Goldilocks

Even as a kid, I figured Goldilocks was a bit of a moany bitch. Nothing was ever good enough. She had to sit in everyone’s chair, sleep in everyone’s bed, try everyone’s porridge before she could find anything that was “just right”.

And even then, after she was discovered breaking and entering, nobody but the poor old bears seemed to be bothered. You know, I can’t help but think that if Goldilocks had been called Dreadlocks or Latinalocks, she would have been treated a lot more harshly. But a pretty little white girl with golden hair and blue eyes can apparently commit a class H felony and face nothing more in terms of consequences than an exasperated shake of the head.

Anyway, I’m wandering off the fact, which is, that I’ve been feeling a little like Goldilocks of late. Not because I’ve uncovered my inner cat burglar - don’t worry, your comestibles are perfectly safe - but because I find it more and more tricky to work out what is ‘just right.’

Time feels both fast and slow. I feel like I’m busy all the time, but if you were to ask me what I’ve been up to for the past couple of weeks, I would stare into space racking my brains like Goldilocks trying to make up an alibi.

I can tell you that last Sunday was Mr Tweddle’s birthday. So of course I asked him if he’d wanted a party. And of course, because he is a Tweddle, he said absolutely not. Mr T is not a big fan of celebrations. He’s not averse to fun, and he’ll do whatever he can to practically make any celebration work, but you will never find him leading the conga line.

So then I asked him what he did want for his birthday and he said he “just wanted a normal day.” And that’s what completely stumped me, because I could not work out what a normal day looks like.

Like I remember when I was younger, and dinosaurs roamed the earth, a normal day would involve going to school or college or work for the day, and coming home, and having your dinner, and nothing much had changed. Nowadays though, everyone works from home, and you might you leave your desk to make yourself a cup of tea, and by the time you come back, we’re at war with Iran or something. The challenges of modern living are exhausting.

So after trying in vain to work out what ‘a normal day’ would look like, I asked Mr Tweddle what he meant by ‘a normal day’ and then he got antsy because he couldn’t tell me either.

So we sat down and had very serious negotiation about how he wanted his actual birthday to look.

Presents - he wasn’t bothered. He figures he has everything in his life he needs (apart from a very fast motorbike) and any more stuff would be clutter. I wanted to argue that not receiving gifts isn’t very birthdayish, but then it is hard to take issue with a person who claims they currently have everything in life they could possibly need, apart from a very fast motorbike.

I asked if he maybe wanted to go out somewhere for the day, and he said he wanted to potter about in the backyard with the plants, and the bees, and the chickens.

So then I asked if we weren’t going out for the day, maybe we could go out somewhere for a birthday meal. This did pique his interest. For about thirty seconds. Then he asked how tricky it would be for me to make curry. I said not tricky at all, which, by its nature, made it not very birthdayish. He said he wanted curry at home, just the four of us.

So then I broached the difficult subject. The key to all birthdays. Did he want cake? He nodded, and I smiled, thinking how, at least in this one way, I had moved him across from the dark side. Then he explained that he wanted chocolate cake - the same cake he’d made for my birthday, and he’d bake it himself.

I looked across at him and thought that it’s not just his lack of hair, age, gender, and disinclination for burglary that would make it impossible for him to take on the role of Goldilocks. Mr T does like things ‘just right,’ but he figures he has them all to hand already.

And so his birthday arrived, and of course, me and the boys, got him some presents. His parents sent him gifts, and friends sent messages, and we spent the day in the garden, pottering. I made curry for dinner, and we had cake that he made, and it really actually was the loveliest, calmest time. But was it a normal day? No. No, it wasn’t. Because it was easy and truly peaceful. And I’m not sure that’s normal, as in it’s not a regular occurrence to have a day that’s ‘just right.’

You know, when you’re transferring a story to the screen, there’s a pattern to the style of shots you do, that influence how the story will be seen.

The most common of all shots are the mid-shots where people are just doing stuff - for example, Mark is in the kitchen baking himself a cake.

There’s the close-up shot to show what the characters are thinking: Tight in on Lynn’s face as she considers whether it really is the right thing that Mark is making his own cake for his birthday.

And the landscape: Puffy white clouds dance across the blue sky above Tweddley Manor, as we consider what the nature of birthdays really means in the great scheme of things.

Virtually everything on screen potters along using the rhythm of these three perspectives. There’s the doing, the thinking, and the ‘what does this mean in terms of life and humanity?’ That’s why when you watch a great movie, you see the characters doing stuff, understand what they’re thinking, and the overall tale makes you consider something about your own life.

But not every visual story uses them equally balanced. When you watch a soap opera or a procedural, they generally stick to the first two: Somebody does something, and someone else thinks about it, and so you know that that story is going to develop. They’re not big on what it means in the great nature of things. They just want you to tune into the next episode.

And then say you’re watching some kind of motivational/ meditational video, then aside from some clean-cut, warbling individual wearing white amidst the pan flute music (pardon my resentment), there are going to be plenty of shots of swirling oceans and lush green landscapes. There won’t be much by way of close-ups, because the focus of that story is not on what the speaker is thinking, but how the words they say make you think instead.

But the only time you would see the close-ups and the landscapes cut close together is in a horror movie or when you are trying to develop tension and fear. So say, for example, a long shot of an isolated, dark, deserted old mansion. Then close up on characters' faces as they accept that’s the only place they’ll find shelter tonight. And all the time you watch from the comfort of your sofa, yelling, “Noooooo!”

It’s a magic combination. Works like a dream. Literally, with the placement of those three shots, you could change the character of Goldilocks to being relatable: Goldilocks sits at a table with three bowls of porridge in front of her. Close up of Goldilocks as she feels intense guilt and frets about which one to choose. Shot of Goldilocks as she reluctantly picks up a spoon.

Anyway, what dawned on me on Mark’s birthday as I was pottering about in the backyard, and wondering why I so often seem to feel in this constant state of lostness, was that if I were shooting a story about where I’m at right now, then the most accurate way to shoot it would be using the horror/tension configuration.

Close up on Lynn’s eyes as she looks at her phone.

Shot of detail in Lynn’s phone showing the East Wing of the White House as a pile of rubble. Shot of Lynn’s hand as she scrolls to the next story.

Lynn’s phone display shows gas prices going up.

Close up on Lynn’s eyes as she decides to move on to the next story.

Republicans seek pardon for Ghislaine Maxwell.

Close up on Lynn’s face, looking on in disgusted disbelief.

I almost laughed when I realized that it was no wonder I often have the feeling I should be scared shitless.

When I am in front of a screen, I am literally trapped between the thoughts in my own head and the vastness of the World Wide Web.

As we were sitting down to eat some curry that I’d made without much bother at all, I reminded myself that if you want to release the tension in a story, you just have to put in more doing shots. Lynn works in the backyard. Lynn eats curry. Lynn laughs at terrible jokes with her family because when they sit together, they often make terrible jokes.

Lynn gets to make a choice about how she wants to see life, no matter what else is going on in the world. (I guess that’s what they might mean by ‘calling the shots.’)

Anyway, as we were eating Mark’s birthday cake that he baked himself, I had to admit that it’s a brilliant feeling to experience something that is ‘just right.’

But no, that absolutely does not make me Goldilocks, because I am a real-life, imperfect, periodically frustrated grown-assed woman, rather than a fictional, irritating, over-entitled, bear-baiting juvenile delinquent.

Lynn

Xo

PS: Every time you click on the wee heart emoji, Mark thinks of something surprising and adorable he wants to do on his next birthday. That’s a totally lie obviously, but maybe, just maybe…well you never know.

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Goldilocks - Audio