It’s not often that I post music reviews here because it’s not often that new music absolutely hits me in the chest with its perfection. I’m struggling to find new work these days that hits every level of greatness in performance, originality, musicianship, tunes and deployability. Taylor Swift gets close but I find Indy Music way to hit and miss these days.
Burt this landed at the weekend and I immediately knew I was in the presence of greatness.
Washington’s The Epic (2015) falls under the same category but this took my by surprise. I was initially put off nay its length (90 minutes) but that’s one of its strengths as it wraps you up in its mood and develops (swirls) through some full on jazz to Ethiopian inspired afro jazz into jazz funk and semi classical choral wok that’s simply breathtaking.
It’s underpinned by Kamari’s peerless saxophone playing that you might think could outstay its welcome but is actually the bedrock of this glorious enthralling and happy sound.
Andrea 3000 and George Clinton make appearances along with Thundercat but it’s undoubtedly Washington and his ensemble that make this album of the year by far for me.
Both Alex Garland and A24 Films do it again, although this is quite different to most of Garland’s work because it has no sci fi elements to it, at all. It’s not as flat out action thrills a minute as the trailer might suggest but, for me, this wasn’t a problem. Instead it’s an intelligent insight into war and beautifully captures the role of journalism and in particular photojournalism within that.
The UK’s ITV News ran a truly great piece just after the January 6th insurrection of the White House which both demonstrated the importance of on the site reportage to capture what was REALLY going on and, I suspect, provided inspiration for Garland as it’s in the moment, at the heart of the action, drama was compelling. This too.
Of course you can go back to the Spanish Civil War and perhaps more notably, Vietnam, for gripping photojournalism that changed our attitudes to what is going on in the world. Indeed recently two brilliant documentaries have arrived on our screens from the Ukrainian war that are really getting to the essence of this conflict (Twenty Days in Mariupol and Ukraine: Enemy in the Woods.)
For Garland to make this feel real in a contemporary US setting, in an unexplained war between the unlikely combination of Texas and California (the secessionists) versus the rest is quite an achievement. He is helped in this by a stunning central character duo of Kirsten Dunst (a world weary, seen it all before veteran) and a fresh faced (but shooting on monochrome film) upstart played by Cailee Penny (whom we’ll be seeing a lot more of).
Dunst reluctantly takes Penny under her wing after they are thrown together in a cross country drive from NYC to DC in tow with an elderly journo (Stephen McKinley Henderson) and a younger more daredevil Wagner Moura who’d been hitting on Penny in the NYC journalists party hotel the night before the trip. Dunst is magnificent as the weary Lee (get the name connotation?) and assumes a maternal protective role for the increasingly emboldened youngster in her care.
The movie ramps up throughout and it has to be said what the finale lacks in storytelling credibility it makes up for in edge of the seat tension.
My family thought the ending was a bit OTT, but I forgave it because the characterisation was so fantastic and the performances, especially by Dunst, riveting.
I highly recommend it.
(Oh, and there’s the crazy Jesse Plemons scene, almost worth the admittance alone.)
Luca Guadagnino is one of my favourite directors. If you have not seen his epic TV series, We are Who We Are, set on an Italian airforce base, you need to. I also love his Suspiria and Call me By Your Name that brought Timothy Chalomet to prominence.
Guadagnino loves blurring sexuality and sexual preferences and he does so again in this Tennis movie that has its share of jocks but is anything but Jockish.
It concerns the three way relationship between three tennis players, Tashi Donaldson (Zendaya) whose startling young career is abruptly cut short by a knee injury, her husband, Art, played by Mike Faist and her/their lover, Patrick, played by Josh O’Connor. Art and Patrick are private school buddies that simultaneously fall head over heels in love with Tashi at a tennis tournament and spend the next thirteen years fighting for her affection. She, having turned to coaching her succesful but failing husband, is happy to play each off each other (but subconsciously) she knows that they know that he knows what he knows about him and her.
It’s a non-consenting menage a trois that is deliciously wrapped up in bargaining, treachery and double crossing. The scene in which Zendaya intoxicates the two male leads is a brilliant and in part hilarious piece of sexual trickery that is the highlight of the movie.
It’s all set agains a low level tennis tournament that Patrick, now a journeyman, needs to win to improve his rankings and Art needs to win to restore his faltering confidence. Cue magnificent tennis action set to a pounding score By Trent and Atticus (one that will surely find its way onto my Spotify for regular listening), it’s maybe their best yet.
The cinematography is outstanding with a virtual reality feeling. If you’ve never faced a tennis ball at 140mph before, you will have after this. Just make sure to duck when it comes out of the screen at you (I wonder if there is a 3D version?).
It’s great really. Intoxicating, intriguing and unpredictable from start to finish with the final of the aforementioned Challenger Tour match in New Rochelle anchoring the action in what is a great story.
All three actors carry it off with aplomb and I’d strongly recommend it. Good escapist fun.
He is a one man opposition party to whoever runs this country, but most especially when the Tories are wreaking havoc.
In this film he has a triple attack on racism, poverty and immigration.
As usual, he employs a cast of largely amateur actors, real people, in the North (Durham area this time) and they have grievances.
A run down pit village is being repopulated with Syrian refugees and the largely unemployed and bitter ex mining community do not like the fact that these “Rag heads” are getting access to their benefits and attention of local government and volunteers.
The action centres jon an almost decrepit community pub called The Old Oak. Its manager, our hero, TJ Ballantyne (played by ex-fireman Dave Turner, a Loach regular), is struggling to keep the pub afloat with a small band of bitter and twisted ex miners as locals, racist to the core they resent TJ’s apparent favouring of the new Syrian community that is adding richness to their village.
The movie plays out in a fairly typical Loach cadence. Highs and lows, humour and pathos, atrocious behaviour and acts of great human kindness.
The script is good (by Loach’s regular Paul Laverty) if a little predictable and sometimes a touch fantastical, but that doesn’t matter. Loach’s objectives are clear and the haters will say it’s just left wing propaganda. In a way it is. It needs to be because no-one else is doing it. But Loach draws such humanity from his mixed ability cast that you simply cannot fail to love it.
It sits alongside a canon of work that is remarkable: I Daniel Blake (his rant against the benefits system), Sorry We Missed You (his rant against zero hours contracts), Looking For Eric (Cantona as a postman), Sweet Sixteen (the movie that launched Martin Compston’s career), My Name is Joe (Bitter and brutal observation on alcoholism with Gary Lewis in career-high form), Raining Stones (his polemic against the underground labouring/work system), Riff Raff, Poor Cow and, of course our beloved Kes.
