12 Years a Slave, a review

   With an upsurge in Hollywood focus, after the success of Django Unchained, it seems the darkest era in the land of the frees past is finally being pulled from under the carpet to be given the recognition it deserves. However, none so far have looked at the slave trade in a more harrowing, revealing or Golden Globe-worthy style as Steve McQueen’s 12 Years a Slave.

  Adapted from the 19^th-century memoir of Solomon Northup (played by Chiwetel Ejiofor), the intense drama follows the struggle of an educated family man, musician and carpenter as he is abducted from New York in 1841, transported south and sold into slavery. As common with African-Americans at the time, Solomon’s identity, humanity and past is brutally beaten from him until he accepts the name ‘Platt’ and becomes the property of Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch), a sympathetic, yet chilling plantation and slave owner. Through confrontations with sadistic, power crazed farmhand, Tibeats (Paul Dano), Solomon is sold once again to the psychotic Epps (Michael Fassbender) where further emotional and physical abuse create a masterpiece that is brutal to watch.

   12 Years a Slave is a triumph from everyone involved in its production, with its biggest reward being the refreshment of seeing a film created for the noblest of purposes. The film both educates, invigorates and cultures its viewers with appalling realism over the most shameful and dehumanised periods ever exhibited by a self-named intelligent and civilised species.

   Chiwetel Ejiofor plays the role of Solomon so convincingly that it could possibly be the greatest of his lifetime. Subtle and slow changes in his posture, twitches of the lip and prolonged, deep eye contact with the camera; matched with his emotional chorus of ‘Roll Jordan, roll’ create a character even the racist Nick Griffin should sympathise with. Despite Ejiofor’s original reluctance to take the role, it’s hard to imagine anyone else filling Solomon’s tortured boots so well.

   Newcomer Lupita Nyong'o, who plays the slave girl Patsey, also stands out amongst the more recognised names and is at times more difficult to watch than Solomon. Capturing the attention of the unhinged plantation owner Epps, Nyong’o portrays the barbarous objectification of black women of the era with both strength and vulnerability as she is revered one moment and raped the next.

   Screenwriter John Ridley also deserves huge recognition for his success. Each use of the word ‘nigger’ re-humanises the audience with its true and vile meaning to superb effect. It’s a shocking contrast to the resulting joke of its overuse in Django Unchained and as care free filler in today’s rap music. It becomes increasingly painful to hear, especially after Paul Dano’s haunting rendition of ‘Run nigger, run’. The defiant way Epps describes the slaves as his property and the cold cruelty of even the female characters strikes hard and relentlessly, evoking revulsion and understanding to a dismaying degree.

   It is McQueen’s style and direction that makes 12 Years a Slave a triumph. His use of fearlessly lengthy single-takes against stunning backdrops makes us really see and feel what is happening. He makes a whole audience cringe with shame and question why and how this ever became wide-spread acceptable behaviour for so long. He doesn’t shy from brutal torture of the body and we’re forced to acknowledge flesh being whipped from bone. In one raw and particularly powerful scene, McQueen holds the shot of Solomon being hung from a tree as fellow slaves around him meander on, for so long I had to look away.

   12 Years a Slave is a modern classic. It is distressing to watch and rightfully so. With the exception of a diverting and ‘white saviour’ cameo from co-producer Brad Pitt, every aspect is beautifully crafted, from its music, narrative and settings to its breath-taking actors. McQueen has created a socially important look into our worlds past that will undoubtedly succeed in this year’s Oscars.

Beauty Queen of Leenane- Play review

McDonough’s Curve production of The Beauty Queen of Leenane is much like the hot drink Complan: simple, full of flavour and has the odd lump thrown in that you’re forced to swallow with shock.

On the box, it’s a story of Maureen (Michele Moran) a forty year old virgin, trapped in a rural Irish cottage. Whilst hoping for love, Maureen is left caring for her crafty, manipulative mother Mags (Noran Connolly). It’s when the box is opened and a chance of romance is stirred in along with misdelivered letters and a poker that things start to boil over.

