Wah Wah Land

Sometime before Christmas last year, publicity posters of Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling locked in dance embrace started following me wherever I went. The tube, the train, escalators, online media. Wherever I was, so was this poster:

The Stalker Poster

You could be blind and still be able to see from all the stars and accolades squashed together in said poster that the film was well received. Still, the public's appetite can differ from that of film critics and attendees of Cannes, Sundance and other chi chi film festivals. You can shove as many stars as you like on a poster but will it translate into box office?  Undeniable though was the buzz surrounding  La La Land, reaching crescendo height at the recent Golden Globes where it swept the floor with all other films nominated.

I went to see the film today with a sense of unease due to my sky high expectations. I grew up watching old MGM musicals and I rate Gene Kelly as one of my favourite dancers, ever. I choreograph ensemble dance sequences in my head on the way to work with my face squashed against someone's armpit on the Tube. This is what I see every night before I go to sleep as it hangs in my bedroom:

Gene Kelly & Vera Ellen in Words & Music

Before I saw the film, I read an interview with director Damian Chazelle where he discussed his intent to make a musical for people who don't like musicals. The aim was to draw from the canon of musicals from the golden age of Hollywood and yet make the film modern and fresh.

I was sceptical. Musicals aren't really a genre in film anymore. Chicago, Mamma Mia. Sweeney Todd. What else from the last ten years?  Gone are the days where actors could also sing and dance, doing all three things well at the same time. Doing a musical is tough as it is. How the hell was he going to do a new type of musical to win over a non-musical accustomed audience?

I went to an afternoon screening filled with old aged pensioners holding glasses of wine and walking sticks. Usually afternoon screenings are sparse but the cinema was almost full. A guy came in and sat next to me. Immediately he took possession of the arm rest between us.

I saw red. Stubbornly I wedged my arm back onto said armrest so that our elbows were both perched together like angular roosting pigeons. The previews came and went.  The lights dimmed. The film started.

My arm did not move from that armrest.

Vibrant technicolor hues flooded onscreen where tanned people started dancing on top of their cars on a gridlocked highway. All the cars looked cool, not like the ugly monochrome plastic bubbles they make now. The sky on film was vivid blue. I could almost see the shimmer in the air emanating from the heat of hot LA summer's day. I took it casually in whilst having this internal monologue:

I was here first Mister. Why makes you think you have the right to hog the armrest? Because you're a man? Because you're tall? Because you're tall man?  It's so annoying when men do this. Do women do it? No, usually men. Like in swimming pool lanes. Men* are arseholes when swimming in pool lanes. Does testosterone multiply when you're submerged in water. Do you feel my elbow sticking into you? 

Oblivious, the guy seemed absorbed in the film and remained that way for 2.5 hours. He didn't move. And neither did his elbow.

By this time, my own elbow was in pain from being stuck in an awkward position. I decided to distract myself by paying attention to the film. It certainly was gorgeous to look at. The cerulean sky changing to an effervescent mauve draped over the twinkly lights of Hollywood.  Emma Stone's incandescent face and googly eyes drawing you in. The ever present music which was the third character in the film, so much was the mood of this film driven by music. The dancing was a bit blah but I didn't care. The film had a tangible rhythm which made up for it.  The camera techniques employed were reminiscent of old Hollywood with fish eye lens zoom in and out. Shots were framed like Edward Hopper paintings such as:

La La Land film still

La La Land film still

La La Land film still

Early Sunday Morning by Edward Hopper

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper

Quietly and with great charm, the film won me over. I completely forgot about my now frozen elbow and fell headlong into La La Land. An old fashioned story, some might say cliche, of girl-meets-boy, boy-meets-girl, with stars in their eyes, hoping to both make their mark in Hollywood. It is a cliche but who cares. Grounded by two very real and nuanced actors, both fizzing with onscreen chemistry, Damian Chazelle has made a tender, romantic and hopeful film which will charm the pants off you. And if it doesn't, well, there are plenty of other films for you to watch that would not employ those adjectives.

I don't cry often during films but something in La La Land set off  the waterworks, resulting in Wah Wah Land.  After an annus horribilis where the UK voted for fracture instead of unity and where a giant orange wart was voted President of the US of A, it was a tonic to watch something uncomplicated and lovely.

By the end of the film, I wanted to give the guy next to me a hug. I couldn't move my arm, but that's an aside.

That my friends, is the power of art.