What a director. This is just another solid, enjoyable, moving piece of work from a national institution.
Baby Reindeer has been receiving some great reviews, and I am going to add to that body of opinion.
It was written by, and stars, Richard Gadd but with a supreme supporting performance by Jessica Gunning as Gadd’s stalker Martha. In the stage shows, which provided the inspiration for this 7 part Netflix series, Gadd makes it crystal clear that it is an autobiographical story, in the TV adaptation this is less apparent. But it is all true
We saw the Edinburgh Festival Fringe productions of Monkey See Monkey Do in 2017, at Summerhall, and Baby Reindeer in 2019, also at Summerhall but in the Roundabout.
My wife is not always the most likely to join a standing ovation at a theatre show but at Monkey SeeMonkey do she was the first on their feet. I gave both productions five stars and this nearly gets the same, apart from the fact that Gadd as a stage performer, telling his life story, is arguably better than Gadd as an actor playing a character, based on him, but actually is him, Donny Dunn. This subtle change takes some of the edge off his performance and requires him to act rather than perform. They are different things. I’m niggling though.
A big difference is that the stage shows were both one man monologues, albeit with AV back up, whereas he is graced with a supporting cast here, not least the miraculous performance by his stalker Martha who inhabits this sweet-as-sugar character with a dangerous she-devil interior that only raises its head when she’s not getting her way, and her way would be to own and ravish Gadd.
Gadd’s second nemesis is the theatre impresario Darrien played impeccably by Tom Goodman-Hill who subjects Gadd to massive trauma and was the main antagonist in Monkey See Monkey Do.
The combination of Darrien and Martha, and their collective trauma, create a stultifying inability for Gadd to do anything about his situation. His pathetic attempts at stand up comedy make any positive interest, from anyone, yes anyone, appealing at a subconscious level to Gadd and that may be why he rolls with the punches for so long against enemies that seem, to the viewer, so obviously easy to unlock himself from – but this is the way poor mental health and low self esteem can manifest themselves.
Whilst most of us could easily disassociate ourselves with these two monsters Gadd simply cannot and finds himself descending into blacker and blacker territory.
His only escape is through the fourth key character, the Mexican trans-actress Nava Mau, who plays Gadd’s sort of girlfriend, although it’s not easy. Gadd’s sexuality is so confused that he simply doesn’t know what he’s looking for and it makes for a pretty challenging relationship.
It’s billed as a black comedy and there are comedic moments, and yes, Gadd, is a professional comedian. But don’t come to this looking for laughs. It’s a profound, original and true exploration of the stultifying impacts of poor mental health and it’s performed with sensitivity and great skill.
Surely the year will end up with this on all the top ten lists, in much the same way that “I May Destroy You” did.
It’s funny how a programme can be so different from season to season and yet hold up its quality threshold and dramatic intensity.
Unlike the UK’s Boiling Point which is a one-paced act of unremitting rage (but great all the same) The Bear has many gears in its armoury and in Season Two, more so than one, it finds time to test drive them and show us serenity, rage, humour, regret and hope.
As it develops it has a zen like quality that introduces us to the characters of Season One that were just parachuted onto our screens in the midst of a war zone and left to get on with it. Whereas Season One was tricky to decode Season Two does all of the heavy lifting for you and week by week properly defines its characters.
Carmy (who we knew all about from S1) is given space to breathe as he plans how to position his new restaurant in Chicago and to experiment with the wonderful Sydney as she revels in her education as a fine dining (star) chef. Although how she survives her food orgy of Episode 3 is anyone’s guess.
Richie reinvents himself as a front of house magician and cultivated and cultured gastrophile. Marcus has an amazing sojourn in Copenhagen with an odd Noma-like guru chef. It’s as zen as the series gets, before the series centrepiece Fishes (that gets the full 60+ minute treatment) blows us all away.
Then Richie has his starring moment in Forks.
Along the way both Nat and Matty are filled out, character-wise, and without spoiling its conclusion for you we are ultimately teed up for another entirely unpredictable Season 3.
The writing, direction and performances (not to mention the music) in this production are magnificent. It’s not quite on the highest ever plateau of Succession, but I tell you what, it’s not far off. Wonderful TV that resonates as true to me and its many, many fans.
Graeme Macrae Burnet rose to prominence with his Booker Shortlisted, His Bloody Project – a genuinely original historical crime novel, of sorts, that was transfixing from start to finish. He’s followed it up with this Longlisted Booker contender.
Again you could say it’s a crime novel of a sort in which no real crime takes place, but may have been autosuggested by the psychiatrist who plays one of the novel’s two central characters.
Arthur Collins Braithwaite is a brilliant lothario that stumbles on a career in psychiatry in the 1960’s in Oxford and London. A rule breaker, he actually has no formal qualifications but has some celebrity status and notoriety that keeps him in patients for a while. One of those patients, Victoria, is the sister of our second (and third as it happens) main protagonists – Victoria’s mousy sister, (unnamed throughout the book) and her alter ego Rebecca.
Victoria is the autosuggested victim, having thrown herself to her death from a bridge after a session with Braithwaite. Unnamed sister decides to visit Braithwaite to suss him out but undercover as a patient that she calls Rebecca.
What follows is a quite brilliant study of, I would say, Schizophrenia. So different are unnamed sister and Rebecca in so many ways that we have a clear Jeckyl and Hyde situation, although without the horror.
It’s a fascinating story based around Braithwaite’s case study notes of Rebecca and unnamed sister’s ferocious battle with herself to define her true identity.
In parts hilariously funny, but always with an undertow of sinister mental health issues it makes for a unique and unputdownable read.
It takes time to become a veteran in this business (advertising). So, it takes a while (39 years in my case) to be asked to look back on the olden days of what I do.
I was honoured to be asked by Barry Hearn to join him for a 60 minute chat with The Lane’s Creative Director, Ian ‘Fletch’ Fletcher about advertising, then and now.
So here’s Barry’s Marketing Society / Lane podcast called leading Conversations #21.
Please do enjoy. And let me know what you think.
First off, I have to state that I adore Yorgos Lanthimos. I adore Emma Stone. I adore Mark Ruffalo and I adore Willem Dafoe.
That’s it then. Slam dunk. Movie of the year. (Or is it?)
I also have to say that I am a great admirer of Alasdair Gray who wrote the source novel in 1992 and won the Whitbread Prize for his efforts.