One of the main ingredients is the sourness between mother and daughter. Dutiful Maureen is tired of serving porridge and Complan whilst her sisters are happily married. Mags is forever scheming to avoid a care home, whilst “waiting for the news”, complaining of her bad hip and shuffling pots of urine to the kitchen sink. In the midst of their simmering home life are sprinklings of the brothers; Dooley (Andrew Macklin) and Pato (Stephen Hogan), who add spice and stir things up.

Moran plays her character of Maureen seamlessly and with utter conviction. From doting daughter to the sex crazed singleton, she helps bring the hidden lumps to the surface in a captivating twist of events. She is an actor completely immersed in her role and it pays off superbly well when the whole plays’ flavour is shifted. She interacts well with Hogan, who also fits comfortably into his role and at times helps heighten humour for the audience when awkward and cringe worthy moments arrive.

Connolly is a convincing mother figure who manages to pull off sweet and evil easily and tastefully. She lightens dark events with brilliant black-comedy lines which are all well delivered and timed, which also helps to move the play along. The only qualm with her character is minor, her jokes feel a little repetitive but even that in turn reflects upon their mundane life style.  The same can be said for Macklin. Although his Irish accent is questionably Welsh at times, he fits comfortably in the simple cottage, makes the most of the set and his grudge over a tennis ball is both hilarious and tense, proving to be one of the plays’ highlights.

Originally written by Martin McDonagh, Paul Kerryson’s direction brings it to Leicester’s Curve stage in a simple and hugely effective way. The simplicity works in the plays favour and allows attention to be focused on the actors themselves and the events. The lack of complications within its direction allows the four actors to progress through scenes with ease and it’s refreshing to see a play which doesn’t have intricate and overpowering style.

Juliet Shillinford’s set design was in no way forgettable. The details were subtle and hugely effective. Small elements such as the working stove and kettle (constantly heating Mags demands), the dirty socks and Irish memorabilia made the whole play more authentic. The sound of crunching gravel outside played to an actor’s exit or entrance and the rain and wind lashing against the window were highlights which magnify the brilliance which has gone into making this play a charming success.

As a whole it’s definitely worth a watch. At times it lacks subtlety and keen viewers may see the twist coming,  but even then it’s still a beauty of a play, both captivating and absorbing. 

A Storm of Swords book review

With HBO’s series of A Game of Thrones proving to be a world-wide success, which even managed to compete with TV giant Breaking Bad, attention has now one again turned to George R R Martin’s internationally best-selling series, from which the show was based on, A Song of Ice and Fire.

Largely regarded as the king of fantasy epics, A Song of Fire and Ice was first released in 1996. The series currently consists of five volumes, starting with A Game of Thrones. The TV series has so far covered up to the half-way point of the third volume, A Storm of Swords, causing most fans to turn eagerly to the book itself for spoilers.

Jaws were left hanging after the notorious Red Wedding scene aired on TV, which saw most of the loved cast brutally butchered just when all seemed to be looking up. The second half of A Storm of Swords works hard to keep those jaws securely glued to the floor.

In the war torn land of Westeros only four of the five contenders for power remain alive, with another seemingly defeated and the game for the Iron Throne continues as even more alliances are forged and forgotten. The dreaded Joffrey still remains as the young and unsteady ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Winter is coming bringing with it the blue eyed, un-dead Others. A host of Wildlings, human, mammoth and giant alike are attacking The Wall. Meanwhile, the exiled queen Daenerys Targaryen, rider of the last three dragons, is making her way across a blood soaked slave country.  All are set to collide.

If the previous books hadn't already, the prologue sets the theme for the chapters to come. Each page, if not most lines, hold death, betrayal, tension and tragedy; and as always, if you think it is going to end well, “you haven’t been paying attention”.

The book follows the usual format with each chapter being dedicated to a different main characters’ view point. True to style, Martin ensures each is as heartbreaking, intense and shocking as the last. Despite the wait between each books being published, it’s easy to slip back into the fast pace of things as we find ourselves reunited with a few familiar faces. As expected though, many have met a gruesome end and some new characters are introduced which both refreshes and jars the flow of things.

