tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1425988187544412072024-02-06T18:45:20.385-08:00Man In WoodIan Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-61809966803939870822012-08-27T04:51:00.001-07:002016-04-03T05:28:29.721-07:00Tissue of Lies.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">‘Everything is a tissue of lies’. He knew this
to be true even if she said it. Yes she did. It was the last thing
that fell from those brightly painted red lips before leaving that morning for
her weekend business trip to Milan or some city that had a cool
reputation. Milan, Prague, Paris, Berlin... in fact it was Reykjavík,
Iceland. Maybe cool, yet certainly cold since she had taken with her,
packed away neatly in her Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase the cashmere jacket
with rabbit shawl collar from Salvatore Ferragamo that had cost him a fair
bit. Damn near 3 fuckin' grand. A gift from him to her in a signification
their seven years of “happy”… oh God no, their harmonious blissful marriage.
Anyway destination Reykjavík, Iceland and He was stuck in the greyish gloom of
south London. Peckham.</span><span lang="FR"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"> Two days earlier a comedian type actor, famed
for his witty and atypical brand of comedy that had instituted a British type
of humour across the globe that perhaps helped the demise of the image of Brits
being a little less boring than beans on toast and ‘God save the goddamn Queen,
(no disrespect ma’am). Oh yeah… he
had fervently admired this comic in his youth and now quite confusingly faced a
deep and rather personal embarrassment for both he and the comic. The
comic-stroke-actor-stroke-douchebag, had brazenly stated that London was not
the city it used to be and now it was- quote “overrun by newly arrived asylum
seeking tax bleeding immigrants”. At the time of reading this impetuous
declaration by the now slightly deranged comic, he had reacted with fury by
throwing his copy of the Sunday Times magazine supplement on the toilet floor
with utter disgust and then stared blankly at the white of the white
wall. He had long finished what he had to do anyway but he sat so when he
would finally decide to leave the throne the seat would go with him for a
while- a brief friendship between backside and seat. It happens.
Sometimes. If it was not an entirely earnest reaction to throw the
magazine it was however one of spontaneous polemic makeup. He himself was
of Jewish descendent, his mother’s sister Aunt Becky had told him this when he
was nine years old. He remembered the stale custard cream biscuits that
she offered from the cookie jar in the mess of her cramped council flat
kitchen. He wanted to watch television. His favourite TV show was on, Lee
Majors in the ‘six million dollars man’. She told him how her
Father had changed his name to avoid being ship off with the rest of his fellow
brethren to that ghoulish camp in Poland. He felt no connection to his
roots, perhaps because his mother had declared his Aunt Becky 'as nutty as a
fruitcake', (where are the bloody nuts in a fruitcake?) Unfortunately Aunt
Becky could not exactly denounce this indecorous stake from her prim and proper
sister, for dozens upon dozens of times through the last decade she had been
spotted wandering around shopping centres all over the south of London in
nightgown and slipper talking to her long dead husband about the choice of
sherry they would buy for their late evening supper and other such unimaginable
nonsense. It would be hash to called Aunt Becky mad but unconventional
she certainly was. Yet now he felt crushed and baffled as his Aunt Becky
during the years of her loss. (For she loved her husband despite the mean
and cruel bastard he was known to be). His wife’s claim to be going on another
business trip with her communication firm to one of those glamorous cites
aforementioned left him uneasy. He had proof of her regular secretive
tryst with the young engineer whom she had met last December at her office
Christmas party. He had witness quite a nauseating scene behind the
silver metallic blinds of the glass window in her boss’s office. He had
seen his wife and that chiselled jawed young stud with her tongue searching for
something in the depth of his throat, whilst Miss Whitney (rip) belted out from
those turbo charged lungs, the ‘I will always love’ you part of the song. That
dreadful build up and that piercing voice practically screaming at his fragile
soul those terrifying words. <i>'and IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII will
always Love youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!' </i></span><span lang="FR"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">All the same she said it as she left that
morning. <i>"Everything is a tissue of lies</i></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">,” she said. She was speaking about the news broadcast that played
out on BBC radio 4. The war on Terror! He was thinking about his own
mistress or “mistress to be” since he had yet to commit any act that could have
that all-knowing finger from the unbounded blue pointing down at him condemning
him as an adulator, a fornicator; flee ye from sexual immorality! She was to
meet the engineer at Gatwick airport. He should secretively follow her
(he had longed to be a spy ever since Sean Connery don the 007 suit in
Goldfinger) and break the engineer bastards neck. Or shoot his wife with
a silencer from room 407 on the 16<sup>th</sup> floor of the airport
hotel. But perhaps there were no holiday or romantic break to Milan,
Prague, Paris, Berlin or Reykjavík… Iceland only existed on the map he told
himself. Maybe they do it in a room on the 16<sup>th</sup> floor of the airport
hotel. Room number 407? No 408…09… what the hell!</span><span lang="FR"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"> He would play some golf with his two mates this
weekend and then off to the local for a piss-up. He would tell them about
his fantasy mistress adding extra fiction to his fiction. How they did it here
and there and how they would do it there and here again, and again so hard in
the most ungodliness’ of places. He even had a face for her. A
cross between Rita Hayworth and Kim Basinger, with the quivering lips of Sue
Ellen. The theme tune, the three-split screen, the changing face of Miss
Ellie breaks his daydream. Followed by the piercing sound of high heels of the
wooden floor entering the kitchen where he had been sitting staring at his mug
of black coffee. For how long? Time. Reality is wrong.
Dreams are for real. Now where did he hear that? His coffee is
cold. Confirmation. Time. How long had it been sitting there?
What had he’d been doing all that time? Time. Oh dear God. Time oh time
oh time. "Leave me alone you tormentor of the innocent. </span><span lang="FR"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">She smiles sweetly at him and says something about the
taxi waiting outside. He opens his faded leather wallet. She kisses him
on the left cheek and heads for the front door leaving behind a deathly trace
of Chanel no 5 in the air. </span><span lang="FR"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">That odious scent on the delicate
material of deceit. </span><span lang="FR"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">Put it on a tissues.</span><span lang="FR"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">Smell.</span><span lang="FR"></span><br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-14049584517921557542012-07-21T09:11:00.001-07:002012-07-21T09:11:25.550-07:00Niggaz in Paris -Part two<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Eccentric Std"; font-size: 72pt;">RED HOUSE</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b>Tonight!