The novel is described as a post modern take on Frankenstein in which Dr Godwin Baxter (there’s a pun in the name) creates a very different and lovable monster that he essentially adopts – Bella Baxter – a beautiful young erotomaniac brought back to life with the brain of an infant.
Bella is played with outrageous abandon by Stone and as the (long) movie unfolds, she evolves from a ‘beautiful retard’ that can barely speak and has dysfunctional locomotion (plus is keen on a terrible twos tantrum on a regular basis), to a fully fledged young genius and palatable member of Victorian(?) society.
But the journey she takes is eventful, colourful and stunning as she visits reimagined Paris, London, Lisbon and Alexandria in houses (and brothels) that merge Willie Wonka with Wes Anderson and a bit of Jules Vernes thrown in for good measure.
Three suitors attempt to unravel Bella’s being with varying degrees of success but the stand out is Mark Ruffalo’s outrageously posh gigolo Duncan Wedderburn. Rufallo’s sublime English accent more than makes up for Dafoe’s in and out Scots Frankenstein and he steals the show repeatedly as he seduces Bella before falling on hard times.
Stone is remarkable, but I was troubled by the sexual politics at play here. In a book written by a man and a movie directed by a man the male gaze is on Stone throughout and her route to success is through prostitution. I’d be interested to know what my female friends think of this strand of the movie. Is it objectification or is it liberalised feminism boldly and proudly on show? I found it hard to decide at the time, although surely the latter is Lanthimos’s objective.
It’s a tough movie to capture the essence of. The story is actually a little thin and quite unremarkable, but the styling and much of the script is extraordinary, truly extraordinary. If, for nothing else, the succession of mutant hybrid farm animals – a duck with a full sized pig’s head for example. And all of the central performances are notable (especially Ruffalo).
But, I think it’s a movie to admire, not to love. But, as a piece of art, it’s sublime.
Kala is the latest in a string of Celtic (Irish and Scottish) books that I have greatly enjoyed. In his acknowledgements Walsh puts this run of Irish writing successes down to the Arts Council funding he received and the impact of their funding on the Irish Writers Centre. The SNP or future coalitions in Scotland would do well to imitate this investment in the arts and culture.
This terrific thriller opens with ‘the gang’ 15 and foolish sitting on their bikes at the top of a steep hill goading each other on to ride down the hill towards a narrow gap in the wall that takes them across the main road between onrushing cars to the field on the other side. This death defying stunt is a metaphor for the rest of their lives a deep dark plunge into an abyss of fear and death.
The gang: Kala, Aoife, Helen, Aidan, Joe and Mush live in rural Ireland in a village called Kinlough. It’s not the sort of place you’d expect murders and disappearances, but this is exactly what transpires when days after the hill-cycle Kala disappears, never to return.
Brought back together some 15 or so years later Joe has become a pop superstar, Helen a Canadian Freelance journalist but the rest of the gang have stayed at home, and although still great friends, grudge the glamorous lives of these two protagonists. 
They’re back for a wedding that never happens because Kala’s murder is confirmed on the day of Helen’s arrival, when her bones turn up on a local building site.
The gang, led by Helen, attempt to understand what has happened and in the process discover a nightmarish underworld of low life scum. Something they were completely unaware of until now.
Told as point of view by Joe, Helen and Mush in alternating short chapters the story freely flows between now and their childhoods as the truth slowly reveals itself through a pretty hefty cast of 21 characters, mostly related to each other in some form.
In many ways it’s a procedural story, but the quality of writing (from award winning short story teller, Colin Walsh, in this his first novel) is considerably above average with outstanding descriptive prose that never misses a beat. He also nicely mixes the tenses with Mush and Helen speaking in first person and Joe in third person omniscient – which makes you think maybe he has stuff to hide.
It’s a great character study and a rip roaring yarn, so it’s difficult to imagine anyone who wouldn’t enjoy this. So do yourself a favour. Go Irish this year. And then go see the movie, that it surely must evolve into.
And if you have room for more of an Irish bent I highly recommend (the much more complex but truly brilliant) Milkman by Anna Burns that recently won the Booker).
I’ve now seen all three of Mia Goth’s extraordinary A24 movies this year. In each one she has singlehandedly carried the movie to ridiculous heights of greatness.
All three are billed as horror (X as a slasher, Infinity Pool as an unhinged psychopath study and Pearl as another psychopath gestational study).
All three deepen A24’s reputation as the distributor of the year/decade, the greatest signifier of quality in moviemaking right now.
All three mark out Goth as the leading horror female actor in history if not, increasingly, one of the great female actors of her generation full stop.
It’s Pearl that that confirms this most potently as her performance is jaw dropping throughout.
It’s the origin piece for X, but the two movies could hardly be less similar, even though the central character is the same person (60 years apart) and shot on the same farm location in Kansas.
This tells the tale of young married Pearl with her husband labouring in the European trenches of WWII, her father a wheelchair stricken quadriplegic – a victim of the Spanish Flu which is a clever reference as it was written by Goth and Director Ti West during lockdown – and her raging mother, a German immigrant trapped by her crippled husband in rural America and resentful to the back teeth because of it.
Goth (Pearl) wants to escape this and become a dancer but is thwarted at auditions for not being blonde enough. This triggers her inner psychopath and whilst we don’t get a rampage on the scale of X we do see her nascent evil emerge.
It’s Goth’s startling performance and Ti West’s dazzling direction that marks this out as a horror of sheer class, although in truth it’s not really a horror at all: not a single jump scare and very little in the way of butchery.
Two scenes stand out, both featuring Goth, a long monologue to her friend and the closing credits which are reminiscent of Sinead Connor’s classic pop video.
This is movie making at its finest and a must see in my opinion.
Well, this is by a distance the best movie I’ve watched this year. It actually feels more than a movie experience as it’s so writerly, almost so theatrical that it becomes much more than the sum of its parts by the time you emerge from two and a half hours of spellbinding storytelling.
It’s a French courtroom procedural at its heart.
But it’s a marriage breakdown story at its heart
But its a tragedy at its heart, as the son of our main protagonist loses his sight as a result of his father’s momentary lack of attention (in this respect it reminded me of The Child in Time by Ian McEwan in which a simple lapse of concentration leads to a lifetime of anguish).
This is to prove pivotal at the climax of a densely multilayered script that keeps you guessing from start to finish. Not that it’s a whodunnit.
Basic story is this. Mum, famous writer being interviewed by a sexy young French literature student whom she maybe fancies because she is bisexual has to abort interview because Dad (failed writer and home carer for the son he blinded) starts to drown out the interview by playing P.I.M.P at full volume on the stereo. Mum seems unconcerned; semi-sighted son takes beloved dog for a walk in the snow. When he returns dad is dead having either jumped or been pushed by his wife from the top floor of the chalet.