And here's to the fools, 

who dream 

Crazy, as they may seem 

Here's to the hearts that break 

Here's to the mess we make

-Audition, La La Land soundtrack

* My intention is not to tar all men with the same brush. I have just observed that after many years in swimming pool lanes that men tend to be much more aggressive in claiming space than women.

Fail Again. Fail Better

So said Samuel Beckett.

I used to have this quote on a greeting card which I pinned up near my desk at home.

It served as a reminder that, as the 1980's philosopher Billy Ocean sang,

When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Oooh Oooh 

Since I escaped from Hell, I mean, left my last job, I have been extremely picky in job hunting. Two or three days a week in the film or literary sector. Nothing with too much responsibility but also with enough stimulation to prevent brain rot. Admittedly there are not many jobs out there which fit my criteria so applications have not exactly been pouring forth from me.

Since June I've had three interviews. The first one was for an arts charity based in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. The charity's aim is to develop a programme of art events for hospital patients to assist in their recovery. The timing of my interview was ironic. I myself had been in hospital the day prior for a minor procedure involving general anaesthetic. In hindsight I probably should have said No to the interview but as they say, when opportunity knocks....

No surprises that I did not get that job. I think I was speaking English during the interview but your guess is as good as mine.

Following that there were no interesting jobs on the horizon. I started temping to keep one foot wedged in the doorway of work.

Then a deluge (actually, there were two) of part-time film jobs with medium-level responsibility flooded my inbox. I duly answered the same ten boring questions that all employers seem to ask on any job application form. A few weeks later I was asked to interview for jobs at the BFI and IntoFilm.

Well...

What is there to say about the BFI. If you live in the UK and know even a little about film, you will know the BFI. Many years ago, a much younger version of myself applied for a job with them and was rejected. Surely lightning couldn't strike twice.

IntoFilm is a film charity that does excellent working promoting access to and engagement with film right around the UK for youth aged 5-19.

Man, I sweated over the interview preparations.  I knew there would be at least one film question. I asked Facebook friend's to tell me what their favourite British films were. I reread all the film blogs I have written. I looked over my old programming material from my days working at the FTI.  Since I started rearing a child my film consumption has diminished considerably. Gone are the days when I would see up to four films a week in the cinema. Nowadays I get to the cinema maybe once a fortnight.  Which is not bad for the average person but would it be enough for the BFI cineastes'?

It wasn't.

Yesterday the BFI  emailed to say that I did not get the job. It was a kick to the guts as those doors to the BFI have been slammed twice in my face now. Then about ten minutes after that cheerful news came the rejection email from IntoFilm.

Aiiyaiyaiyaiyai!

Did I perform badly in both interviews? Was I over qualified? Am I too old for the entry level positions I am applying for? Or were the interviews just a performative time wasting process for all. Was someone already lined up for the role?

Or am I just a sore loser?

On request, the BFI gave me interview feedback. They said I was a strong candidate amongst ten strong candidates. Supposedly I was one of the strongest candidate's but someone stronger got the role. The feedback made me feel like I had lost an arm wrestle with an octopus.

Failure is a very different thing at 42 than at 22. In your twenties the horizon seems endless; possibilities infinite. If you fail at 22, you wait for the next opportunity you assume is coming. At 42, failure fucking sucks. Time and energy is not on your side. You hope you are still alive when the next opportunity comes; if it comes at all. At 42, you realise not everything works out the way you thought it would.

Let me in you fuckers!

Mr Beckett urges greater failure. Greater effort. No matter the failure, Just work towards the next one. Eventually you will get there he implies.

Would you trust this man's advice?

Is there sense to bashing one's head against a brick wall a la Beckett style? In this case the impenetrable doors of the BFI?

We'll see. Watch this space.

Captain Fantastic

Viggo, aaah Veeeeeego.

Loved him in Eastern Promises. Loved him in A History of Violence. Loved him in The Road. The Two Faces of January. Good. The list goes on.  

And yes, loved him in LOTR. Who knew someone called Aragorn could be sexy?

For weeks leading up to its premiere, I saw posters for Viggo's new flick Captain Fantastic everywhere. So often did I see this poster that I started to wonder if I was hallucinating.

The Poster

Admittedly there are worse things in life to see than a shaggy Viggo kitted out in a retro red suit.  Dead rats. Nigel Farage's face. An empty Cadbury's chocolate wrapper.

The mass advertising campaign worked a treat for as soon as the film came out in my local cinema, I was bunkered down, ready to spend the afternoon with Veegs and his fake film children. I had read that the film centred around the complexities of a father trying to raise his brood of children off-grid; a return to nature existence combined with Chomsky-esqe home schooling. 