Saturday July 21<sup>st</sup></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b>DJ
SILVERDOLLER</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b>UNEVA
KNOW </b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Featuring
Mixed Exclusives- <b>DJ LEON</b></span><span lang="EN-GB"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>REFUGEES
CAMP</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Rare
Grooves</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Forgotten
classic of yesteryear </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Eccentric Std"; font-size: 14pt;">Address-<span> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Eccentric Std"; font-size: 18pt;">RED HOUSE</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Eccentric Std"; font-size: 14pt;"></span></div>
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1 bis rue de la forge royale</div>
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75011</div>
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Paris</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Starts-<span> </span>21.00</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 9pt;"><b></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 9pt;"><b>http://maninwood.blogspot.fr/</b></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 9pt;"></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-72856828124743247522012-06-14T04:53:00.000-07:002012-07-12T01:46:48.601-07:00and what the public say... (nadine 2008)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</style><b><span class="yshortcuts">André</span> <span class="yshortcuts">Conrad</span></b>
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<span class="yshortcuts">Je n</span> ai pas eu le temps de te dire le bien que je
pensais de ton film. Je n ai pas été sensible au " cas
psychopathologique " qui défie la compréhension, mais au <span class="yshortcuts">vide</span> du <span class="yshortcuts">quartier</span> que tu <span class="yshortcuts">décris</span>, à une totale <span class="yshortcuts">absence</span>
de culture et d activité, confirmée par l <span class="yshortcuts">architecture</span>,
les couloirs, la tristesse des parcs....une oisiveté terrifiante. Mais ce qui m
a surpris c est qu au delà du désespoir particulier à un cas et à une micro
société veule et violente, tu touches quelque <span class="yshortcuts">chose</span>
d universel, formulée par ton héroïne quand elle est interrogée alors même qu
elle va mieux ( scène que tu <span class="yshortcuts">mets</span> à la fin en
contrepoint de son suicide) : elle dit que certains jours. ..et cette
fragilité, cette <span class="yshortcuts">façon</span> de côtoyer l abîme est le
lot de tous. C est cela qui fait du film quelque chose d humain, alors même que
tous les personnages ont quelque chose d écoeurant. <br />
Le style, le rythme, le <span class="yshortcuts">noir et blanc</span> concourent
mettre à nu cette situation où le désoeuvrement est plus profond que ce qu un
psychologue ou un sociologue en dirait. La crise est plus profonde et
plus revoltante. <br />
Dans les références cinephiliques, j ai bien sûr pensé à <span class="yshortcuts">Robert Bresson</span> ( histoire de <span class="yshortcuts">Mouchette</span>
etc.). <br />
Cela dit on pourrait te demander si <span class="yshortcuts">ces personnages</span>
ne sont pas ( tous) des <span class="yshortcuts">caricatures</span> et si l
impossibilité de trouver un seul personnage qui ne soit pas pénible à voir, n
accentue pas artificiellement le <span class="yshortcuts">sentiment</span> d
impasse. <br />
Il reste que le mérite d un tel film est de développer l attention non
seulement au mal - être d une personne particulière mais à à la situation de
toute personne. <br />
Amitiés. </div>
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<b>Y.</b></div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
I found in Nadine, your film, something strong, a force, a
tension, an emergency, a truth, that exists in every one of my top ten
favorite movies:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If, Lindsay Anderson</div>
<div>
Kids, Larry Clark, Harmony Korine</div>
<div>
Rude Boy, The Clash</div>
<div>
Salo ou les 120 journées de Sodome, Pier Paolo Pasolini</div>
<div>
Nosferatu, Werner Herzog</div>
Guess who's coming to dinner, Stanley Kramer</div>
La Haine, Mathieu Kassovitz<br />
<div>
Bravo, tu es un cinéaste!<br />
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Patrick</span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">C'était vraiment tt à
fait passionnant pcq j'ai trouvé que sur ce film ( comme ts les premiers, avec
bcp d' autobiographie j'imagine) il y avait un vrai langage de cinéaste pour
filmer le scénario. Finalement on était tt autant "piégé" par le film
que Nadine par son environnement.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Véronique
Porret, </span></b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">une amie de Grenoble,
psychiatre, psychanalyste, critique de films, sinophile…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Merci pour cette
émouvante critique, du dedans. Merci. Cela a dû être la fête après...</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Lydie
Zawislak</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">heureusement que
j'avais donné mes impressions à Marine avant de lire ton message et ta critique
du film que je trouve très juste</span></div>
</div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Laetitia
Launiau </span></b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Je suis tout à fait
d'accord avec toi. Le sentiment de mal à l'aise du départ s'est très vite
estompé. Il n'y avait rien de "gore", tout était suggéré. J'ai trouvé
ce film extrêmement poétique et, comme tu le dis si bien, très photogénique.
