Posts Tagged ‘merit’

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lady gaga – bad romance. (video treatment)

February 1, 2010

Lady GaGa’s new album The Fame Monster is an album I took a long time to come around to, but I have finally learned to appreciate its merits and its songcraft a lot more than that of The Fame.  I still think that Lady GaGa is somewhat gimmicky and repetitive, but the talent is evident in the music and I really like even “Speechless” (which I couldn’t stand to listen to for the first couple of months).  Lead single “Bad Romance” may repeat elements of “Poker Face” and “Paparazzi”, but I love the song and there’s a certain cinematic element (I’m talking beyond that of the Hitchcock references in the lyrics).  So when I am listening to / singing along to the songs, I imagine performing it and slowly but surely, a whole storyline began to unfurl in my head – so I thought it would be fun to get that down on this blog for you all so you can get a little taste of how my creative brain works 😉

Intro

Video fades in on an office scene for some sort of Soviet / Eastern-European corporation.  Two very big, very important looking men are sat at a conference table in the centre of the screen having an argument and barking into mobile phones in Russian.  In the back left corner of the screen sits a handsome man behind a desk, wearing a grey designer suit and thick, black-rimmed glasses, reading a set of papers intently.  In the back right corner of the screen sits Me, also in a black designer suit and glasses, typing furiously on a desktop computer.  After an intense conversation, the big-wig sat on the right of the table stands up, clearly frustrated, and walks over to me and barks a string of orders at me.  I stop typing, exasperated, stand up and look my boss dead in the eye.  Without another word, I pick up my Gucci shoulder bag from the floor, take off my glasses (never breaking gaze with my boss), put on a set of huge black Prada sunglasses and walk out of the office – I have apparently quit.  As I walk out, the other secretary-guy looks at me in shock / awe.

Shot of me walking out of a faceless skyscraper, half-running as I hit the street.

Back to office, the other guy frantically grabs his papers, collects his back and runs off after me.  Both of the Russian CEOs look on in shock, then after a beat begin barking into their phones once more as servants bring them tea / vodka / some unidentifiable drink in a steaming clear square glass mug.

Song starts / 1st verse

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Caught in a bad romance

Ra Ra-ah-ah-ah
Roma Roma-ma
GaGa
Oh la-la
Want your bad romance

I want your ugly
I want your disease
I want your everything
As long as it’s free
I want your love
Love love love
I want your love

Shot of me walking purposefully down the street as music begins to play.  Cut with shots of my peer trying to catch me up, running after me, dropping papers and having to stoop to pick them up as pedestrians crowd around him.  Slow motion – a tear begins to fall from his eye.  Intercut with me running up the stairs to my flat, getting changed, putting on new clothes: shiny, black, designer, silver jewellery. As I turn around to go out the door, presumably for drinking and dancing, my colleague is there. We look at each other: close up on his face, on my face.  Another tear falls from his eye.  I close my eyes slowly.  He kisses my cheek.  I move my lips to his ear and whisper something.  Fade out…

2nd verse

I want your drama
The touch of your hand
I want your leather studded kiss in the sand
I want your love
Love love love
I want your love

You know that I want you
And you know that I need you
I want it bad
A bad romance

The camera spins around disorientingly to reveal a dark mirrored ceiling, green laser beams shooting here and there, people in various states of undress and sobriety dancing, drinking, shouting, kissing, fumbling, conversing.  Slow motion of a cocktail that contains coke falling on the floor intercut with my colleague / boyfriend standing by a booth, looking anxious.  As the glass hits the floor and the liquid spills out, cut to a scene of me in a bathroom staring hard at the mirror in an accusatory manner.  Close in on my eyes (wearing blue contacts).  I lip synch the words “I want your love”, then strut out of bathroom and grab boyfriend’s hand, who smiles.