I've always been fascinated by people who choose to carve out a lifestyle different to the 'mainstream' and the challenges they face. Having known several families doing this very thing, I was curious to see how the film would depict this lifestyle and what message it would impart. And the fact that Viggo was in it certainly didn't hurt. Or am I just repeating myself?

The tone of the film was different to what I had expected. From the poster design, I had anticipated a Wes Anderson-type film with quirks and curious characters. Instead I found Captain Fantastic much more meditative and reflective. The first half was essentially a Captain Von Trapp militaristic fantasy of how to raise children in the forest naked but with no singing nun. But for all the liberal leanings of Ben Cash (Veeg's character), his approach was essentially that of a despot or fascist; the very paradigm that he was rallying against.

Wes Anderson movie poster. Similar right?

His character reminded me of certain people I have met in the past. In particular one guy called Gympie who rejected all mainstream leanings. He lived and travelled around the country on his 'Magic Bus' with his consort of female partners and various children. Shrouding his fascism under the guise of mysticism and anti consumerism, I watched him manipulate situations for his own gain. He was a Class A prat and a study in self deception.

For me the film came into its own when Cash's' tightly controlled world crashes into mainstream reality when his children realise there is more to the world than Russian literature and five am yoga drills. Mortensen's depiction of a good man grappling with the contradictions in his belief system alone, is worth seeing the film for. As he struggles with the cracks in his idealism against his love for his kids; the film shows that the lives we lead, no matter what ideas they are founded upon; are ever changing and constantly complex.

Aaaah Viggo, you did it again.

Movie-a-Go-Go!

Somewhere along the line in my pregnancy I read that you should go and see as many movies as possible before the baby comes. That those quiet soujourns in a darkened cinema would become a distant memory for some years to come.

Being a movie junkie at heart, I didn't need any further convincing and have spent many a blissful afternoon since in celluloid escapism.

Some of the flicks that I have seen include Black Swan, The Social Network, The Kings Speech, Morning Glory, Blue Valentine, Little Fockers and Another Year. Of the lot, The Social Network won it hands down for me. I love geeks. I always thought they would inherit the earth.

Maybe all this movie watching will make me one of these?

Before Dragon arrives, I'd also like to squeeze in Biutiful, Barney's Version, How Do You Know, Somewhere, True Grit, Rabbit Hole and Fair Game.

I'm topping up for the year to come. Can you blame me?

The Kids Are All Right...but What About the Parents?

I have a favourite person that I love to go to the movies with. She never talks to me during an important part of the film. She never asks me afterwards, What did you think? I never have to worry if she is hating the film and wants to leave. We are in perfect sync, always.

That person, is me.

When you visit the cinema on your own you are anonymous in the dark amongst a crowd of strangers; all entranced (or not as the case may be) by the flickering screen. It's not the same when you have someone you know sitting next to you. How can you escape and give yourself up to the movie when the person next to you knows your real name and perhaps what you had for lunch that day? I'm also one of those people that always worrys if the other person is enjoying themselves. That's why for me, cinema is a dish best sampled solo.

Rudimentary cliched cinema picture

Seeking a few hours escape amidst a very stressful week, I ducked in to see The Kids Are All Right recently. The film had been on my radar for several months. All the reviews I'd read had fallen over themselves in gushing praise. This coupled with the fact that it stars two of my favourite actors, Julianne Moore and Annette Bening was reason enough for me to sit back and relax in anticipation of the story ahead.

I emerged blinking into the daylight several hours later. Quite frankly I was relieved to not have to spend anymore time with the film, and by that I chiefly mean the two main female characters who I found annoying.  It's beyond my comprehension why the film has garnered the reviews it has. Is it because it would be seen as non PC to say that a film about a lesbian couple has very unsympathetic characters; one who exerts her control freakery through her family life while the other takes out her angst on whoever comes across her path through sleeping with them or firing them. Both actors fared much better in their other films about dysfunctional families -Bening in an American Beauty and Moore with Savage Grace, Far From Heaven and The Hours.  I thought the kids were all right in this film, but the parents, well, that's a whole other story.

Eat, Pray, Love

Many years ago I came across a book called The Last American Man.