J'ai été voir une très belle exposition de photos au Frac de Sélestat où l'on
voyait une série de clichés représentants des immeubles HLM. J'ai retrouvé la
même perfection artistique dans l'effet visuel de la caméra de Ian. J'ai trouvé
aussi que la mollesse de Nadine, la lenteur de certaines scènes, représentait
bien la pesanteur de ce système de vie dans certaines banlieues. On était à
Londres, mais l'on aurait tout aussi bien pu se trouver dans des quartiers d'
Hautepierre, de Clichy sous bois ou de Moscou. J'ai trouvé ce film très juste,
extrêmement réaliste, tout en voguant dans des sphères surréalistes. Les scènes
de vie intérieures étaient très authentiques.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Je pense que tu peux
être fier de ton gendre et de ta fille. Je leur souhaite une grande réussite.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Jacques
Weiss</span></b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">- psychiatre,
psychanalyste, époux de Chantal et sa galerie</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> Après un très
beau film d'un jeune cinéaste , une très belle critique.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> Beaucoup de
choses de qualité dans ce film , la photographie, le découpage, le montage, les
gros plans , un vrai langage cinématographique, et parfois même les
mots sont importants;J'ai pensé à Ken Loach , à Bresson aussi, à quelque chose
de la nouvelle vague française (mais dont le maître est effectivement Bresson,
que j'ai découvert il y a peu sur dvd...!!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> Et puis , je ne
peux pas m'en empêcher,excuse -moi, mais j'ai le sentiment que la fille du père
a fait fort en épousant un jeune cinéaste prometteur dont le
discours cinématographique est comme une réponse ou un dialogue avec le
père.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">A bientôt et encore
Bravo aux jeunes</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">« Je me suis
décidée à aller voir le film malgrè le sujet un peu hard...nous</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">étions 5 dans la
salle, 2 personnes sont sorties au bout d'une demi-heure...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Je ne me lancerai pas
dans de grands commentaires qui paraîtraient bien</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">insipides au regard
des vôtres...juste quelques mots pour dire que j'ai trouvé</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">que c'était bien
filmé, que l'actrice est formidable vu la difficulté du rôle</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">qu'elle joue; merci
au violoncelle qui vient juste après des scènes très dures</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">et qui moi m'a
apaisée...c'est un film fort, c'est un film à voir. »</span><br />
<br /></div>
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<b>Jeanne-Hélène</b></div>
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Good morning,sir !<br />
I must say I was very impressed to meet the Director and one of the actor of
the movie. It was really unexpected. It can probably explain why I wasn't
talking a lot. I really love Cinema, and when I was outside and in another
street, I felt like asking two thousand questions. But my friend is very shy
and didn't really want to do it, because she couldn't speak very well. Anyway,
now I regret my silence. Moreover, I'm usually not able to speak about a movie
the very day I see it. I need to wait for the day after to really know what I
thought about it. Anyway I just want to say that I appreciated this movie and
it's a useful change compared to what I usually watch.<br />
<br />
Have a nice day and I hope your career will be very long<br />
<br />
<b>Arthur, gavroche de banlieue.
</b><br />
J'ai trouvé beaucoup de qualités, à ton oeuvre, je ne parle pas de, mise
en scène, montage,rythme,direction photographique,c'est parfait!,on
voit dés le début que tu est perfectionniste et réalisateur de
talent.Dans le sens qu'on ne voit aucune erreur. y compris,dans
certaines plans fixes risquées ,qui"forcent" a écouter et regarder,
Nadine et elle seule parlant aux autres, mais tu conserve toujours la
caméra sur son visage(celà frise la rigidité,ça ne l'a pas fait, et
c'est finalement payant).Cette façon de tourner s'impose par son
caractère,en tout cas sa rareté.Trés vite on en apprécie,le choix et
l'utilité. <br />
Ce le film est toujours dans mes pensées,à l'heure ou
j'écris.Je peux encore voir très précisément certaines scènes,tant la
symbolique "musicale et répétitive visuellement de certains repères"
,fixe, le spectateur,du début à la fin du film.Quand à La fin, vraiment
surprenante,étrangement innatendue(pour moi):superbement maitrisée,à
tous niveaux,je pèse mes mots. Bien que qu'une personne parte
définitivement, cela surprend mais ne rends pas frustrés par la mort qui
existe et qui existera (la preuve s'il en est, les spectateurs ont mis
du temps le temps de remixer images et sentiments,avant d'applaudir,tant
la dualité des messages,à la fin du film,étaient, douce et mortelle à
la fois . De ce départ volontaire de ce cauchemar qu'elle vit,c'est
enfin là que l'on peut mesurer l'ampleur de sa souffrance. Donner une
fin à ce film,a dû etre difficile ,en tout les cas Bravo, qu'il est
réussi ! Tout en étant poétique,réaliste, violent,et politique,tu nous
donne une angleterre non caricaturée, qui va etre la notre. <br />
On vole
entre Le contraste permanent, arbres, eaux ruisselantes, architechtures
surdimensionnées,verdure, et coins dangereux, très bien suggerée par les
espaces, et le rythme alternatif et hypnotique qui plane. <br />
les sentiments, les réactions et les relations humaines sont là : sous forme de scènes,cohérentes,véritables,<br />
<div>
<wbr></wbr>sans
concessions, spacieuses,ou confinées, changantes..., et meme un un
moment drôle!!pour un film dramatique, c'est une marque d'aisance qui
laisse prommettre une marge confortable d' évolution,avec La scène
"biblique" à la "Tarantino" de la punition par, et du beau-père,ponctue
aussi intelligement le film. <br />
Mais la violence de la vie
d'adolescente de jeune fille, devenant de plus en plus seule, et enfin
rejetée, ni forte, ni faible, ni lâche, elle ne trouvera pas, même pas
avec l'homme qu'elle a choisi d'aimer, ce qu'elle aurait souhaité
entendre.<br />
Mais c'est souvent les plus proches, qui nous font le plus de mal...<br />
Après
avoir goûté au plus abject de la puissance de l'homme, la force
physique contre les femmes,et "s'en est fini de ses rêves de paix et
d'amour", et, de vie .<br />
Bravo.Ce film parle a l'adolescent qui est
toujours en nous,et nous engage tous sentimentalement et
intellectuellement.Tu peux être fièr de ce nouveau long-métrage,et
mérite,encouragements,quiétude et inspiration. Au plaisir de ton
prochain registre de réalisation.<br />
Que la force et la chance soient avec toi. Sincerely.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-11075899972999017922012-06-02T05:00:00.001-07:002012-06-28T09:02:32.674-07:00Nadine comes to Paris<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica-Bold; font-size: 19px;"><b><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.quietearth.us/articles/2010/06/28/Review-of-Ian-Simpsons-NADINE">Review of Ian Simpson's NADINE</a></span></b></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 14pt;"><b>Review by: Rick
McGrath<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 14pt;"><b>Rating: 9 out of
10<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 10pt;">“Nadine, is that
you? Every time I see you, you’ve got something else to do…” Chuck Berry may
have been perplexed about the restless activities of his future bride, but he’s
not even in the same tenement flat as Ian Simpson, who actually follows his
Nadine as she finds lots of something else to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 10pt;">None of it nice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 10pt;">Shot in a seductive
mixture of arthouse cool and cinema verité brutal, Nadine is an incredibly
powerful look at what it means when “some day… everything goes wrong” for a
psychologically disturbed teen at the ignored end of Britain’s impoverished
lower classes. The basic plot was revealed on Quiet Earth when Nadine’s second
trailer was posted: "Nadine, a teenage girl who is a regular self-harmer,
is subjected to a hostile mother, an abusive stepfather, a drug addicted
boyfriend and crude sexual violence from the locals. She lives on a desolate
council estate surrounded by nature where she finds occasional solace. However,
the profound weight of indifference, injustice and cruelty, proves too much for
Nadine, whose life enters a rapid downward spiral." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 10pt;">That’s close
enough, although the downward spiral is misleading: Nadine’s story is about her
misadventures at the bottom of the spiral, and surely anything else must be up
from here. This bone-toss to optimism is one of the odder elements of this
excellent movie, as writer/director Simpson has chosen to bookend his drama
with short docu-style interviews in which Nadine discusses her life and mulls
about the future. In between we get to experience what’s she’s talking about.