1st chorus

I want your love and
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
I want your love and
All your lover’s revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Caught in a bad romance
Ra ra-ah-ah-ah

Roma roma-ma
GaGa
Oh la-la
Want your bad romance

We make our way through the club, pushing our way through the crush of people unwilling to give way. Close up on our linked hands, my set lips, his eyes looking to me.  As we walk past, slowly each member of the crowd’s head turns to watch us pass by.  We stumble out of the club into the cool night air, the sky pitch black.  Limousines line the pavement and there is a queue of important looking businessmen, all in shades Karl Lagerfeld-style, all pouting and puffed up in their suits waiting to get into the bar next door to the club we have exited.  As we stumble drunkenly past, laughing and holding onto one another, the camera focuses behind us as one of the businessmen, in an Armani suit and black fur overcoat, leans out of the queue and raises his sunglasses so that his eyes are visible.  He looks in shock, then automatically whips out his iPhone and taps furiously on it.  We go on, laughing deliriously as we smoke our cigarettes and totally oblivious to what has just happened.  The camera cuts back to the man, who raises the phone to his ear, begins to talk, and slides the sunglasses back down to hide his eyes, puffing on a cigar.  Fade out as the screen spins and we wander back into the block of flats where I ran to after quitting my Soviet secretary job.

3rd / 4th verse

I want your horror
I want your design
‘Cuz you’re a criminal
As long as you’re mine
I want your love
Love love love
I want your love

I want your psycho
Your vertigo shtick
Want you in my rear window
Baby you’re sick
I want your love
Love love love
I want your love

Some time appears to have passed.  Back outside the club, same line of limousines, same pitch-black sky, same drunken revellers falling out of the nightclub.  An identical queue of identikit businessmen line the streets waiting for the bar.  A limousine pulls up in front of these businessmen, and the door opens as the man in the fur coat from the queue prior steps out.  From nowhere, paparazzi and a multitude of flashing lights appear as microphones are thrust towards the door of the limousine.  A beat, and then I climb out in skintight black jeans and a leather trenchcoat and dark sunglasses with leather cuffs.  I smile dazzlingly for my entourage as minders, having appeared from nowhere, clear a path through the paparazzi for me.  Freeze frames as flashing lights illuminate me shielding my eyes, signing an autograph, waving to the surrounding crowd.  Behind me, my boyfriend gets out of the car, a serious tight-lipped expression on his face, and he lunges forward and clasps my hand to pull him through the crowd, but I get knocked over and our hands come apart (close-up).  Cut to the VIP section, purple velvet ropes cordoning off us from the rest of the club: within the area is a giant plush black leather sofa in front of a table piled with bottles, cocktails, glasses of unidentifiable substances, a smear of white powder.  Sat on the sofa is me, my boyfriend (sat apart and not engaging in eye contact) and a heavy-set, stoned-looking bodyguard half-asleep.  Businessmen talking into phones mill around while the crowd dances, lights flash and I stare into the distance.  I fumble for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and I reach over to whisper in my boyfriend’s ear, but as he is about to respond (a smile flickering across his face), one of the businessmen reaches over and shakes my hand and begins to talk.

2nd chorus

You know that I want you (’Cuz I’m a free bitch baby)
And you know that I need you
I want it bad romance
Your bad romance

I want your love and
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
I want your love and
All your lover’s revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Caught in a bad romance
Ra ra-ah-ah-ah

Roma roma-ma
GaGa
Oh la-la
Want your bad romance

Exasperated, my boyfriend gets up and stalks out the back of the VIP area; concerned, I brush aside the businessman and go after him.  Walking to the smoking area, I fumble to light my cigarette as I walk through a walkway framed on either side by barbed wire.  Camera flashes go off continuously, hands clutch excitedly at me through the gaps in the barbed wire; one of them grabs my shoulder and I fall to the ground, dropping my cigarette.  I scrabble around on the ground for it and look up.  The camera pans up from the ground (my line of sight) and a Gucci shoe trails upwards to a shin, knee, leg.  The camera scrolls up to reveal my boyfriend looking down at me.  Close-up of his disapproving gaze.  I gather myself on the ground, a tear forming in my right eye, and begins to roll down my face – the camera does not pull away.  He walks past me as I kneel on the ground, bereft and lost, puffing desperately on my cigarette, and I begin to crumple and cry.  Eventually I go to run after him, but I can barely hold myself upright.

