Everything in its Right Place

Beasts from the Southern Wild (2012) At its most basic level, Beasts from the Southern Wild explores a father and daughter relationship. Anything more to be read from it is up for debate.  The loose narrative follows a young girl named Hushpuppy, who lives as part of a tight knit community on “The Bathtub”; an island in south US that faces risk of submerging into the sea due to climate change. She has a turbulent but deep connection with her father Wink, a stubborn but proud man who tries to teach her the means to survive and also the value of not giving into fear. The film firstly introduces Hushpuppy and Wink, followed by their community, as they drink and generally have a good time into the night, where they light fireworks and all that jazz. Accompanying this is an indie-folkish soundtrack which reeks of other quirky festival winning films ( Little Miss Sunshine, Juno ) and overwhelmingly informs us of how to feel about them; they are our heroes. We are then t...

Head in the Sand Carriage of gloom Of existential weight  Embody this grey Sunday  I hope we're all fucking late And miss the Monday meetings  The five alarms, the shitty cereal bars The morning coffee, the search for car keys The suit and noose, the lonely commute The forced smile, the-must-be-done-by-5-file The belligerent boss, the colleague constantly cross The three pound meal deal, the aching that your eyes feel The signing of the time sheet, the creak of the seat The sepulchral sound of the phone ring, the sluggish clock dreadfully ticking The hours, seconds, minutes of our life away I hope we're all fucking late If you don't know what you're working for, head in the sand let's work some more Rain snow or shine there is no forgiving just relentless business until your morals are spinning And your weekend away flys by in the blink of an eye and screech the Sunday train Blue and as unwilling as the rest of us Tied t...

The Importance of the Screenwriter Quantum of Solace  (2008, dir. Mark Forster), the second instalment in the Daniel Craig era of the James Bond series, is quite easily the worst film I have sat through recently, I remembered it being ok, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The thing is though, it really didn’t have to be so awful. But contracts have to be honoured; the latest shit-smelling 007 aftershaves and Omega watches insufferable marketing campaigns can’t be delayed, and so Mark Forster began shooting… without a script! This was of course due to the 2007-08 writer’s guild of America strike, in which screenwriters rightfully made a stand against the severe pay constraints in their job contracts, which had them redrafting for nothing amongst other blatant exploitation by Hollywood.  Whilst the director will always receive due praise, the screenwriter remains elusive in praise or recognition, but this film serves as a great example as to just how important the...

A Short Poem: This Hour Playing live music is THE best thing I do in my life. After playing some headline shows and getting a taste of the power live performance can have, realising how unique the experience can be for each person and simultaneously how it proves such commonality between us all, I wrote this little piece.  Give us this hour of uncontrollable joy Of purity Of community  Of music, that one great thing that unites us and speaks through our ancestors in the beat of the drum, the pluck of the bass the strum of the guitar and the voice that rests within us all Give us this moment that autonomises us from greed and fear, that cruel lucifer that binds us to phones antoginises our addictions and distracts us from our true potential For this hour we become human beings again and ride on the wave of joy This is all of ours, this casts light into the darkness creating memories that glue us together for eternity Be good to yourself for once and forget...

Tarentino Dialogue Can you believe this film is 10 years old? I don't know why but out of all of Tarentino's films this is the one that I think about most, the one I tend to revisit and the one which I think is the only serious challenger to Reservoir Dogs as Tarentino's finest work (I'm glad the Once Upon a Time In Hollywood hysteria has died down finally). When discussing Quentin Tarentino himself of course, it’s probably best not to mention anything visual. The chances are, you’d be complimenting some B-movie director from 60’s Hollywood or an obscure exploitation film. His films are bathed in intertextuality, magpieing anything that he remembers or looks good from the thousands of films he’s seen. But the dialogue… that’s where Tarentino comes to life. It is often in the deliberateness of evasion that his films tend to get you hooked, as well as the flow of the words. Think of the classic example in  Pulp Fiction  where Vincent and Jules turn ...

Revowooftion It seems the more festival films that I watch the more transparent their mechanics become - be visually exciting, re-appropriate national specificity so it’s easily translatable to a global audience and always, always, cast a child/teenager as the main character. White God  (2014) is a Hungarian film directed by  Kornél Mundruczó  which follows Lili (a young teenager) and her dog Hagen. The film delivers a dualistic narrative after Hagen is cast away by Lilis father Daniel, jumping between the despair and viciousness Hagen encounters on the streets, and Lilis search for him, as well as other aspects of her life.               Hagen and all the other dogs throughout the film are treated with utter malevolence, and certain language used in the opening half hour, such as comparisons to monsters and the accusation “half-breeds [dogs] have to pay tax”, leads one to instantly assume the...

Break in the Clouds The stones upon dead beaches  lie with oil that’s dripping. And the cry of all the wildlife echoes in the distance. Along with all the voices of the ones that weren’t “God’s children”. So you walk with eyes shut tight for how else can you glimpse a future? And try to keep your mind straight,  your body calm and sober. For within the darkness you search for the silhouette of justice, which has, long been smothered by the prime minister of hatred who speaks with a slippery tongue and is a master of phatic language. Seek from him only lies for he’s not known for honest answers. And then plead for the rain to stop. So tired, tired of waiting, waiting for a break in the clouds. The road like a line drawn by a fat magic marker. The engine like a static on a once harmonious frequency. The ale that kept you warm has since left you cold and empty.  Close these beaten eyes momentarily to perceive, the nigh...