It’s depressing. It’s shocking. It’s a subculture of aggression and instinctual
violence equal to the middle-class antics of the characters stuck in the zoo
that is JG Ballard’s classic High-Rise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 10pt;">Yeah, the plot is
cool and the action zips along, but what separates Nadine from your run-of-the-tenement-hopeless-poverty-sucks
stories is Simpson’s killer direction and his actor’s incredibly great
performances. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 10pt;">Simpson’s sense of
style is sensational. Apparently shot in black & white, Simpson has allowed
just one colour onto his palate – a dark burgundy red, sort of like dried
blood. It’s used subtly and seemingly without specific symbolic sense, on
shoes, a car, a nightgown, on white sheer curtains… and often not at all. He
uses a wide variety of shots, from very long to lingering close-up, and has an
affinity for the long slow zoom and perfectly-paced panoramic pans. He’s also
very patient. What’s also impressive is his sense of the restrictive aspect of
this nether world, where adults hide alone in alcoholism and race hatred, where
kids overlap in drugs, sex and casual violence, and to emphasize the “innerness”
of it all Simpson keeps it tight and combustible in claustrophobic rooms, ugly
tenement halls and the surrounding roads of South London, breaking only
occasionally to meander through a neighbouring park, where Nadine comes to
recharge – such a romantic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 10pt;">Simpson also took a
chance by casting nothing but non-actors to fill this movie’s many roles.
Believe me, you’ll find this unbelievable if you get to see Nadine. I have no
idea how Simpson cajoled these performances out of nothing, but there they are
and all you can do is wonder. His greatest find is Lisa Jane Gregory, who plays
the hapless Nadine to perfection. She’s amazing, especially as a physical
actor, although she can turn on the waterworks and crank the emotions as well.
Gregory’s presence is amazing. In her suicidal, self-cutting mode, she’s a
walking billboard of defeat. Slouched shoulders, perpetually downcast eyes,
knock-kneed legs bursting out from under a miniskirt, pigeon-toed feet
shuffling in chunky-soled hooker shoes, broken nails, ragged, greasy hair,
complete lack of make-up, and underneath, a simmering aggression, all make
Gregory’s Nadine a character to watch and remember. The psychic power of the
character comes from her unresolved relationship with her lost father, and
Gregory is surprisingly good at conveying that emotion. It’s apparent she
unknowingly blames herself, hence the self-mutilation as a form of punishment,
and her relationships are all coloured with a kind of self-disgust… perhaps the
idea behind Simpson’s sporadic use of spot red throughout the film. Menstrual
red? The rest of the cast also does a fine job, but you can see how Simpson has
carefully set them up so less acting becomes more acting. Nadine’s “boyfriend”
Wayne rarely moves or talks. Not only does this make him more enigmatic (he’s
supposed to be an artist), it does away with virtually every amateur fault!
This basic technique – keep it simple when you have to – works well with the
sparse style and B&W format Simpson has chosen, and actually adds to the
vacancy of these people’s lives, where their social status and possibility of
escape is so low that any intellectual concerns are completely dominated by the
instinctual emotions, by addictions, by the need for action – any action – to
postpone a death by boredom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 10pt;">In this way Nadine
covers more cultural ground than the shoes of its heroine. Simpson’s overall
landscape of tenement despair allows him to take a good look at other social
issues of the poor and the young, such as crime, rascism and morality, and
works up his plot to generously reveal the fears and hates of Britain’s version
of American white trash, as well as the dog-eat-dog choices of their youthful
black neighbours, who may be thugs and drug pushers, but who dress better and
have more money. And get most of the white girls. Hmmm, unsurprisingly similar.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-size: 10pt;">Nadine… you’re
always doing something else, you wacky outsider. Is that you? This Nadine is,
and if you get a chance to hang out for a day or two in her neighbourhood, I’d
highly recommend a visit. But don’t stay to long, OK?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioeAQasOzXWZuohWZvf3r7KnxTX6fQ5Z-7OzuUy7N2F6q8p-oreMi7-hNj3yw4PBzrgETVaJTF_gchNzWw02Mv0WAg8ddi1wxZz3S6fkwuP-4dEM0JSwVXirz8-1hY9rAnKhkT_BwW7FU/s1600/nadine-poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioeAQasOzXWZuohWZvf3r7KnxTX6fQ5Z-7OzuUy7N2F6q8p-oreMi7-hNj3yw4PBzrgETVaJTF_gchNzWw02Mv0WAg8ddi1wxZz3S6fkwuP-4dEM0JSwVXirz8-1hY9rAnKhkT_BwW7FU/s1600/nadine-poster.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Les
Dernières Nouvelles d'Alsace </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Critique parue dans
DNA reflets<br />
nadine<br />
un film de Ian Simpson<br />
avec Lisa Jane Gregory<br />
GB - 2007 - 1 h 15 - VOST<br />
<br />
<br />
Nadine des esprits<br />
<br />
Nadine, deuxième long-métrage de Ian Simpson, un Britannique établi à
Strasbourg, entend selon son réalisateur « raconter l’histoire et l’existence
solitaire d’une adolescente à travers un récit réaliste et dépouillée ». Ce
pitch, comme on jargonne dans les professions de l’audiovisuel, n’est qu’à
moitié exact.<br />
<br />
Dans les quartiers les moins favorisés du sud de Londres, on y suit le quotidien
de cette Nadine fragile, tangente, instable, qui tente désespérément de trouver