This real life tale chronicled the story of Eustace Conway; a one-of-a-kind modern pioneer who had spent twenty years in the American wilderness, living entirely off the land. I found myself riveted by the opening paragraph which reads:

By the time Eustace Conway was seven years old, he could throw a knife accurately enough to nail a chipmunk to a tree. By the time he was ten, he could hit a running squirrel at fifty feet with a bow and arrow. When he turned twelve, he went out into the woods, alone and empty-handed, built himself a shelter, and survived off the land for a week. When he turned seventeen, he moved out of his family's home altogether and headed into the mountains, where he lived in a teepee of his own design, made fire by rubbing two sticks together, bathed in icy streams and dressd in the skins of animals he hand hunted and eaten.

As I read on, I found the book did not dissolve into a Davy Crockett style caricature but instead painted a complex and fascinating portrait of a man who battled to live a completely self sufficient lifestyle on Turtle Island in North Carolina and the challenges he faced as a result.

After inhaling the text in one sitting, I made a mental note to keep an eye out for future books by the author. A journalist and novelist called Elizabeth Gilbert.

Several years later,  Eat, Pray, Love was published. I grabbed a library copy, eager to find out what new journey she was going to take me on.The journey it turns out, was her own.

Eat, Pray, Love has now become almost a doctrine of sorts for women who "have it all" but find that this does not bring the happiness they expected. I think most people on some level can identify with the beginning chapter which finds Gilbert on her knees on her bathroom floor, despairing of her life, even though everything seems fine on the surface. If you haven't ever felt even a glimmer of this, I think you're a liar or on some very good drugs.

Sadly once she got off the bathroom floor I found Gilbert's story tedious. I expected the writing to have the same forensic intimacy yet detachment as displayed when she wrote about Conway. Instead when writing about herself, I found Gilbert indulgent and in need of a better editor. Obviously I am in the minority with this opinion as the success of the book has probably set her up for life.

If it hasn't, the the film surely will. I went to see the film today. Yes, I did not like the book but went to the film anyway. Why would I do that? Two words.

Javier Bardem.

The film was gorgeous to look at. Julia Roberts was gorgeous to look at, with her usual doe-eyed dewiness and big, laughing mouth. Gorgeous as it was, the film did go on and on. I thought that the director, Ryan Murphy who gave the world Glee would give us some light relief in the form of a song or two but no.  Just Julia crying. Again.

Gorgeous. Meet Gorgeous.

I almost cried too, with relief when Javier came on screen. None was more gorgeous than he. Sadly his total screen time amounted to what felt like about fifteen minutes. But in that short time , he made a long and plodding film sparkle with life.

For me anyways.

The Road

I went to see The Road last night; the film adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer winning novel.


I had read many reviews of the film prior, all of them commenting on the grim, relentless bleakness inherent. It's to be expected though, when the film's subject is surviving a post-apocalyptic world where hope hangs on a thread.

Before I left work for the cinema, I mentioned to a colleague that I was going to see it. She looked at me in alarm.

Oh no.

What do you mean, Oh No?

You'll need a drink when you get out, she replied. Actually maybe best to have one before you go in too.

All this wonderful preamble fully situated me to come out of the film and slit my wrists.

I went nonetheless.

Afterwards I did not kill myself but instead went for pizza with my friend who had come with me. We went in a slightly stunned state, as if we had been bludgeoned by a mallet, but in a good way.

The film was bleak and grim and relentless. It was also familiar, tender and visionary. At least for me.

I sat rivetted throughout. I didn't find it plodding or angstful. The images and emotions onscreen seemed universal. Questions raised in the film were my own and that of my generation and the ones to follow. Questions about survival, morality, humanity, hope and love.

It was compelling and I can't get it out of my head.

The Sharklette

Aged twelve I watched Gone with the Wind for the first time and lapped it up. The heaving bosoms, the bryl cream and moustaches, the fiddle-de-dees and the severe corsetry.


But unlike the rest of the world, the most memorable phrase for me from the film was not Rhett's pithy:

Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

What lodged itself in my 12 year old memory was this. Melanie after tending to Scarlett in labour for god-knows how long (did they have epidurals in those days. I think not), announced:

The best days are when babies come.

Quite why this phrase resonated with me remained a mystery for many years. I was and am not a clucky type. Babies seemed like little wrinkly aliens that cry constantly and made a lot of mess.

Then three years ago my best girlfriend-soul-sister gave birth to a baby girl. When I crept in to see this newborn for the first time, something happened. This wee little thing stared at me and I stared at her and something passed between us. And in that moment, I got it.

Hello, I thought. You were in my friends' belly a minute ago and now you're here. That's really something.

A few years have passed since and my mate and her fella have done it again. Another little wrinkly person arrived today and I can't wait to meet her. The Sharklette.