Martin is so superb in his writing that it’s easy to forget that as a reader, you too are part of the game of thrones. You believe wholeheartedly that you’re as informed as Vary’s with his little birds, when in reality you’re being played, deceived and misled, just like every character.

Martin travels further into the lands where Jon Snow and Daenery’s stage their struggles, which adds an interesting new depth to a story we thought we were getting to grips with. New possibilities and expectations are presented and it will be interesting to see how Martin will tie up all of many the sub plots (Other than just killing the character off, obviously).

There are some qualms, often there is so much happening it becomes hard to take it all in and let the devastation take full effect, each twist is magnificent but doesn't always receive its deserved recognition as it is overshadowed in the next chapter. Also, some characters such as Davos are hard to get through, compared to the likes of Arya Stark, they seem almost mundane and readers can often find themselves skimming through to the next chapter.

Overall though, A Storm of Swords is a masterpiece woven from tragedy, skilled writing and intensity that leaves readers satisfied till the end. Marten is unprecedented and will surely be remembered as the master of fantasy within a generation, his work is so ambitious and detailed it’s easy to become engrossed.

The Prestige, a review.

   Are you watching closely? Because the harder you’re looking, the more you concentrate, the more effective Christopher Nolan’s ultimate misdirection in his Victorian murder-mystery tale, The Prestige, will prove.

   Every magic trick consists of three acts. The first is the pledge; we are shown something ordinary and asked to inspect it, to see that it’s real. Once we’re satisfied the next act begins: the turn, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary.  Finally, once we’re engrossed and fooled, comes the third and hardest part of the act, the prestige, or big finale. Nolan’s laid out the film in a similar way, with the whole piece working as a ruse that defies us to see through the smoke and mirrors and spot the hidden trick.

   Set in the 1890s, the plot revolves around two London magicians, Angier (Hugh Jackman) and Borden (Christian Bale), struggling through a bitter feud after an illusion goes wrong and causes the death of an assistant.  Both magicians are capable of awe inspiring tricks, but as their tense relationship and lives become increasingly fuelled by obsession, deceit and jealousy their rivalry turns deadly, destroying and consuming most aspects of their lives.  Nolan ensures that illusion plays a pivotal role in the film though, so not all is as it seems and at times the rules of physics are morphed.

   The plot becomes increasingly captivating the further we delve into the magicians lives but what’s intriguing about The Prestige is the lack of CGI. The old fashioned film style leaves open the possibility of figuring out the twist, the audience remain comfortable in the fact that it will remain realistic. True to Nolan’s style though, the time line isn’t linear, The Prestige is filled with flashbacks, similar to Momento and again, the technique works well.

   Despite knowing we’re being misdirected by Angier and Borden, they play their roles so convincingly that it’s hard to avoid being sucked in and fooled. Both Jackman and Bale exceed as the conjurors. Jackman appears more serious and grown up than he has in his previous roles , he becomes the aristocratic loner he’s portraying at a much deeper level than we’ve seen him before. Bale is almost the cheeky-chappy of the film, his sticks to his cocky accent well, has perfected his smirk and yet with each plot twist can suddenly become dark and unnerving.

   Michael Caine’s role is arguably downplayed too much as his character spends most of his time in the background. Yet his time he does spend on screen is spent is extremely emotive yet not over the top, as usual his voice over is charming and he’s the perfect narrator. 

   David Bowie and Scarlett Johansson make brief yet crucial appearances. Both are debatably wasted roles, with Bowie coming across as too bizarre and Johansson being used as a sex symbol; yet both are refreshing to watch and move the plot forward.

   I pledge that you should give this film your full attention, watch it closely and have your turn at guessing the grand prestige.  You won’t be disappointed. 

A flappin' good interview with Richard Hopper

Richard Hopper has sailed the Amazon, been ice breaking in the Maldives and has even broken down surrounded by crocodiles in Australia. He’s seen all the culture and wildlife of the world, yet still prefers the company of his birds in Leicester’s countryside at his Tropical Birdland Park.