We now embark on a slow (reminded me of Michael Haneke direction) unravelling of a pre-trial build up with Mum’s old friend (flame?) before the trial itself shift shapes endlessly as the story unfolds.
It’s set in the French alps where French husband Samuel has forced his German wife Sandra to relocate. She speaks perfectly good French but insists they converse in English.
At the trial the court insists on French (but she drops often into English) and this ambiguity and fluidity of language is a powerful metaphor for the rules of marriage, how relationships are brokered, where the power lies.
At its core sits the simply incredible, often inscrutable, Sandra Hüller who’s barely off screen. She has a script to die for, written by the director Justin Triet and Arthur Harari . In many ways it’s the star of the show because it’s so clever, moving and labyrinthine.
Then there’s a mesmerising performance by 11 year old Milo Machado Graner, the semi sighted son who is the key to the whole story, but keeps his cards well hidden until the breathtaking denouement.
Frankly, the beautiful blue eyed pet dog deserves a mention too. You’ll need to watch it to see why.
All in all it’s a remarkable movie. The Haneke reference is deserved. The performances outstanding. perhaps too slow in the first act, but by the end you’ll be wanting more.
Don’t go for popcorn entertainment. Go for philosophical human insight and intrigue. You’ll thank me – if that floats your boat.
Look at these magnificent creations for example. Obviously some are better than other but I love the way AI can make shadows meaningful. This could probably be achieved by human retouching of course, but it would be tricky.
In the pantheon of great Scottish vernacular writers Graeme Armstrong has joined the podium. He stands alongside James Kelman, Irvine Welsh, Ely Percy and Anne Donovan.
Maybe he is the gold medalist, but let’s see what novel #2 brings.
My only criticism of this amazing book is it could have been edited a little more tightly.
That critique aside, in the meantime we have a belter in The Young Team which is an auto-fictional story of life in brutal, and I mean really brutal, gang culture in Airdrie and the surrounds (Coatbridge, Wishaw, Motherwell, Hamilton).
Whatever, they’re awe shite.
The Young team tells of Azzie’s life as a wannabe gang leader through the ranks, to…well, you’ll have to read it
The grit in this story is that Azzie has a brain. Trouble is he uses it infrequently as his gang-inspired rage too often rules his heart over his head.
At times you grit your teeth so hard you can barely breathe as this horrific story unfolds. It’s not quite Glasgow’s Jimmy Boyle-esque razor gangs, but it’s not far short.
Life in North Lanarkshire’s schemes is awful, although interestingly Armstrong rarely suggests that, it’s just life.
Aggro, violence, wine (Buckfast) drugs and motherly love are the soothing embraces that make this land home. No matter what.
The drugs (or is it the violence – there’s plenty of that) centre the book. Azzie is close to being a junkie, but he’s also close to being a murderer (OK, manslaughterer).
He’s smart, but he’s also mental.
I wouldn’t want to meet him (although I would love to meet Graeme Armstrong). We read of his life from wannabe gang master to sensible 22 year old retiree. But the needle still skips.
It’s, to be honest, terrifying. But it’s written with the mind of a philosopher.
Azzie can escape, unlike most.
This makes it sound like a cliche but it’s anything but. Ignore comparisons to Trainspotting. That’s lazy and predictable. This is a far more serious, and more important, book.
“It’s shite being Scottish”, yes it is – in this den of iniquity.
The stories of rave culture add a bit of levity (but even these are horrifying in places). I wasn’t one of them (thankfully reading this) but levity is not a tonal reference of this book.
Many say it is funny like Irvine Welsh. (It isn’t). OK, it has funny moments. But it isn’t a comedy book by any stretch of the imagination. It’s much more Alan Warner than Irving Welsh in this respect.
So, don’t buy this for a laugh.
Buy it to , I dunno, I’m so middle class that I don’t want to say/admit it – feel better about your life?
Actually, naw, just revel in Graeme Armstrong’s writing skills.
It’s a belter. And it’s coming to a TV near you soon so get it read first.
Two Fringe Firsts, a Five Star EIF Alvin Ailey part two, a performance art piece at the Talbot Rice art gallery, an hour’s talk and a signed book from Jesse Armstrong (Showrunner of Succession) and a preview of first works (x4) by young writers at Summerhall.
Let’s start with The Summerhall Surgeries, the last of four such one hour sessions funded jointly by Summerhall and the Edinburgh Festival Fringe Society in which four writers previewed 10 minute work in progress pieces to a small audience. A simply brilliant initiative and a peek behind the curtain of the writing process. My thoughts are captured below as all audience members were invited to do.
Next up I nabbed a return for Fringe First winning Ben Target (or Ben Target – with an acute to some – but WordPress won’t let me type an acute) and his show Lorenzo at Summerhall.
It’s a retelling of his inadvertent spell as a carer for his uncle (not uncle) Lorenzo Fong – there’s a clue somewhere in their respective surnames – during lockdown. His (not) uncle is nevertheless his most beloved extended family member since his childhood, which Target explores through the use of a shadow puppetry house (much better than Jesse Cave‘s incidentally).
Target is a stand up and repeatedly reminds us of his fall from a small height as winner of most promising comedian at the Fringe in 2012. And although this show is hilariously funny at times it’s really a sad story of death and palliative care administered in a truly DIY way, that gets close to euthanasia by Target and Fong, the Odd Couple of Death Row.
It’s entirely engrossing, spellbinding in fact, and Target should hopefully see a resurrection of his crumbling career as a result of this truly 5 star masterpiece.
I took a break at the University Courtyard and visited Jesse Jones‘ performance art piece called The Tower at The Talbot Rice. It’s rather lovely. The other show on just now isn’t.
Next to Zoo Playground (Blimey Zoo has had a great Festival) to see the third of their Fringe First winning shows. These included The Insider and Funeral, both reviewed earlier in the Fringe, But today’s winner was Beasts (Why Girls Shouldn’t Fear the Dark) a one woman play by Zimbabwean Londoner, Mandi Chivasa.
It’s a towering performance that charts the story of a young black London girl who is being followed through her neighbourhood by a man (although she describes him as a creature) at Twilight.
It’s told in rhyming poetry, although it’s kind of like a soft rap, that never stops the naturalism of the performance and often lifts it to glorious heights.
