The book's narrator, Oliver Tate, had just pushed an overweight girl into a pond in order to impress another girl, Jordana. The next day, as I woke and made my dawn toilet, I remembered my first reading of Joe Dunthorne's novel and the moment when I decided that I really, really liked it. Yasmin Paige as Jordana Bevan and Craig Roberts as Oliver Tate in Submarine. After a lengthy back and forth about how much racism I could in principle use, I called in my regular ghostwriter and sank into a deep, erotic sleep.
Submarine 2010 poster how to#
Needless to say, as soon as they worked out how to open my email, they were blown away by my antihero brainwave. Within months the Guardian Elders had located an internet cafe, set up a Hotmail account, and successfully "logged on". Only later, as I watched the dear creature struggle to remain airborne across my moat, did I make a mental note to continue the rest of this correspondence by email. Three seconds later I'd decided upon a theme (antiheroes – because the main character in Submarine is sort of an antihero – thank you, muse!), scribbled it on a Post-it note, staple-gunned it to the pigeon and catapulted it back out into the world.
Wouldn't this be a good way of trying to convince people to see the film I'd directed (Submarine: a coming-of-age comedy based on Joe Dunthorne's critically acclaimed novel, executive produced by Ben Stiller, and featuring original songs by Alex Turner) without looking like it was flat-out, self-seeking publicity? Especially if I gave it some kind of hastily-decided-upon theme that tangentially related to it and which was cursorily amusing if not actually laugh-out-loud funny? Wasn't my whole "career" based on being just cursorily amusing, if not actually laugh-out-loud funny? And wasn't this necrotic line in quasi-deconstruction the exact kind of drizzly piss that drenches so many articles anyway? I was born to do this! This would be easier than white-collar crime! But as I stared into the trusting eyes of the carrier pigeon they'd employed to deliver this wretched entreaty, I had a change of heart. When the Guardian finally came crawling, begging me to prop up its ailing fortunes by graciously condescending to write an article for its so-called " Guide", I was overcome with such a fit of anger at the wormy presumption of it all that I could scarcely finish my mid-morning muffin.
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