   In 1976, at just ten years old, Richard found himself in his friend’s garage being introduced to his first tropical birds and a nest of budgie eggs about to hatch. “From that moment on I just fell in love. I knew what I really wanted and that was just to try and breed endangered birds”. Now, 37 years later, I find myself walking a wooded path alive with the squawks of huge and vibrant birds of all kinds, with a, albeit slightly less fresh-faced, Mr Hopper waiting at the end of it.

   We sit ourselves down in the parks café, which is filled with pictures and statues of endangered birds amidst tropical plants, and Richard immediately launches into how it all progressed from a couple of budgies in his friends garage. “My parents, John and Madeline, were always very good with wildlife, at 16, when I told them I had such a passion for birds, they retired and sold their factory which produced machinery and bought a small bungalow in the middle of scrap land”.

   Work immediately began on building aviaries and converting the lands three stables into a shop of sorts, buying and selling birds. Whilst tugging at his hair, Richard explained, “I didn’t like the trade aspect of it but I had to do something to try keep my head above water. The birds would get stressed and start pulling at their feathers from being moved so much”.

   After that, with the help of a £40 a week government grant to start the business, the park opened in 1984 with the key goal of breeding and releasing endangered species of birds. However, Richard encountered issues he didn’t expect. “Thieving was bad. In those years exotic birds were worth silly amounts of money in the pet industry. We were burgled 13 times. It just crippled me, financially and emotionally”. Proving to be a resourceful character, Richard explained how he adopted rescue dogs and trained them to act as security, eliminating the problem. With a chuckle and a parrot-like click, he added, “Apart from the odd time when people have managed to sneak small birds out in their coats”.

   The parks issues didn’t stop there though. Richard’s birds began to die slowly and painfully from a disease neither he, nor the vets, could work out. “I did my own studies. I found out about geophagy, the need for birds to eat soil or clay. I saw photos of thousands of Macaws licking clay off a cliff”. After this discovery, Richard took flight to Peru and Ecuador and returned with some of the clay, after tests it was given to the birds; “it was a miracle, it just fixed everything”.

   Looking at the humble man sat in front of me in his little café, twiddling his thumbs, I found it hard to imagine Richard scaling cliffs surrounded by flocks of wild birds, which made his next story even more remarkable.

    On a trip to the York Peninsula, “The big spikey bit at the top of Australia”, Richard and his family hired a campervan to see the wildlife of Papa New Guiney. “I stupidly reversed onto this lovely beach, it’s full of salt water crocs so you can’t swim, but I’m thinking we’ll have a ‘barbie’, only there’s a ledge I didn’t see and I reverse right over it”. Suddenly his trip to Peru sounded remarkably tame to me. “The back wheels are hanging over and I just think to myself, “Fuck, I haven’t seen anyone in days” my family are in the camper van and there’s these crocs not too far off so I go looking for help”. Luckily the day was saved by a friendly local two miles away and a fine ‘barbie’ was had by all.

   Tales of his adventures seemed to revitalise Richard and I no longer saw him as a tame and settled bird keeper. However, his thoughts soon migrated back to his passion and his face darkened as he elaborated on his aim of releasing endangered birds. “My dream of releasing them into the wild was more or less smashed when I discovered all of the red tape involved”. He began pulling with his hair again as he explained how government procedures made it virtually impossible for “the little guys” to return their animals to their natural habitats. “For a start I don’t have any initials after my name. You have to prove so much, you have to put the birds through hell, you have to get the attention of two governments who’s top priorities aren’t parrots, I gave up”.

   I started to worry that his ambitions hadn’t been very well planned out from the start and were nothing more than a childhood fancy with clipped wings but again, Richard impressed me. “I had big, grandeur dreams, but the idea was planned and nurtured. While travelling I met some people who lived in lodges in the jungles of Belize, where a dam had knackered the scarlet macaws habitat.” He explained how together, they planned to use the land as a release haven where birds that Richard bred could be transported and released safely, but again, “It just couldn’t be done, not while the governments are as they are, I’m too small and they’re too big, I could not do it”.