Bridge part 1

Walk walk fashion baby work it
Move that bitch c-razy
Walk walk fashion baby work it
Move that bitch c-razy
Walk walk passion baby work it
I’m a free bitch baby

Hands clutch through the barbed wire as I start to run, and this time the walkway seems to be interminable.  Intercut with footage of me running is a shot of a police car parked stationary; a black police hat, a set smirk on an unidentifiable male face.  From nowhere, policemen rush through the walkway at me, the hands retreat and the camera flashes stop.  Beating me with truncheons, I crumple once again to the ground, my sunglasses and hair askew, my clothes slightly torn.  One of them handcuffs me, and as I lie on the ground, cuffed, hands start to creep back through the wire to grope at me.  Fade out.

Bridge part 2

I want your love
And I want your revenge
I want your love
I don’t wanna be friends

Je veux ton amour
Et je veux ta revenge
Je veux ton amour
I don’t wanna be friends
(Want your bad romance
I want your bad romance)
Want your bad romance!

A television in the corner of a mystery white room flickers on and off with footage showing “Alan has been arrested” ; “Star meltdown” ; “Dumped and detained!” among other headlines.  Close up on my face, clear and almost angelic, mouthing the song lyrics. My eyes are a liquid electric blue, my skin is pale and sunlit.  The camera pans out to reveal that I am in a straight jacket in a white, padded room with just a television in one corner, and a fold-out bed / sofa in the other, all white.

3rd Chorus

I want your love and
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
I want your love and
All your lover’s revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Caught in a bad romance

Grief-stricken, I throw myself around the padded room, bouncing off walls, pounding the floor, tearing stuffing out of the pillow with my fingernails.  The camera retreats further back to show the room with a giant glass window looking in; doctors pace outside tapping pens against clipboards, looking unconcerned and business-as-usual. Tears roll down my face as I sing pleadingly into camera.  At the phrase “Caught in a bad romance”, the music stops, and all that can be heard is the sound of my breathing as I look full-face out of the screen.  The camera switches to my view, and outside the cell stands my ex-boyfriend, looking in at me.  A smile of sympathy plays across his lips, and at the same moment we press our hands together, regretfully, against the glass.  A doctor then comes and escorts him away, and I follow his gaze as he is shepherded down the corridor, looking back at me.  The camera zooms out further to show that in the two cells either side of mine are the two Soviet big henchmen from the intro office scene, barking Russian into their phones just as they were in the office.  The whole scene fades out to white…

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xx.

September 10, 2009

Bear with me, hold on tight, make yourself comfortable and spark up or pour yourself a drink or grab a Haagen Daaz or whatever your preferred method of relaxation is. This might take a while.

Last Wednesday I bumped into my friend Ebony, whom I hadn’t seen in a quite a while, and whom various colleagues of mine while I worked at the Perfume Shop had tried to contact only to no avail.  I had realised that she must have changed her number or had some kind of phone dilemma, because she isn’t the kind of person just to suddenly blank you.  So when I bumped into her, she explained that her bag (containing her phone, among other things) had been stolen a few months ago, and she had a new phone with a new number, but had lost her old numbers.  We swapped digits, discussed the shop, what she’d been up to since finishing uni and what I’d been up to since leaving TPS and starting my new job at the hospital.  I mentioned that one of my colleagues at the shop had been upset that Ebony hadn’t been in touch, so she promised that she would go in.

Today she visited, and apparently they had some interesting things to say about me.  I found this out via a text Ebony sent me this afternoon, asking me whether “certain things she had heard” were true.  I asked what “things” they had said. Apparently, I had “left under a cloud”, and once I had left, I had returned a couple of times to visit, and had “admitted to taking from the shop”.

Apart from a big “LOL WTF?”, I replied that none of this was true.  The only thing I had “taken from the shop” was a free Armani bag, which was a year-old Gift With Purchase (i.e. a free gift you get when you buy a Giorgio Armani men’s fragrance, that has no monetary value and once the offer expires, is free to be given away with any purchase at the sales assistant’s discretion, in order to drive sales).  I had originally got this Armani bag as a GWP myself, buying a limited edition bottle of Emporio Armani He in the summer of 2008.  Eventually, the faux-leather front flap of the bag started to peel, and it looked quite shabby.  After being overworked and underpaid by the shop, and with there being a fair amount of tension between myself and the manager (due to changing rules to specifically prevent me from attending interviews, among other things), I felt that the least the shop owed me was a free bag to replace the one I had which was falling apart.  So I took it.  A free bag.  And back in July, I popped into the shop and my ‘friend’ H who still works there asked me where I got the bag from.  I didn’t see the point in lying (after all, these freebies were and are given away to staff all the time as incentives / rewards) so I said it was from downstairs – in retrospect, more fool me.  Despite the fact that the bag is not worth anything, despite the fact that these gifts get given to staff all the time, and despite the fact I had given various colleagues similar expired GWPs as rewards, this was “scandalous”.  I didn’t understand why it was a big deal, and I was shocked at the reaction, so I asked H not to say anything.  However, H was there with S, who is (to be blunt) all mouth and no brain.

