Ayoade - Ayoade on Ayoade

AYOADE
ON
AYOADE:
A CINEMATIC
ODYSSEY

Richard Ayoade is a filmmaker, writer and amateur dentist. He lives in London with his wife, her wife and their two husbands. They have children.

For his cinema, Ayoade has won no major awards. He has also won no minor awards. He has, however, watched several award shows and especially enjoys seeing other people receive awards. Good for them, he thinks to himself in his small house that he doesnt own. He hopes they manage to find meaning. Genuinely. Because its a tough business. Especially on the way down. And thats worth remembering. No matter how many awards you may or may not have. How good a friend have you been? Whats the award for that? Whos holding that award ceremony? Where are the cameras then? How good a husband are you to your wife? Or to her wife? Or to their husbands? How good a father are you to your unspecified number of children?

When hes not indulging his passion for rhetorical questions or boating knots, Ayoade enjoys receiving Google Alerts.

). Also, please know that Im relying on you to be diligent about this. The whole flow of this work requires your co-operation, and that means going to the Appendix as and when I tell you. I dont know who you are I now accept that theres probably not an effective way of vetting readers as to their suitability but please show some basic humanity and fulfil YOUR obligations just as I will fulfil MY obligations to YOU. I dont need an Ideal Reader; I just need an Okay One. Deal?

Intrigued? Check out Ayoades classic manuals So You Think You Know Knots?, Hows About Another Fifty Knots?, Not Fifty More Knots!, A Further Fifty Equally Important Knots , and the collected omnibus edition I Think Knot .

Contents

A brief note about the title: Ayoade on Ayoade is not, as some people have claimed, an exhortation to stack any extant Ayoades on top of one another. The herding and/or unethical, vertical storage of Ayoades is a civil offence. Although they appear insignificant and malignant, like mosquitoes or head lice, Ayoades are capable of experiencing basic emotions such as shame and fear. If you encounter one, especially in confined spaces like Costa Coffee, gently encourage him away from you with a rolled-up newspaper.

Let me surpass the clarity of crystal: Im flat-out opposed to having a subtitle at all. Especially for this book . It would be like appending How This One Goddam Kid Couldnt Even Apply Himself for Chrissakes to The Catcher in the Rye . But we have one. And this unsolicited saddle is: A Cinematic Odyssey.

The Marketing Team, whose every breath increases my suspicion theyre the cast of a spoof, hidden-camera reality show, remain convinced that the only way to make you, the Great Unshowered, buy this book is with some kind of supplementary plea. Well, given that no one can understand marketing and therefore no one can refute its claims to veracity, all I could do was give these Category One Fucknuts my white stick and shades.

My eternally compliant manager (now disgraced snowboard instructor) Konnor Kaye suggested An Artist in Dialogue with Himself, but that merely evoked the image of some muse-less vagabond muttering to himself on public transport, while his other submission, Inside Ayoade, was ripe for bovine misappropriation. I gathered my wits and offered up The Furious Quandaries of an Auteur Didact, which I thought at least gave a foretaste of the linguistic dexterity the reader would encounter between these pages. But the M.T. dismissed it as torturously laboured. Which could serve as a subtitle for my dealings with them : yahoo youths more interested in the stickers on the book than the riches within the book.

In the dueness of course, it will become apparent exactly why Ayoade on Ayoade is the only moniker that matters, but if you must have a subtitle in mind (and because of them , you do ) and seeing youre on my goddam turf (the contents) rather than theirs (the cover), Im prepared (with no small smattering of pique) to settle for ( ).

Prologu(e)mbryo

Fade in .

INT . AN APARTMENT . SOMEWHERE . SOMETIME . SOMEHOW .

My heart cant keep rhythm. My legs are copper flex. My mouth is left-out milk. I havent slept. Well, I havent slept much. If Id never slept, Id be in talks with the army. Its 3 a.m. The Hour of the Wolf. Im about to meet Ayoade.

Ive followed Ayoade my whole life. I am his shadow. I am the tail between his legs.

I feel I know him like the back of my hand. So why am I this nervous? And to whom am I addressing this question? No one can hear me. Idiot.

I crawl towards the bathroom, before deciding to stand up and walk. I flip the light switch and blink. I cant tell whether the light is on, so prolonged is the blink. I open my eyes and, through the salty sting of tears, I see a face reflected.

This must be a mirror.

Im looking straight ahead, and you dont get puddles on walls. You cant do splashy steps on walls ! I start to laugh hysterically, remembering the days when I used to try.

Then I see The Face. High cheekbones, full mouth, eyes gleaming: its a face you can get lost in. Its the face of Ayoade.

Its also my face.

I am Ayoade.

I pass out.

Camera tracks back into the inky dark.

Fade to black.

I read somewhere that you should never start a book with weather or the time. Im worried that this is therefore bad writing. Im worried that declaring this worry rather than redrafting is cowardly. Im worried youre angry with me for dragging you down here rather than letting you continue up there . Im worried whether this really works as a footnote, and whether it might have been better left as a private matter, like a diary entry or an email to someone who still lets me email them.

Though, on reflection, this is an area of my body that I dont actually know that well . Ive never really studied my hands as such. Ill give them an occasional glance when Im typing or trying to prise loose the cap of a Shakey Jake, but, generally, I try to forget that I have hands at all.

INT . BATHROOM A LITTLE LATER

Fade up. The camera soars away from my prone body, like an ascending spirit.

Lets leave me on the bathroom floor for a moment. Dont worry, Ill be fine. Lets just walk away. You and I need to get our bearings. Because before we take the first step of our particular journey, a quest that will take us deep inside Ayoade, we need to get close.

Real close.

So, as Sir Mick would say, please allow me to introduce myself (who, who?). Let me confess my purpose . Because an aim aint anythin if it aint true. And thats what were after here. Some good ol veracity.

You see, for some time Ive been planning a series of extensive interviews with Ayoade. To many hes a tallish, unfit man who cant act. To others hes a tallish, unfit man who isnt funny. To others hes not even a man. I wanted to discuss this myriad of perceptions with the tallish person himself. How did (s)he end up in film? And how long does (s)he think (s)he has before (s)hes found out?

From his failed and short-lived career as a stand-up comedian, to his failed and short-lived career as a TV writer/director, to his failed and short-lived career as a sitcom actor, to his failing career as a film writer/director, he disappoints with unparalleled consistency. And yet he does get (some) work. He has made two films and is threatening a third. So there remains a mystery. And this mystery, like a notable other, calls to us in the form of a Trinity:

1. How does he do it?