une raison de survivre entre une mère méchamment hostile, un beau-père abusif
et probablement fasciste, un petit ami défoncé, au centre de tous les sévices
sexuels et agressions verbales ou physiques qu’on attache à celle qui serait,
de notoriété publique, « la pute du quartier ». Nadine promène, le long des
rues dévastées, en bordure de voies rapides et de barres d’immeubles grisâtres,
sensiblement plus qu’un spleen existentiel : la violence sociale dans toute sa
brutalité, cristallisée dans un noir et blanc somptueux et glaçant, nappée
parfois d’une suite pour violoncelle de Bach.<br />
<br />
Cette pure chronique sociale est à vrai dire la part la moins réussie du film
de Ian Simpson : parce qu’il faut, face à ce genre de sujet, choisir son point
de vue, et s’y tenir avec une grande résolution. Il y a autour de Nadine, dans
ces cadres impeccablement (su)composés et dans cette velléité d’y introduire un
peu de transcendance, trop de beauté formelle, ou peut-être de coquetterie,
pour que la force du propos n’en pâtisse pas. Est-il bien nécessaire de passer
l’image au filtre rouge lorsque Nadine tente pour la énième fois de s’ouvrir
les veines ?<br />
Faut-il comprendre que Nadine serait un film raté ? Pas du tout. D’abord parce
que la densité de ses comédiens, pour la plupart non-professionnels, suffit
presque à elle seule à emporter l’empathie, à donner le ton juste. Mais aussi,
mais surtout parce que Ian Simpson offre à sa pauvre héroïne, et au spectateur,
de splendides respirations oniriques : au milieu de tout ce désastre urbain,
sans explications aucun, apparaissent soudain des troupeaux entiers de biches
et de cerfs. Une forêt frémit au vent du soir. Deux bad boys s’y métamorphosent
à vue en mendiants magnifiques paraissant sortis des contes de Chaucer. Le film
bascule, comme si La Nuit du chasseur s’invitait coeur d’un documentaire sur le
nouveau lumpenproletariat du blairisme.<br />
<br />
La beauté qui se révèle à ces instants n’a rien à voir avec celle, toujours un
peu frelatée, de l’émotion fabriquée. C’est celle, irradiante, d’un regard
exact sur ce qui est, et sur ce qui est derrière ce qui est. Il faut faire,
pour ses films suivants, confiance dans le cinéaste Ian Simpson.<br />
<br />
Jérôme Mallien<br />
<br />
Cinéma l’Odyssée - 3 rue des Francs Bourgeois - Strasbourg - 03 88 75 10 47 </span></div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-5689720831210527302012-04-14T10:12:00.006-07:002012-04-14T13:30:21.421-07:00MAN IN WOOD (2012)- in production<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0L_QifqNikesXIvD7yE2hKkkEvdGgh0wr1LrZ9Cj1DqAPGx4wdUHN4TulkmQCjn77yZra4DVGdXefZnlprro5wepCaQ5vyByxFW8eOLtvnR-wiNRNBasiKf6K9TVHDKvnr5YiJimnEAs/s1600/maninwood.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0L_QifqNikesXIvD7yE2hKkkEvdGgh0wr1LrZ9Cj1DqAPGx4wdUHN4TulkmQCjn77yZra4DVGdXefZnlprro5wepCaQ5vyByxFW8eOLtvnR-wiNRNBasiKf6K9TVHDKvnr5YiJimnEAs/s320/maninwood.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731356455683982866" /></a><br />looks like somebody we know! we love film and so do you!<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-22214154728090048192012-03-15T04:37:00.003-07:002012-03-15T04:43:07.456-07:00Tremble like a flower<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_e6fSbNw5dGd-aN61gY-DBWkQ0L__gjmKa6TN-wSDWHYg9iUVOXhePT8cmpjt2vK7viy2b9Iwn-VAE60pCfS5wfIuCiMkpKKe3zfZYzZNy8BvvwgKk36k9K6qN38pFdfSuqf2VCAggY/s1600/joe%253B2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_e6fSbNw5dGd-aN61gY-DBWkQ0L__gjmKa6TN-wSDWHYg9iUVOXhePT8cmpjt2vK7viy2b9Iwn-VAE60pCfS5wfIuCiMkpKKe3zfZYzZNy8BvvwgKk36k9K6qN38pFdfSuqf2VCAggY/s320/joe%253B2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720087779777014210" /></a><br />She leaves the room turning slightly that doll of a head she wears to offer him a warm yet guarded smile. A lot older than she looked last night, he thought. He sits on the bed and lights one of her extra longs. He looks at his whiskey soaked face in the wardrobe mirror and sighs heavily.<br />He walks into the hallway where he watches her through the semi open toilet door, peeing; She looks over to the sink and curses for some reason. <br />She has a coughing fit. Spits something vile between her thighs into the bowl.<br /> There is not much paper.<br /> A bluebottle fly lands on her knee and stays there unnoticed. <br /> He thought about the Bowie song they played at the bar last night. The lyrics ‘if you should fall into my arms and tremble like a flower’<br />He didn’t know why he thought of that particular verse. He didn’t care much for Bowie. He didn’t care much for music. He didn’t get it. Didn’t understand the dancing, the singing along, and the idol worship. But those lyrics ‘if you should fall into my arms and tremble like a flower’<br />She wipes between her legs and flushes.<br /> <br />He walks back to the window where he sees an old lady with a cane crossing the street.<br />The late morning sun shines bright through the lace curtains window the old girl makes it to other side of the street. He smiles. <br />The sunlight gleams on his face making him momentarily unrecognisable. A phantom <br />Burning bright.<br />White.<br />Light. <br /><br />He sits in silence beside her on the bed. Sex followed by breakfast that only happened with his ex wife. Burnt toast and marmalade followed by a dose of rowing- how we gonna pay the rent this month?<br />I’ll get a job.<br />How many times have I heard that hey?<br />The interview went well yesterday.<br />So?<br />They’re gonna call me back.<br />Yeah’ she would say’ yeah, when chicken have teeth’ She was French strange expressions but nice accent. That’s why he fell for her. Her accent, her perfect way of touch, her caress, soft gracefully moving hands. Her neck. Her back. And when she smiled.