So today, receiving the news that the shop thought I had stolen things (stock had been going missing both before and since I left, and the people who still work there are being investigated – I guess I was an easy person to blame, despite the fact I never stole ANYTHING – I did the majority of stockchecks so why would I put so much effort into counting endless boxes of perfume if I were the thief?) was a surprise.  Not because I didn’t think that this could happen – I know people better than that, and having a mini nervous breakdown at the start of this week was largely caused by losing faith in people’s perception of me.  But because I didn’t think that it would.  After how hard I worked at that shop, after managing it for 3 months by myself, after giving S’s daughter a Christmas present and being such a good friend to them all – they honestly think that I could be such a thief?  It’s disappointing.  And it’s hilarious that I took the bag in March. I told them in July.  It’s now September, and they’re still talking about it?  News must be slow and life must be dull for them.

I explained this to Ebony (who thought the whole thing was ridiculous and kinda dumb), along with a similar story where after Kulthum (another nice colleague of mine from the shop, who left last autumn for a new job) left the shop after not being able to work her full notice, my manager told me that Kulthum had “admitted to stealing money from the shop”.  In light of the false accusations that have been levelled at me, I doubt very much that this is true.  My manager told me not to tell anyone, and the difference is that unlike H and S who have seen fit to escalate the fact that I took a freebie into suspicion that I stole full bottles of fragrance and maybe even more, I never told anyone what she had told me about Kulthum.  Ebony made a very good point that if you steal money or stock from a shop and you are found out (whether you confess or otherwise), it’s gross misconduct and you are sacked that day; nobody lets you serve out half of your notice first.  I feel a little silly for even entertaining the rumour, although part of me never believed it and I kept up my friendship with Kulthum nevertheless – after all, she was never nasty to me and it was none of my business whether she took anything from the shop or not – the shop isn’t my baby, my family nor my be all and end all.  Rumours about other past employees have come and gone, but I never really broke contact with anyone I got on with because of these rumours – I am able to keep my mouth shut and I prefer to judge people on their own merits.  It’s just sad that not everybody does that.

I enjoy gossip like everyone else. But the sad thing is gossiping at someone’s expense, accusing them of things that are totally untrue. I am quite confident Kulthum never took the money – regardless, I never told anyone that she had been accused of it.  I never took anything from the shop other than that free bag. If they want to say that they think I did, because it’s easier to backstab me and accuse me now that I’m gone and can’t defend myself rather than face the fact that whoever the thief is, she’s still in the store. I’m no liar, I’m no gossiper, and I’m no thief.  I know that.  I have no intention of going in there and clearing things up – they should know me better from the year and a half I worked my butt off there and was a friend to every one of them.  They don’t.  Let them talk about me and perpetuate untruths if that’s what it takes to make their days more interesting.  It’s sad, and disappointing.

Hannah and my mother (who has been in a very similar situation herself) both said that this is one of the dangers of working with girls.  I don’t necessarily agree, as I get on with a lot of women, and everyone has the facility to be bitchy.  But a group of xx chromosomes can definitely be dangerous, and they can double cross (“x x” – see what I did there? Not just a pretty face!)… it’s whatever to me.  I have a new job, a better job (more money, more responsibility & more professionalism with less silly rules!), working with adults (men & women) rather than gossipy young kids who take 1 + 1 and get 1000.  If I see them in the street, I will rise above it and say hello with a smile on my face, as if nothing were wrong.  Because I have done nothing wrong.  But they’ll never be my friends again – the person they seem to think I am or want to portray me as is nothing like who I actually am.  They should have known better. And I should have known better than to trust that they wouldn’t double cross me once I was out the door.  Not a lesson learned, but a lesson reiterated… And we rise above!  Kisses to the haters… xx again. 😉