You were right Melanie Wilkes. The best days really are when babies come.

New Moon

Vampires. Werewolves. Forbidden love. Robert Pattinson. It should work.

My name is Lavendar and I am a Twilight fan.

Last night I gathered with several hundred fellow cult members to watch the eagerly awaited second filmgasm of the franchise.

New Moon.

My hopes for this film were not high. They were stratospheric. But as gravity or sod's law dictates, such high hopes have only one place to go. Down.

As my hopes fell, my temper rose.

WTF was Chris Weitz thinking?! Did he not go to film school? What is the holy grail of Film-making 101 people?

Show. Don't Tell.

So what did he and the scriptwriters do?

Tell, tell, tell. Long, turgid dialogue used repeatedly to set the exposition which was unexcusable and lazy. This was matched with poor pacing, as if each script page was written on A3 resulting in interminable scenes which desperately needed editing.

Whilst the production budget was clearly higher on this film (Edward's skin was much sparklier), it feels as if it all went into the action sequences; the only parts of the film I think Weitz was genuinely invested in. Weitz failed to invest in the creation of a dramatic narrative tension and as a result the film lacked atmosphere, nuance and longing. The only longing evident was my own for the film to end.

Chris: Now Kristen, I want you to say your sixty lines of dialogue as slowly as possible so we can make the scene really long for no good reason.

Sat amongst rabid Twilighters who were devouring every flickering second onscreen, the film cinema last night was a lonely place. Locked in my own hellish disappointment, I compared New Moon to Twilight as such. If Twilight was Gone with the Wind on film, then New Moon felt like Days of our Lives on TV.

It's not that I thought Catherine Hardwicke's Twilight was a filmic masterpiece but it was a damn sight better than New Moon. It was sexy and edgy and had a great score and was well cut. With Hardwicke you also felt that she lived and breathed the film; the characters and their emotions. With Weitz, it felt that it was just another job with a few cool action set pieces for him to play with.

To add to my devastation, I found myself agreeing with the film critic from the Daily Mail. The Daily Mail for godssakes!

My downfall is complete. Come get me Twilighters. Kill me now.

The London Korean Film Festival 2009

A friend of mine works for a Korean animation company which amongst other projects is well known for Pucca, as in pucca up and give me one! Here is the little starlet:



The company have just sold a new animation called DreamKix which is about about footballing furries to French television. My mate has been kept busy with meetings in Paree and attending French film festivals. What a slog. Ooh la la!

Back in London, she is attending the London Korean Film Festival at the Barbican this weekend as DreamKix features in the program. Also featured is the opening gala of Park Chan-wook’s vampire flick, Thirst which apparently kicks some Twilight ass. I'm dying to see it (did you get that, dying to see it. Oh never mind)


If you are free you should get down there and see what those crazy Koreans are up to. After Old Boy, what could possibly be next?

He's Gone with the Wind

It's a sad, old world now that Patrick Swayze has gone. Say what you like about the man and his song lyrics, but he was a marvel to behold when he moved those muscles. On one hand he was a horse-riding, football playing, jock-cowboy and on the other, a pirouetting, hip-shaking, chick-lifting danseur. A dichotomy of sorts but he pulled it off without descending into caricature. He was a man that straddled the worlds of Rawhide and Rachmaninoff with equanimity and a level of grace.


Patrick flickered onscreen as Rob Lowe's brother in The Outsiders before he burst upon us in all his sweaty glory as the tortured dance instructor/gigolo, Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing. Our hearts swooned when he taught Baby the pechanga (someone tell me what that is. I never figured it out) and showed her how to boogie; upright and horizontally. We wanted him to teach us and would have carried many watermelons and sat in any old corner for the chance.

After soaring into the stratosphere by shaking his booty, Patrick's magic continued in Ghost where he transferred his Art to Craft and swapped Ballet for Bowls. The theme of dirt continued too. By smearing clay all over himself and Demi, Patrick gave the pottery world a makeover that they've never recovered from since. He then starred as the uber-cool Bodhi in Point Break in which he and Keanu swapped personas. Here Patrick was the dude; the surfer- mystic- mask-wearing-bank robber and Keanu was the tortured, trying-to-find- and-come-to-terms-with-himself-Johnny-Castle character-cop called, strangely enough- Johnny Utah. There was not much dirt in that film but if there was, they were always rushing into the ocean to wash it off anyways.


