Words can't express everything a person feels.
My dad is moving to Australia. This morning I packed up my old room, found a box of primary school trinkets, report cards and swimming certificates, photographs, sketches, diaries, clippings and scrapbooks. There was nothing inherently sad about it. I cried anyway. There was an old camera that's been sitting in the cupboard for almost as long as I’ve been alive, a roll of film inside that won't ever get developed.
Tomorow is…
Sometimes, she will look like a man to you.
Poetically batshit and unabashedly dissonant. I hope I never understand it. I hope, if I watch it again, that I do not watch it but rather let it wash over me: I hope I drown with it. I hope that every chandelier I stand under falls, every news report I watch describes a stranger's foreskin and every party I go to ends with me washing the dishes. I hope that my…
If we want things to remain the same, everything must change.
Just a masterful film. Slowly devlops into one long epilogue, an unravelling of epic proportions, but with a heart that remains so still and so simple throughout. Lancaster's physicality engulfs the frame, his worldview crumbling around him: a man not only being left in the past but condemning himself to it. Art & status, paintings & ballrooms, landscapes & leopards. Want to see on a big screen, & soon.
Really impressive to invoke genuine self-reflection in only 10 minutes. I love how the narrative's focalisation creates a sort of accusatory disconnect with the film's title. Yes, one man spoke up, but the rest of us stayed silent.
This is our last dance.
When I was eleven, my parents took me and my sister on a family holiday to a resort much like Calum & Sophie's. We went to the quiz nights & the salsa sessions, learnt to dive in the pool nobody else knew about, eyed up everyone with the all-inclusive wristbands and laughed together on the sand as the sun slowly passed under the horizon.
When we left, we took all of our memories home with us, bite-sized…