Appropriately in Edinburgh it almost feels like a riff on Jekyll and Hyde as our heroine Ruva changes role from victim (ignored by the police when she reports her uncomfortable experience) to victor as she assumes the persona of a lion-like ‘Beast’ and exacts revenge on the Creature. clearly a repeat offender in his stalking of young women.
It feels mythological, it’s somewhat fantastical but most importantly it’s riveting and Chivasa is a highly accomplished actor. Sadly only half full, despite its Fringe First, I’d highly recommend it.
The fourth event of the day truly was an EVENT.
Jesse Armstrong was in town for the TV Festival, but somehow the Portobello Bookshop had persuaded him to come to Port Town Hall to talk to 1,000 of us and sign his newly published scripts to Succession Season 4. To say he was entrancing was an understatement. The hour’s talk zipped by in an instant. My female companions were salivating.
Thank you Jesse. Like an audience with the Pope (as I told him while he signed my book).
And finally Alvin Ailey Programme 1. A step up from Programme 2 with Revelations again and pieces by Twyla Tharp (A jazzy Roy’s Joys) and another by Kyle Abraham (a funky hip hoppy Are You in Your Feelings?). Both were considerably better than the support pieces to Revelations the night before and rounded off an extraordinary day of culture.
Andrew Greig is a poet, novelist, philosopher and climber. (He might even consider himself a golfer.)
After a near death experience he resumes the childhood sport that protected him from his abject misery at Dollar Academy.
Golf.
He’s clearly a decent golfer, but rusty. In this philosophical musing on his life and the merits of golf, whether competitive or solo, he visits 18 golf courses (nearly all in Scotland) from the bizarre and almost never played in the likes of Gigha, North Ronaldsay and Iona, via the better known but still relatively obscure Shiskine on Arran (personally my favourite golf course), to better know and championship courses like North Berwick, Nairn, Forres and Royal Dornach.
It’s not a sporting handbook and it’s not a philosophy on life. I mean it is a bit of both. But, taken in totality, it’s actually an inspiring self help manual on how to value life, love and, yes, sport so that golf can be something to inspire and fulfil your life rather than, like I do, break clubs in frustration.
I may learn from it. I hope so.
It’s an interesting read for anyone who harbours any sort of interest in this noble game.
It’s the second time I’ve seen Israeli dance company L-E-V, this time performing Chapter 3: The Brutal Journey Of The Heart at the Festival Theatre in the Official Festival.
The last time I saw L-E-V was in 2018 and I raved about them then. (Even though, like tonight, there was a Palestinian demo outside the theatre, screeching that our tickets were covered in Palestinian blood.)
I’m raving about them even more now. And GET THIS you can see them tomorrow night, and I will probably go again, availing myself of the fabulous Tenner On The Day deal that the Festival provides.
The set is a big black box, no decor, and only four lights are used in the entire show but to outstanding effect.
The absorbing and beautiful techno music, by Ori Lichtic, keeps up a relentless 160bpm beat for 50 minutes with no breaks as the piece is performed “straight through”, as it was the last time I saw L-E-V .
I know nothing of the dance peice’s meaning but it’s ecstatic.
The seven dancers (4M,4F) are dressed in tattooed flesh coloured body suits (from Maria Grazia Chiuri, the Creative Director of Christian Dior Couture) and their make up looks as if they have been bruised. The performance largely consists of micro movements, tics and robotic movement, largely as a unit as they crawl across the vast Festival Theatre stage like a giant crustacean. Rarely is there physical contact between the dancers. It’s exquisitely realised, completely mesmeric and all aspects of the company’s component parts are rendered completely as one.
This description of the piece by Sharon Eyal sheds not a morsel of insight into what it’s about, but maybe you will understand it.
Nonetheless, it’s extraordinary and the 50 minutes vanish in the blink of an eye. Although there’s no grandstanding going on by the end we could see rivers of sweat pouring off the troupe as it’s minimalist attention to detail and rigour took its toll.
I’ve seen magnificent dance at the Edinburgh International Festival and this certainly cements L-E-V’s position at the top of the hierarchy. Magnificent. 5 Stars.
Interesting to note that L-E-V’s founder, Sharon Eyal, who is now based in France (Not Isreal) has been commissioned 7 times by my all time favourite Dance company (NDT) to create works for them, so her status amongst the world’s greats is unquestionable.
My chosen image is of Martin Bennet, because he inspired today’s Five star concert.
The day started with The Life and Times of Michael K an adaptation of JM Coetzee’s Booker Prize winning novel. The Baxter Theatre Group is better known for the spectacular puppetry of Warhorse and although this is a better tale than the flimsy horsey pish it’s less impressive puppetry-wise. In fact the puppetry is a wee bit half pish.
It’s a bit of a voyage of misery, but is charming and extremely well staged with great acting and an impressive set. Definitely not a life changer, but others in the audience liked it more than I did resulting in a standing ovation. I wasn’t that into it before I went. I wasn’t that much into it after.
Next up, a spectacular free concert at the Ross Bandstand by the Grit Orchestra, Scotland’s national youth brass band and pipe band, accompanied by the Royal Conservatoire’s Soprano and alto singers with a late finale featuring Nicola Benedetti. The stage was epic, with not an inch of space to spare.
The opening few bars set the scene for an afternoon of majesty, fluctuating between searingly hot sun to pishing it down rain. Never mind, the music overcame it all.
The programme featured the late lamented Martyn Bennet’s songbook and was epic in scale, imagination and emotion.
Tears choked back by both me and Jeana. Outstanding.
Two more music shows followed.
Firstly Choir!Choir! Choir! Which is essentially a musical rehearsal led by two Torontonians who teach the audience a multi-part song each night. On our visit it was the songbook of George Harrison with A Long And Winding Road being the complex centrepiece at Udderbelly. It’s tremendous, uplifting fun.
Finally the incomparable Baby Wants Candy, a kind of low rent version of Showstoppers, but no less wonderful. Debate raged about which is better. Showstoppers in its swanky arena or Baby in its smaller scale, but no smaller ambition hothouse. For audience approval Baby wins every time, tonight has a particularly raucous audience as they performed Sweeney Toes the Demon Masseuse of Feet Street. This led to much wonderment in terms of Sweeney Music but also an absurd plot that we all loved. Everyone should see this five star company
So two fives a four and a slightly grudging three.
A quite incredible day at the Fringe today. I spend months planning, choosing, scheduling and getting anticipatory. It can , of course, go horribly wrong but not today.
