Live rock music and fucking. Director Michael Winterbottom's next film, in post-production at the time of writing, is called A Cock and Bull Story and looks like it's based on Laurence Sterne's Tristram Shandy but perhaps should have been the title of this film. Larkin writes in "This Be The Verse": "They fuck you up, your mum and dad." Boy meets girl at Black Rebel Motorcycle Club gig at the Brixton Academy. Boy fucks girl. Repeat. She goes back to America. He makes a rather sick-making comparison to Antarctica. Film ends after 69 minutes. ::Arf. Arf.::
You may have heard about this film before. Yes, that was a clever marketing ploy, wasn't it? Cinema history and all that. I bought it. In a way, yes, it's worth it, but they could have done a better job of the in-between bits, like, you know, making it not boring. The gig scenes do look like you're part of the audience, but at one stage, you just wonder why they won't focus the camera lens or spend a bit of time re-engineering the sound. Maybe I'm just spoilt after the treat of Festival Express and now expect too much.
I recognize the dude, Kieran O'Brien (from the waist up ::ahem::), but even with the help of IMDb, can't quite figure out from where. Methinks Stella Artois adverts, or something Scottish. Any boffins? And she (Margot Stilley), rings a few bells. End the sentence there for the subliminal.
Makes a good companion piece to Closer (which shows relationships in crisis); whereas this walks in on two actors in the throes of passion and hangs around rather, pairing its fingernails. The dialogue is minimal and consquently a bit implausible, but only in the sense that it doesn't feel right in a movie; perhaps it is ultra-realistic like the rest of the film. It's good to see he wears condoms, which is more than you can say for most screen sex scenes. One wonders if she ever faked it.
Nugget: maybe one not to watch with your parents.
Juicy tit-bit: there's a 33% chance I was in Brixton on the night the Franz Ferdinand scenes were shot. I was at the Ritzy watching The Last of the First one Thursday night in late October during the 2004 London Film Festival. On the tube I remember noticing three indie kids wearing brand new Franz Ferdinand tees and wondering if they'd just come from a gig. A quick check confirmed that the band played consecutive nights at the Brixton Academy on 28-30 October.
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