<br /> Bitch.<br /><br /> <br />‘Hey’ she calls. He ignores her. ‘Was I good’. She asks once more revealing a bit of skin through her opened gown. <br /> Yeah. <br />‘Yeah’ she repeats. ‘Yeah’ ‘I was good’ she says exasperatingly. They sit in silence. She blows a blue thin line from her cigarette before stubbing it out. <br />‘So what’s your name then?’<br />He lies. Well it was a name they called him at school all those years ago. They teased him with it and it was not even his name. But it stuck so he chose to use it from time to time.<br />She laughs and repeats his name again and again shaking her head in disbelief. But it’s cute she says<br />‘you know why they call me Rita don’t you?’<br />‘no.<br />Hayworth. Rita Hayworth, some people say I look like her. I do a bit. What do you think?<br />‘Yeah. I suppose you do.’<br />She did a bit.<br /><br /> She removes the belt from her dressing gown and lassoes it around his waist. She calls his name. Playfully she brings the belt up towards his neck pulling him towards her. Again she calls his name in a seductive manner whilst tugging at his neck. He struggles a little. Her gown apart and breast revealed, nipples pointing to the heavens. She laughs as she tugs the belt. That wide mouth of hers with smeared red lipstick and a perfect set of dentures, maybe. He becomes slightly annoyed and pulls away. But she pulls him closer. He looks that wide laughing mouth. He places his hand around her neck and begins to squeeze, softly at first. She laughs and sticks her tongue out mischievously. But he increases the pressure around neck, her eyes larger than usual. She shakes her head from side to side. He has reached a point where there can be no going back. She begins to splutter, gasping for air. He continues to squeeze. Harder. She kicks her legs, kicking the silver breakfast tray off the bed. An orange roll perfectly out the bedroom door and down a couple of steps on the stairs.<br />He squeezes. Harder. She kicks her legs fighting for her dear life. Foam at the corners of that mouth. Beads of sweat settled on forehead. <br />The smell of urine. <br /> She kicks struggles, eyes bulging.<br /> And he squeezes.<br /> Squeezing the very life out of her. Until nothing. Stillness.<br />One lifeless hand hangs of the bed.<br />He sits on the floor head down between his thighs.<br />The sixth commandment. <br />‘I’ll have time to think about that one’ he thought. <br />Then that song. <br />‘tremble like a flower’<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-13785683617487003192012-03-14T23:53:00.003-07:002012-03-20T03:01:25.865-07:00that stands outside<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFXJGrWzvdIF2pGktUUVVfxXEfydte_YEIH0u1hWi9TyQV9eGtV9sdFIy2uG9crfqz5nilpxB2AU4C_r8VXZvqdMS7G1Ubl1A6VEkGPBB-6kDaE62sQdoWNNy5yJjyvytOoi7N7u_zeI/s1600/the+hands.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFXJGrWzvdIF2pGktUUVVfxXEfydte_YEIH0u1hWi9TyQV9eGtV9sdFIy2uG9crfqz5nilpxB2AU4C_r8VXZvqdMS7G1Ubl1A6VEkGPBB-6kDaE62sQdoWNNy5yJjyvytOoi7N7u_zeI/s320/the+hands.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720014515554459986" /></a><br />She gradually steps out of the bed pulling the sheet around her nakedness as she does so. The few minutes that she had laid there on her back while her husband routinely went about his business was mercifully done. He dresses for work, his colourful yellow tie with the characteristically dull office suit adding an extra touch of unattractiveness she had previously been unaware of. He splashes some common cologne on his cheeks looking quite smug at his reflection through the mirror on the dressing table, the new Ikea dresser which just as her husband she had grown to dislike. I mean neither was unkind to her.<br /> ‘How do I look? He proclaims with astonishing assurance. <br />The same as you always look, utterly boring and lifeless.<br /> She bites on her lower lip before answering. <br />‘Great’.<br />‘I’d best be going. I’ll be late and I’m not project manager just yet and even if I were it would be of principal importance that I for one should … <br />His words float pointlessly around the room feeding those walls that may have ears.<br />He walks over to her and kisses her softly.<br /> He says something funny that makes her force a smile eager to give momentum to his exist. He kisses on the forehead and calls her a silly nickname, one I fail to remember but certainly nauseating. <br />At the bedroom door he says goodbye once again calling her by that silly nickname. She throws him a half-smiles. He hesitates at the door before finally leaving. She faces the door until she hears him take the stairs, close the front door, cross the cobbled driveway, start the engine of the company car and hit the gas peddle.<br /> She throws herself back on the bed eyes closed at first before looking up at the forever-white ceiling, it is the forever-ness of it all that brings on the sudden bout of depression. <br /> Her left hand caresses the cool of the bedroom wall above the bed head.<br /><br /> Under the shower she thinks about the hands of her lover as she washed away the remains of her husband’s frequently abhorrent scent. What was it about his hands that she loved so much? She checks for lumps though usually afraid. The power shower drowns out the sounds of activity in the house to enhance her escape into fantasy. She knows nothing about that that stands outside. <br /> She bends to pick up the green bottle of hair conditioner and thinks about those hands.