Or Perhaps Not...

Having thought about it, I am fairly certain that the project didn't begin as described in the previous post, so please ignore it. Not a very auspicious way to start a blog. Oh well, start as you mean to continue. I hope future posts will excel in contradicting each other, and, in the end, nobody will really know how the film came to be made.

Anyway, my previous post is more or less true - so perhaps all I've contradicted is the preceeding paragraph - but I think the impetus to get going on Smith came from another bike ride, this one down a road I'd never taken before, and was curious to see what I would find if I cycled down it. It was one of those small roads that are maybe near your house, but you've never been down them, and either take them for granted, or ignore them completely. So I set off down the road, and it took me past a farm or two, a tiny church (which in fact I only noticed yesterday) and a narrow bridge over the railway line. But there was also a campsite, quite a large one in fact. I think it was passing this place that made me think of Mr Smith and his disastrous life.

As it happens, I actually visited the place on Wednesday evening, a sort of unofficial recce. Looks promising. Nick and I are doing a proper recce there next week. If we meet a resident who is obsessed with UFOs, we shall be in weird land for sure. But that wouldn't surprise me. There's a lot of it about, after all.

Making a film. Accidentally.

Well, this is all rather unexpected. I was recently (February 2005) out on my bike, cycling up the road from Berrow to Brean. Berrow isn't famous for anything, and doesn't deserve to be. It's one of those places that you don't get out of the car in, while Brean is only famous for its theme park, which was recently blessed with a visit from Jordan and Peter Andre. They closed the whole place to the public while Madam and her silly man had a go on all the rides. Brean is also awash with caravan sites. It's a strange, self-contained world, with its own shops and pubs, almost cut off from everyday reality (whatever that is). As I was cycling past one of the caravan sites, I heard what either sounded like very vocal sex (one assumes two people were involved) or somone having some kind of violent seizure. I did not stop to investigate. Maybe farm animals were being introduced to 'the lifestyle'. Who knows. Anyway, it reminded me of what a strange little world caravan sites are, which in turn reminded me of 'Mr Smith and the Flying Saucers', a script written about 10 years ago by my old chum Nick Harding, whose titular hero, Ian Smith (not to be confused with the last prime minister of Rhodesia) lives on a caravan site. I suggested to Nick that he do a rewrite, as it was a good idea, and could also be made quickly and cheaply. Nick rummaged around at home for a while, but couldn't find the first draft, so he decided to start again from scratch. And that's how it all began. I think.