I opened at Roundabout at Summerhall with Daniel Kitson, a Work in Progress show. For years I’ve wanted to see him but never been organised. Of course, as per usual, his entire run is already sold out. This show is entirely Meta because it’s a show about writing a show, the wormholes back to his previous performances are endless, but the construct is interesting (a little like Every Brilliant Thing that also played at Roundabout and is available on Netflix) in that he has written a script and printed 125 copies of it (he will renew it as the Fringe goes on – it’s Work In Progress you see).
The scripts are individually numbered as “parts” and the audience play those parts. One of them is the show’s antagonist, Keith, and has about 200 lines, the rest have merely one, two three , maybe five. Of course I happened to be Keith and revelled in the spotlight. At the end I was applauded roundly and Daniel proclaimed me “fucking brilliant”. It was an honour.
It’s a great show, very, very funny.
Next up, a contender for show of the Festival already and a slam dunk 5 stars. Have you seen Netflix’s Criminal? It’s a bit like that. In Summerhall’s Old Lab it’s called An Interrogation written by Jamie Armitage (of Six fame) and starring Jamie Ballard and Bethan Cullinane, both West End luminaries, their performances are dazzling and they script scintillating. I shall tell you no more other than to see it. It must surely win a Fringe First. I was transfixed from the opening seconds. Truly great theatre. Not just Fringe Theatre. John MacNeill has a smaller, but no less important role and he is fantastic too. Simply breathtaking. I shall go again.
My third choice was the weird and, in my view, wonderful Party Ghosts at Assembly Checkpoint. It’s frankly mad. A physical theatre, acrobatics, clowning, slapstick, juggling and visual effect triumph. Laugh out loud funny antics about ghosts and death with a banging soundtrack and brilliant references to The Shining and Psycho, not to mention Adele. It was the winner of Overall Best Circus and Physical Theatre, Adelaide Fringe 2023. I loved it but Jeana and Lesley were a bit less sold on it.
Next we had the frankly jaw dropping Lucy And Friends by Lucy McCormick. Her highly sexualised and deliberately provocative comedy sketch theatre has shocked and delighted audiences for years and this, like Kitson a first for me, did not disappoint. It comes, rightly, with an 18+ certificate but it is a full frontal barrage of humour, mental health mayhem, and actual mayhem. It’s difficult to describe in too much detail but there were things going on with hairbrushes, vibrators and microphones that the Women’s Institute would have CONSIDERABLE problems with. There’s angle grinding, and just plain grinding to celebrate. It’s hilarious in parts and deeply disturbing in others. I thought it was a five star piece of experimental theatre and performance art that had us talking for ages afterwards. Not for the faint hearted or the prudish. But if you’re woman enough go for it. Extraordinary (and I use the word advisedly).
Last up was the huge, black, gay, perspiring American singer and comedian Larry Owens (known in the USA for A Strange Loop). He performed a mix of comedy and music. Man can this man sing. And he has comedy chops too, but quite American so I missed some of the nuance of his routine. That said, very good.
For me, two 5 stars, two fours and a three. you can work it out from the above.
So excited for the Fringe to start and I was not disappointed.
A simply superb start.
Let The Bodies Pile by Henry Naylor at Gilded Balloon an (almost) one woman show that takes us on a partly comedy but truly dark journey from Harold Shipman to the care home deaths of Covid, via Myra Hindlay, and some pretty earthy sexual fantasies about Matt Hancock. Disturbing but funny. A cracking script and solid performances.
Next up comedy. Freya Parker at Pleasance. One half of Lazy Susan. A slightly meta, strangely amusing stand up show about being cheeky. Excellent use of the C Bomb (once) in an amusing autobiographical run through of Freya’s life. Very enjoyable.
The best was last. Mythos Ragnarock is an eight hander Norse Mythological story centred on pro wrestling with more oohs and Ahhhs than a 70’s wife swapping party. Extremely funny all action romp, set to a very loud Scandi folk and death metal soundtrack. Absolutely nailed on five star mayhem. An absolute must see. So see it at Assembly Roxy. Standing ovation material.
When the Oscars come round I don’t think it will be Cillian Murphy that gets his shoulder tapped I think it could be Emily Blunt and Robert Downie Jr who plays Oppenheimer’s would be nemesis, Lewis Strauss. Don’t get me wrong, Murphy is good, just not truly great.
And that about sums up this overlong movie, good just not truly great.
The plot wriggles and writhes through timelines in such a way as to satisfy Nolan’s trademark need for complexity and I have to confess to being confused for much of its three hours.
Also, if I was watching this as a Japanese viewer I’d be gritting my teeth at the overall celebration of the outcome of Oppenheimer’s technical success. It treads a fine line between glorification and condemnation of the A Bomb that was dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima killing over 200,000 Japanese civilians.
And while Nolan coaxes a degree of remorse out of his central character I wasn’t 100% convinced that he really did regret his actions. Sure he denounces them, to an extent, but he didn’t go into this in wide eyed innocence, Oppenheimer absolutely knew his objective. The ethics are pretty muddled, like a lot of the plot in my view.
Ach, it’s a hard one to deconstruct. I’m a little surprised at the ratings this movie is attracting because it’s a long hard slog with a LOT of dialogue and not a great deal of action.
Perhaps the best scenes are the test sequences in the desert, the senatorial election drama at the end and the creepy but well handled rabble rousing reception Oppenheimer receives from his team on the news that Hiroshima has been obliterated. At least in this scene Nolan convinces us that it’s not a celebration of the bombing, but an indictment.
Oppenheimer’s vilification as a possible Communist is a central theme of the movie and is key to Strauss’s objections and the 1954 kangaroo court FBI security clearance meeting which anchors the plot. There seems little evidence that he was a Commie, but the McCarthy regime at that time seemed to put little store in hard evidence and he clearly fared badly in this terrible stitch up.
Perhaps my favourite moment in the movie is the look of schadenfreude on the face of Strauss’s advisor towards the end of the movie.
It’s a delicious moment in a banquet that sadly has more plain fare than delicacies.
I watched this documentary at the Omni Centre in Edinburgh 50 years to the day that David Bowie retired Ziggy at The Hammersmith Odeon at the last gig of his Aladdin Sane tour.
It’s a profoundly moving experience in the cinema because this is maybe the greatest ever pop star at the very top of his game, on show with one of the greatest ever guitarists, Mick Ronson , on fire with his orgasm face in full flow throughout.
Not only is it a great gig (filmed almost in full) but it’s also a great documentary because we get behind the scenes footage, mostly with Suzanne Fussey, Ronson’s wife , applying Bowies make up and adjusting his weirdly unwonderful costumes. And a very very brief cameo from Ringo Star.