   Richard seemed to pick up on how disheartened his story had left me and, if him rolling a cigarette and donning his coat was anything to go by, wanted to draw our meeting to a close. His parting words were incredibly humbling. “I’ve lived a good life, I’ve been to Costa Rica, Borneo, Kenya, everywhere, and I’ve gotten married on the Say Shells. I tell my daughters, “Don’t worry about me, I’m happy with what I do, I’ve done everything”. I love my family, I miss my mum and dad but I’ll forever be thankful to them, without them Birdland wouldn’t exist. Even after all these years, I still love being with the birds every day; I can’t even think of doing anything else, I wouldn’t want to”.

A Guarded Fairytale

            She jumps down the overly large step that drops from her front door, stray hair sticking to her forehead as she does so. Her eyes roll as she sighs heavily. Her knees give way slightly as she lifts down the two scooters propped in the hall as her children kick their legs with giddy shrieks. The bag hanging from her shoulder swings wildly.

Pulling the door shut the vintage tiles of her house, littered with plush toys and Sippy cups, are hidden from view with cobalt panels.

Hastily checking over her pockets she calls out, “Kids, come on, calm for Mummy remember?”

The little girl squeezes her eyes shut. Her puffy cheeks pull in as she lets loose a squeal while her brother’s fists redden around clumps of her hair that he’s tugging.

A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Five

Pricilla Courtess

You wouldn’t believe it. I can’t even believe it myself. A man licked his bowl. Licked it! The soup is piss water, and he licked it clean. Imagine, this place refused my darling Fifi when the people themselves are mongrels. My hair is falling out. My. Hair. Is. Falling. Out. Don’t even get me started on my eyelashes. The one I have anyway.

If it weren’t for dear Simon, well, I don’t know. He’s as loopy as they come that one, but bless the lamb. I mean, the guy takes half an hour putting his stuff in the right place, by my, oh my, he is a star.

Which reminds me, I called that no good Patrick Star. I gave the scum a good old piece of my mind, I told him, I said ‘You, you are the scum on my shoes. The most useless piece of crap I ever did see.’ I said a good deal more, believe me.

Anyway, I hung up but I started thinking. I thought to myself, thirty years I’ve been doing this. Thirty years and all that I have to show is a free bowl of soup in a morning. I mean, look at me, Pricilla Courtess, no make-up on and sat in a homeless shelter. Well, I pulled out my sketches and took a good hard look and I thought, who was I kidding? Even I don’t wear my designs.

Well, I started sobbing to Simon something fierce. I could have just settled down, popped out a few kids like normal women? No. Pricilla Courtess had to give herself a dodgy hip pleasing the men who were gonna make her dreams. Pricilla Courtess had to have Botox, and fucking Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh. Pricilla Courtess isn’t even my real name, can you believe that? Thirty years I’ve kept that charade going.

 I would kill for a Pall Mall now, you know? Literally, anyone of the mongrels in here, even for just one drag. Oh, and a lighter that works for once in my damned life. I think of my poor little angel pie, in some damn dog ‘home’ like she hasn’t got anyone who loves her.  It makes my hair start falling out all over again. Can you imagine the humiliation?

Anyway, even dear Simon couldn’t put up with my tears, the poor fruit-loop. He walked right on out of the shelter, clutching his bird book. Honestly, he treats that thing like it’s more precious than my pearls, flattens every page out before bed and everything.

Now, you will not believe what happened when he got back, you simply won’t. He’s got a face like a slapped arse bless him, twiddling his thumbs like he’s just lost a leg or something. Anyway, he turns round and you know what he says? He says, ‘I got you a job’, well I cut him off straight away with this big old shriek and started flapping my damn hands around like some cuckoo bird. And believe me, that wasn’t even the best part. He turns round and says, ‘You’re going to be a designer for Monica Green.’ Well, my jaw damn near dropped though the floor. How stupid was I? I’d just nearly given up, nearly convinced myself I was no good. Laughable isn’t it?

Well, Simons got this big grin on his face and says something about, ‘We can leave today’. Anyway, I’m already busy packing up my designs, passing him my free soup and shouting ‘What we? I’ve got to go!’ and running out the door. Can you believe it, Pricilla Courtess is gonna be a star.