valvert and my assassin, Cyrano:

And a family picture with my murderer making fun of me:

But don’t think I just die and that’s it, no sir. I appear a lot more, playing a wide range of characters: Lignier, the drunken poet; the monk who interrupts Christian and Roxane’s love scene and Farcit, the cadet. I enclose some images of different moments of the play so those who will come can have a little preview, and those who won’t can enjoy a little part of it.

Greetings from Jaumeland.

Yes, I know, I left my blog godforsaken. But I have been a little sick and, besides, the jaumear productions team have been working in two new shortfilm projects for some contests and they already are in the postproduction phase. So I hope to hang them here soon so the sharky internet criticism can tear them apart. Come what may, the subject that brings us up to this post is non other but a WTJ. Be careful friends, because even hamburgers have small print. Either that or pigs have feathers. Who knows, there are lots of transgenic products out there, so maybe the meat comes from a pig genetically modified with turkey genes. Have fun and eat well. Always keeping an eye on labels, though. That is all for today, we will keep Jaumearing.

*Bird Hamburger. In small print: BURGER MEAT TURKEY AND PIG.