The crowd footage is particularly naïve, (in a good and endlessly interesting way). Shot in the natural light of the auditorium it veers from entirely revealing to shadowy mystery and this only adds to the overall mystique.
Of course the gig is FULL of bangers from Hunky Dory, Ziggy (naturally) Aladdin Sane and The Man Who Ruled The World, plus a bit of Space Oddity (notably Space Oddity itself).
There’s a wee spot of Lindsay Kemp madness as Bowie mimes his way out of a box. Like a prick. But that doesn’t distract too much.
The man himself is at his peak. He’s simply beautiful and there are no signs of the substance abuse that he indulged in heavily at the time. Instead we get a vocal performance of outrageous perfection and that’s what makes this a religious experience.
Try to see it in the cinema or at the very least at 100% volume on your TV when it comes to Netflix.
Breaking Bad has its advocates, The Sopranos, The Wire, Friends, The Simpsons and West Wing.
All are contenders and, like Succession, all are American.
Of course we have Emmerdale and The Dick Emery Show to fight our corner but it’s clear that America rules the waves when it comes to TV greatness.
Having come to a satisfactory and clean cut ending on Monday (they “stuck the landing”) Jesse Armstrong’s outrageous creation can now take its place in this Pantheon of greatness.
Everything about Succession, all 40 hours of it, is close to perfection. At its heart it’s a sitcom Shakespearean tragedy with so many subplots to keep the drama purring along that there’s never any down time.
Let’s consider the cast:
It’s led by the childhood-abused rugged self made Scotsman from Dundee, Logan Roy, who nearly died on the Atlantic crossing. He’s played by Brian Cox in a career defining role. He’s evil incarnate and yet there’s something about him that magnetises viewers. Allegedly NOT Rupert Murdoch, instead he’s an amalgam of Murdoch and Maxwell with maybe a few despots thrown in for good measure. Used sparingly throughout, every moment of on screen time with Cox is gold.
Kendall Roy, the eldest son of Logan’s second marriage to a highfalutin’ English damsel called Caroline (a grotesque caricature of English privilege and monstrous parenting skills), and killer of a waiter in the early episodes – he carries this guilt with him. He may be the natural successor, but Logan mercilessly plays with his lack of confidence and makes him a nervous wreck. Mark Strong allegedly played this character as method and never misses a beat.
Roman Roy, The crown prince jester, also sexually abused as a child hence the reason he has this outrageous older woman fetish and desire for C Suite big noise Gerri Kelman who he fires/unfires on a whim. It’s a mess but Roman , like the devil, has all the best lines. A recent favourite being when his sister declares herself pregnant he blurts “Am I the father?”. Keiran Culkin is a God, to be able to play that part with such aplomb, in my view.
Shiv Roy played by the latterly pregnant (in real life AND on screen) Australian actress Sarah Snook has an outwardly pleasant demeanour but is, in fact, a total horror and arguably even more ambitious than her two horrendous brother. She will stop at no point to overcome their male entitlement and her rocky marriage to Tom Wambsgams is both a potential ticket to glory and a millstone around her neck. Her micro acting skills are off the scale.
Tom Wambsgans is married to Shiv. He’s a nervous wreck, a creep, a bully and implicated in a scandal that killed a bunch of people on a cruise liner owned by The Roys. He is the eager beaver that has only one outlet for his frustration, the weasel like wannabe Cousin Greg. Together they are “the disgusting brothers’ and play a beautiful pantomime sideshow act that never fails to entertain.
Cousin Greg is a loser and an idiot (although apparently the show’s break out sex symbol). He’s like a corporate Bambi, but underneath that gormless facade he’s actually quite smart and scheming. As the show comes to an end Cousin Greg is given his season in the sun.
Conor Roy, the eldest son and wannabe US President (FFS) is from an earlier marriage and is not connected to the business at all. He’s the butt of many jokes and is the least hateful family member. Nevertheless he is a dufus and deserves no place in civilised company. He has a majestically hideous young trophy bride, Willa, played coldly by Justine Lupe.
The Greek chorus, but all key players in their own right, and all complicit in Logan’s disgusting greed and ambition, is the “C-Suite” of Frank (the Chair), Gerri (the CEO), Karolina (PR/Comms) Hugo (also comms), and Karl (FD) – they’re great alone or together.
Then there’s takeover targets like Stewie and Mattson (one of the stand out characters of series 3/4 played by Alexander Skarsgaad – a genuine movie star).
Put all these A listers together, with the great show runner in Jesse Armstrong, and a writer’s room (many British writers as it happens) to die for, and you end up with a TV programme that is funnier than anything else on TV and more dramatic than any other show on TV. It’s a unique combination and, for me at least, the greatest TV show of all time.
The centrepiece of this extraordinary collection of short stories is called, simply, Bowls. It’s on an epic scale (for McQueer), stretching to nearly 40 pages and telling a class-driven story of Big Angie “a horrible overgrown ned” (middle aged and dressed in trackies and Rangers tops). Big Angie is a class bowler and an even classer Bingo player. The trouble is she hates everyone and everyone hates her. That is, until she strikes up an unlikely companionship with the wife of her male nemesis at the bowling club. This relationship having been established, McQueer can take this story wherever he likes, as he usually does.
Two belter lines that sum McQueer up drop in this tale and had me both laughing out loud on the bus but also quoting them in the office.
“Aw fuckin cheer up. We’re gawn tae Blackpool, no Auschwitz.”
“Look pal, if ah wanted tae hear an arsehole talk” looking the boy up an down “Ah wid’ve farted.”
His cast of characters in the book include ne’erdowells, rogues, daft laddies and talking budgies.
He brings a distinct lack of logic to his tales and, yet, they all make sense.
Some of them are even quasi science fiction.
I’m reminded often of James Robertson’s recurring Jack character in 365 Stories, a parody of daft Jack in Jack and the beanstalk. Many of McQueer’s characters are just as daft, but that lends them an air of charm.
There’s a story about people’s knees bending backwards, not forwards, and the hilarious havoc that ensues.
There’s a strange shark-like monster called Ethan (that talks – of course it talks) and befriends a rigger.
And it’s all written in hilarious Glasgow dialect – there’s nothing new about that having been put to great effect recently by Ely Percy in Duck Feet, and James Kelman has made a career out of it. But neither express themselves anywhere near as joyously funnily as this, and neither even approach the curse threshold, or maybe even 10% of it, that McQueer does. I love the way he portmanteaus anycunt on a regular basis to capture the genuine street rhetoric of Glasgow.