After that, the descent was gradual. We had forgiven him the lyric,She's like the wind, through my tree. We had forgiven him Roadhouse. Fatherhood was pushing it. But when he appeared in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, there was no more forgiveness.

But the love never died. When he announced that he had pancreatic cancer, a billion hearts around the world pounded, No! Not Johnny Castle!

I got to see Sexy, I mean, Swayze in the flesh a few years back. He was in London appearing in Guys and Dolls and I happened to be in the vicinity when he exited the Stage Door. Up close his face was leathery and lined as you'd expect from a man who rode horses outdoors and smoked in his fifties. This made me strangely happy. I don't think I could've borne it if he'd had plastic surgery. He was in dancerific shape and seemed like a humble, nice man.

I wish that before he departed this world that Patrick had given us one last dance on celluloid. Despite his work as an actor his true nature was displayed, for me, when he danced. He was in his element. As the man himself said:


There's just something about dance. It's like a primal thing in all of us.
- Patrick Swayze

RIP.

The Time Travelers Wife

Should you go and see films of the books that you absolutely love? Probably not.

To this day I have not seen many films on the principle that there is no way that the film could do justice to the written word. There have been the few rare exceptions (Peter Jackson's Rings Trilogy for example) but these occurences are rare.

This week I found myself with a spare few hours to hand so I ducked into the nearest cinema to watch The Time Travelers Wife. I should have know better but curiosity got the better of me.


For those of you who have not read this brilliant book by Audrey Niffenegger, what I'm about to say will not have any relevance. To those of you that have and who loved it, I say, Do Not Bother.

I wanted to love the movie but I couldn't. Why not? The ingredients were all there. A great story. Interesting themes. Rachel McAdams, one of my favourite actresses. Even Eric Bana in the buff- many, many times. But I remained mostly unengaged.

What failed for me ultimately was that the film reduced the story to this. A woman who becomes resigned to the fact that her husband is wont to disappear into thin air and reappear at random. A man who seems to disappear and reappear at different places and points in time, at random. That is what seemed to drive the tension of the film rather than the intertwining themes of love, transience, control, coincidence and fate that are paramount in the novel.

It did not help that the two actors had zero chemistry and that there was no substantial character development. I had no idea what Eric Bana's character, Henry, felt about his time-travelling predicament except that it was frustrating, inconvienient and cold (as he always reappears naked with no clothes). It also did not help that early on in the film, Eric had a haircut that made him look like a reject from the Monkees.

I loved the book so much that to see it dissected and reassembled so shoddily is disappointing. But then again, why should I be surprised. Is not the phrase A good film adaptation too often just a contradiction in terms?

When the Rain Stops Falling

It's always interesting to track the signposts that lead you to an important juncture in life. A few weeks ago I was at the Origins Festival watching a documentary called Black Chicks Talking. The doco had been based on a book of interviews by Leah Purcell, who also directed and featured in the film. At the end of the screening, a Q & A was held whereby the audience was informed that Ms Purcell was currently in London acting in a play called When the Rain Stops Falling.


It was a busy week that followed but it seemed that everytime I opened a newspaper I would spot an interview with someone in the play. Or a favourable review about the play. Not long after, a friend from work told me about a brilliant Australian play that she had seen the night before. I must go she told me. I acquiesed to the inevitable and got the tickets straight away online.

I have now just returned from the Almeida Theatre where I saw Andrew Bovell's play at long last. It not only met my expectations but exceeded them. It was the best play I have seen in a very long while. It seamlessly combined good acting, excellent set design, good venue and an engaged and eloquent script. All elements combined which held me in thrall for a good two hours without interval.

The suprise for me tonight was how moved I was by the play. It wasn't the storyline (although good) that did it but rather the evocation of the Australian landscape through language and imagery. I found myself in tears when footage appeared of waves lapping up against a beach at night or the dark Australian sky filled with clusters of stars. I did not realise how much I miss the landscape and how deeply it is entrenched somewhere inside of me.

This desire for land and light and sea and sky is hard to explain to people. It therefore gave me comfort to read Andrew Bovell's words in the play's programme:

The Australian landscape and the sense of loneliness and isolation it evokes resonates in our collective consciousness and finds expression in our literature and art. Most of us live in cities and yet the sense of distance and space that surrounds us continues to play in our minds. I grew up in the isolation of the Western Australian wheat belt, a long way from the nearest city, Perth, which in itself is the most geographically isolated city in the world. There was space and time to fill out there. It is a strikingly beautiful landscape if you know how to see it and if you know how to be alone.

So beautifully put. I couldn't have said it better myself.