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-71520647976879252662012-03-12T13:14:00.008-07:002012-03-26T03:00:07.891-07:00she stood by the bedroom window<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQEU2qwod265sBXS5WN5ou9aXDhqlg2z23PdhVxjZdg5PsAQ5OIZEMhSaje9O7RfBxAt_TD-vGgxDr9yWy1D9fVyjovzzImgyCjxY1MQB7jvqzomD9m9siIdIFhVNbLRMAyDjKHiqKbEY/s1600/girl.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQEU2qwod265sBXS5WN5ou9aXDhqlg2z23PdhVxjZdg5PsAQ5OIZEMhSaje9O7RfBxAt_TD-vGgxDr9yWy1D9fVyjovzzImgyCjxY1MQB7jvqzomD9m9siIdIFhVNbLRMAyDjKHiqKbEY/s320/girl.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719118591604579970" /></a><br /><br />‘ I like your hands’ she says, ‘you have hands like my father’<br />‘your father’s hands´ he says. ‘ <br />‘And my father’s mouth. <br />Your father’s mouth?’<br />‘My father was an artist. He made wooden sculptors´ he had hands like an artist<br />I’m not an artist he says. You are’<br />No I’m not’ she replies. I work in a shoe shop.<br />‘I thought you painted.<br />Painted? I do like to paint though.<br />What kind of things?<br />She doesn’t answer.<br />I sell wood’ he says. <br />‘ I liked to paint’ she says after some time. ‘I’d like to paint your toes’ <br />mistrust sets in. <br />my toes? why? He mutters.<br />Are you hungry?<br />A little’ he says.<br />I love the snow’ she says ‘it’s like a brand new page.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-34659892903032776902010-07-14T03:49:00.001-07:002010-07-14T03:52:49.847-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZBX5hBQs8w3Zb3vIYWgieJM3qGMy_ez9Se_s-0a4sSfSMH3GKQUra6Rdq5wegRLDyTE_W8p1XYkFEwKXN_BqU3goPxidxaR7KZetrP36nGDu3vkommR1Lw0v7CryRdkz7ejWJQv3va0/s1600/DVD+Cover+Toothache.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZBX5hBQs8w3Zb3vIYWgieJM3qGMy_ez9Se_s-0a4sSfSMH3GKQUra6Rdq5wegRLDyTE_W8p1XYkFEwKXN_BqU3goPxidxaR7KZetrP36nGDu3vkommR1Lw0v7CryRdkz7ejWJQv3va0/s320/DVD+Cover+Toothache.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493713021188149378" /></a><br />Toothache- A film noir with a social message, 28 December 2006<br />Author: George_SS from United Kingdom<br /><br />*** This review may contain spoilers ***<br /><br />Toothache is Ian Simpson's first full feature outing as a Film Director and succeeds in engaging and continuing to draw in the viewer throughout the film.<br /><br />This comedy which is set in Paris very soon after the completion of the Eurostar, when cross channel activity was at a high. So we are treated to an ensemble of characters Anglo and Gallic; a young talented Ludovine Sagnier,a magnificent Julie Depardieu, the very passionate Englishman Oliver Millburn and the exciting and hilarious Marc Barbe. To say the casting is superb is an understatement. Ian Simpson's choice to cast the very French Marc Barbe as an American Producer in Paris is a master touch and extremely funny.<br /><br />In essence Toothache centres around this bourgeois quartet and all their personal dramas whilst collectively they maintain some sort of equilibrium or facade. We have the characters displaying emotions of unrequited love,stress of a new pregnancy,failure and loss.<br /><br />Through out the film Ian Simpson's ,sometimes sardonic, style pervades and his brutal clips of real down and outs in Paris may upset. There is also a social side to this film and a very real message;life's realities for this underclass and how distant it is from our Bourgeois Quartet's masquerades and petty problems.<br /><br />Getting back to the comedy, of which there is so much,is enhanced by Simpson's clever camera techniques and cuts. The dialogue is brilliantly written; the combination of British humour and Gallic dead pan is a joy to watch and will leave you in hysterics. You really want this film to keep going on, it builds and builds on the humour. The four characters also combine so well...a sitcom could be written around them.<br /><br />The musical score is interesting and daring and works, especially in a passionate scene on a bridge over the Seine.<br /><br />If you get a chance to watch this film please do as you are in for a unexpected treat. A Cult Classic.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-54606784117341833912010-07-05T21:02:00.000-07:002010-07-14T04:34:44.111-07:00He doesn’t sleep<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiw_I3hyphenhyphen_j0-KQZGzXnOCaPBY-4_wWUlWaTs2PPcN9eUUtJCA8g5rFURadvQ9DOoYDCKuUxJ25UlHCRsxL-GtiCcJno68sRd3rSqt26E4v27rL9RxUlb4ihMP63CwLPmnREkWtxMc692E/s1600/insomnia.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiw_I3hyphenhyphen_j0-KQZGzXnOCaPBY-4_wWUlWaTs2PPcN9eUUtJCA8g5rFURadvQ9DOoYDCKuUxJ25UlHCRsxL-GtiCcJno68sRd3rSqt26E4v27rL9RxUlb4ihMP63CwLPmnREkWtxMc692E/s320/insomnia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490639328841470834" /></a><br />He doesn’t sleep. Later he has to see his father and he is afraid. He knows the questions that will crop up. ‘Wayne you got a job yet?’ ‘I’m writing Dad’ ‘I mean a real job?’ ‘I work in a bar’ You still drinking?’ ‘Not really’ ‘Drink will be the death of you’<br />His mother will be sitting in the couch opposite listening to our conversation with the huh-huh and humming from time to time, strange agreeable sounds to his father’s advice, occasionally breaking out to an old gospel number like ‘My father house’ to increase the guilt. His guilt.<br />Another reason he was afraid of seeing his father. Father was not at all well. He was stricken by tuberculosis caused by chronic bronchitis and in certainty could go any time. The doctors say its ‘touch and go but he should be alright’; whatever the heck that meant. “What exactly does doctors get paid for” he pondered. ‘Bloody doctors’ he says out loud. <br />He steps out of the bed and leaves his sleeping girlfriend. He sits on the bed edge for a while staring at his feet. His right foot had a lump the size of a golf ball. Cancer he thought.