All in folks, this six year old collection from 404 Ink (Bravo) is a belter.
For a start there’s the fact that Brandon Cronenberg is falling in his illustrious father’s footsteps as a body horror director of considerable note.
Then there’s the fact that it stars Mia Goth. I’ve only recently discovered her but I want to see her back catalogue. She was incredible in X and she is a stunning screen presence in this.
As horror’s leading lady she is approaching modern day Karlofian proportions. If you don’t know her and you have an appetite for non-mainstream interesting performers, she’s the one for you.
Alexander Sarsgard is fantastic too, as the put upon, abused, confused writer who’s one terrible novel is the hook by which Goth’s character reels him into a cauldron of horror that becomes more and more Kafkaesque as each reel unwinds.
The movie’s a druggy, hippy blast. A sort of R rated The White Lotus. Although even the White Lotus doesn’t pull its punches.
In Infinity Pool consider no punches pulled. It’s full on and brave. Really brave.
It’s also folk horror so sits alongside Midsommer and The Wicker Man. Like them? You’ll love this.
A bit long, I’ll admit.
My other reference point in this, and a good one I think, is Austrian Director, Michael Haneke’s, Funny Games. An unsettling horror that oozes class.
That’s what this is and I highly recommend it.
Ignore the 1/10ers who don’t know what they are talking about.
A quickfire hour of searingly satirical, company-devised theatre has a lot to make you laugh in it, but also a lot to admire in the excellent script, direction by Jess Haygarth and a gender-blind cast of four: each of equally engaging presence.
There’s our overly familiar productivity manager, Shelley, who runs the show, and the other three cast members’ lives, as the recruiter of zero hours contract staff: a nurse, a care worker and a fast food junior.
Each is mired in a relentless monotony of impossible-to-hit targets, incessant work with no room to breath, or struggling with childcare and putting their kids’ lives at risk.
This Kafkaesque nightmare is life in modern Britain that disproportionately impacts the young and the female, and although the show is mostly humorous the blackness of the humour reminds us that this kind of life is shit, degrading, exhausting and ultimately dangerous.
Set against a backdrop of a countdown clock, every second of this taught production is there for a reason. Music and sound effects are used to superb effect to create a sense of urgency that counters the mundanity of these (mostly) young people’s lives.
The message is clear. Zero Hour contractors are mere fodder for the machinery of Britain’s industries, although the play either fails to or decides not to, land a blow on the Brexiteers who contributed to this mess by running those that fuel this carnage out of town.
It chooses instead to focus on Britain’s unfortunates who have to use this form of economic barbarism to put food on the table.
The four performers really are a joy to behold and the show is a rare ‘out of August’ treat at Summerhall (where we saw it, although it’s on tour) to bring back happy memories of The Fringe’s Summerhallery theatrical majesty.
I saw two 4/5 star shows in Summerhall’s Red Lecture Theatre, where this is performed, last year. “I hate it Here” would not have been out of place in such rarified company.
This is not of general interest I would have to say.
It’s long, rambling, full of obscure B movie, C Movie and D movie references.
It’s about exploitation, blaxploitation and trivia that won’t make you look any cooler in your local bar if you could even remember it.
It’s a reference book with little or no real reason for existing.
A very, very large % of the population – about 99.83 I’d say – would consider this utterly self indulgent wank.
And they’d be right.
Even 88.9% of Tarantino fans will hate this.
100% of the moral majority would bristle at it.
It’s full of long lists of actors, directors and critics I just don’t give a damn about.
But.
I’m glad I read it.
When he’s not listicalling he can be thrilling with his put downs.
Most of the films he chooses to “review” (or speculate upon) he derides, yet they are his favourite films. ( Taxi Driver, Paradise Alley, The Funhouse, Bullit, The Getaway).
He has a fucking OBSESSION about The Searchers and its influence on nearly every movie in this textbook.
It’s a thing of great paradoxes. The films he loves he slates quite often.
What’s even more amazing about it is that my son bought it for me. Tom is emerging from a 28 year cocoon of non-reading to alight upon shit like this.
He liked it. Sort of. I liked it. Sort of.
You know what? It’s a male-bonding, sonofabitch, kinda wanky motherfuckery that you might just like.
Three characters slug it out for superiority in the dark storytelling stakes.
A 12 year girl, Nelly, with an unusual line in Queen’s English.
Her 15 year old worldly wise genius sister, Marnie, who cannot hope to ever conform and is shagging a drug dealing ice cream van man in the back of his vehicle.
And an outed, ageing, gay (‘paedo’) recovering from the death of his long time lover.
The girls’ parents are both dead and rotting in the garden, where they buried them on Christmas Eve. They’re sort of living with the ‘paedo’ who has taken them into his care and turns out to be a lovely bloke.
The social services, an alcoholic, psychotic grandfather and a ripped-off drug dealer who the girls’ dad has £70k of cash from, are all closing in on them.
And it’s all set in a poor part of Glasgow against the backdrop of a series of amusing secondary characters; boyfriends, school friends, dogs and teachers.
It’s a black and hilarious comic conceit, spitting its venom in tiny short chapters each helmed by the girls and the old man, Lennie, in equal turns.
I laughed out loud a lot at this filmic tale, and although it has many flaws its originality and devil may care attitude to convention make me recommend it.
This promised to be a winning combination. Jessie Buckley written and directed by Alex Garland with music by Geoff Barrow (Portishead).
It is.
It’s full on bonkers horror movie, folk horror I’d say where Wicker Man meets Friday the 13th, meets The Thing.
Bonkers really is the word.
Harper (Jessie Buckley) has retreated to a country manor to regroup after a nasty break up with her husband, very nasty it turns out, and meets the Fast Show-esque posho, red-trouser wearing owner of the manor, Geoffrey (Rory Kinnear), for a tour of the building before he departs. Played for laughs by Kinnear we start to relax until Harper’s exploration of the local area throw up the shades of Wicker Man local population (all played by Kinnear) that indeed would not be out of place in The Fast Show but maybe more at home in one of the more eccentric Inside Number 9’s.
Anyway, things escalate, Friday the 13th Kicks in for 15 minutes or so before the extraordinary finale in which men beget men.
Maybe Garland is saying that all men are the same (a strongly feminist outlook from a man) and he’s not referring to their better qualities by the way.
Either way, Buckley again shows her acting chops off well in what is ultimately a throwaway chapter in her wonderful, multifaceted career. She’s great and so is Kinnear.
As I said at the start it’s bonkers, but gloriously so.
Men eh? You can’t live with ’em, you can’t live with ’em.
gibberish 