Art is wish-fulfillment

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Bismillah ir Rahman ir Raheem

For about the septillionth time this year, I find myself wondering why in the feck I’m writing screenplays. Short of papier-mache sculpture and nudist interpretative dance, I think it might just be about the hardest art-form to gain any kind of material success in. In fact, I think those two art-forms might be far more accepting of the under-represented.

My current project is a rom-com called Whose Wife Is It Anyway. It’s tortured, it’s romantic and hopefully it’s funny.

That’s my sales pitch to you.

But to me – I get to say goodbye to my mother. The way I wish I could have. I get to re-imagine a few acrimonious conversations as sensitive, peaceful, healing conversations. I get to have a few more funny, loving conversations with arguably the funniest woman I’ve ever met. I get to hear her voice again if only in my imagination.

And dear owner of eyeballs, you have no idea how long and how badly I have wanted to hear my mother’s high-pitched hectoring again.

A project I want to work on next year takes place all in one location, namely my family’s home here in Colombo.

I don’t have a sales pitch for you yet -sorry.

But for me – I get to be there as my mother dies. And I get to imagine her as a super-hero. No, more than that. A legend.

Even if it sucked donkey testicles in real life, on the page at least, I want to say goodbye to my mother the way I wish I could have.

As most Game of Thrones fans have, I’ve also been pondering the poor sodding fate of poor sodding Elia Martell. In love with a good-for-nothing foppy hair-brained prince. Nearly killed by childbirth. Twice. Abandoned by aforementioned blonde fop. And then raped by the Mountain. And killed. Brutally. But not before her children are murdered in front of her. Including her baby son.

If we stop to think about it, this is probably happening in the real world a whole heck of a lot. In fact, it might even be happening right now. In Palestine? In Syria? In some ISIS-controlled hell-hole where there are no reporters because no one in the outside world cares?

I invite you to simmer in that fetid reality for a moment.

Now. Why in the feck did GGRM enshrine it in fiction? Who’s fecking wish was he fulfilling?

Every pregnant woman in the series either dies a gruesome death or has the ones she love die in cruel and unusual ways. Robb Stark’s wife got off pretty easy actually. Daenarys and Elia Martell – I mean, seriously, GGRM?

Which leads to wonder why the male species would be so cut up about Ghostbusters. They aren’t real.

The rape and murder of women and children in times of war – that ish is far too real.

Whose wish are we fulfilling with our art? It’s worth contemplating. It’s worth questioning. It’s worth saying no to the beast when he asks us to make our darkest fantasies true on screen.

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