<br /> It is 4.24 am. She mutters his name “Wayne” he remains silent. “What you doing?”<br />He says nothing. At 4.26 he leaves the room. <br />There is a half bottle of port in the kitchen cupboard. He contemplates before deciding on coffee. He takes his mug into the living quarters and picks up a couple of sheets of A4 from the desk where an empty glass with a whiff of scotch from the night before remains. He reads what he wrote the on the sheet. <br />Title- HE DOESN’T SLEEP. Underneath this bold yet inane intro is intangible scribble that he does not quite understand. He sits down at his desk and fishes for a biro in his nearby rucksack. He knew what to write; Wayne have you got a job yet?’ ‘I’m writing Dad’ ‘I mean a real job?’ ‘I work in a bar” “‘You still drinking?’ ‘Not really’ ‘Drink will be the death of you’<br />A storm a brewing it is a matter of time before the rain falls in buckets. Wayne continues to write. He writes about his mother singing the gospel hymn ‘my father house ’whilst he speaks about employment and alcohol with his father. He writes about the inconsequential comments of doctors and his hatred of them. He then lays his pen to rest. Feeling like a cigarette he creeps into the bedroom where his sleeping girlfriend lays and sneaks into her handbag for a Marlboro light. He rips of the butt of the cigarette, cutting away the light from the Marlboro, as he fires up the cigarette a voice from the corner of the room says “ I’ll have one and a cup of coffee too.” <br />He turns to find himself facing a man of such magnificent stature he is almost blinded by his presence. The man is soaking wet but shines like the sun.<br />“You’re an angel,” Wayne declares. <br />“Yes I’m an angel. A exhausted, overworked, soaking wet, absolutely knackered angel who could murder for a cup of coffee and a Marlboro, but not the light kind…<br />“I rip the ends off”<br />“I do the same”<br />Wayne remains seated diminished with astonishment. The angel sits down on the arm of the sofa.<br />“An angel who drinks coffee and smokes. Now that’s really something”<br />“ Nothing wrong with a good cup of coffee and a damn good cigarette” says the angel.<br />“No of course not” Wayne replies. “ But where’s your wings?”<br />“Cliché” Says Angel “ the wing idea comes from the notion that we fly but we don’t fly we just appear. Wings… I hate them.<br />“Right” says Wayne.<br />They sit in calm for what seems like forever ever. <br />“Look, you gonna get me this cup of coffee and a cigarette or what?<br />“Sure thing” <br /> Wayne leaves the room looking back once to check if the angel was still around.<br /><br />He doesn’t sleep. Later he has to see his father and he is afraid. His phone rings. It is 4.24 am. He leans over his sleeping girlfriend to answer.<br />“Mother?”<br />“Hello son”<br />A long and telling silence follows.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-35755622698494817392010-07-05T00:11:00.000-07:002010-07-05T00:13:41.597-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6c3qIIG7GRYQDtmwIxCRrzVS3Hgvk8wbH6AuPm-FXoIqcIzKptf2V9MOsT0_8AyI4p33s8gRnNoRl5R3itjkEUBdLOOAIVr2anG5eKogVwyj_nbSwjqTyYHa43UVaTzbvWKnBBE1hADE/s1600/DSC00018.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6c3qIIG7GRYQDtmwIxCRrzVS3Hgvk8wbH6AuPm-FXoIqcIzKptf2V9MOsT0_8AyI4p33s8gRnNoRl5R3itjkEUBdLOOAIVr2anG5eKogVwyj_nbSwjqTyYHa43UVaTzbvWKnBBE1hADE/s320/DSC00018.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490316892052130530" /></a><br />My research to make this film has been thorough and passionate, taking the road through French regions of Alsace, Lorraine, through Moselle, the mountains of the Vosges along the valley of the Rhine, to Germany into the depth of the black forest…. It had seemed never-ending.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-79201552094654296132010-07-04T23:56:00.000-07:002010-07-05T00:04:30.066-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aFUn4m0QCIOLycGIvQ2GvW25r9YBOzUAVaOLx2hqT_NofIoMgQ2phV6uSAprv7keZKXOpYpMdVLtoEs4cR_ivfqMTY31ud2w__PCFch6HXxAisBKeTzx_WOrRinsqDY0HVFEu8EyqkY/s1600/DSC00071.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aFUn4m0QCIOLycGIvQ2GvW25r9YBOzUAVaOLx2hqT_NofIoMgQ2phV6uSAprv7keZKXOpYpMdVLtoEs4cR_ivfqMTY31ud2w__PCFch6HXxAisBKeTzx_WOrRinsqDY0HVFEu8EyqkY/s320/DSC00071.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490314506037690578" /></a><br />… and to Meisenthal where the artist is occasionally based ‘a weird and wonderful place’ according to several of the locals.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-13645928531736971282010-07-04T23:39:00.000-07:002010-07-04T23:55:41.364-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9rLbTs1hG3AXsZpFI9FuWjvRdCy92f_hS2xBERach0K1CrzpU1W8MqrNnGG3e03rD2TNBgb_y7Zk9l87KVj2AvXbDYJMJi8CAU4gN8FOBEkSbobss5gGz97T_71nXQKctv8cxLJUJ5E/s1600/DSC00038.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9rLbTs1hG3AXsZpFI9FuWjvRdCy92f_hS2xBERach0K1CrzpU1W8MqrNnGG3e03rD2TNBgb_y7Zk9l87KVj2AvXbDYJMJi8CAU4gN8FOBEkSbobss5gGz97T_71nXQKctv8cxLJUJ5E/s320/DSC00038.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490312218408369730" /></a><br /><br />My father was a man of wood. For most of his working life he worked with timber. In a timber yard he worked, chopping, sawing, carving, carrying, and selling all types of wood, to all types of customers, for all types of reasons, for types of …<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-24510636552018784362010-07-04T23:13:00.000-07:002010-07-04T23:39:01.760-07:00What is human?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrKb98BnI8OCMcSp02rZQZ0u1mlnGuDRCnQ5O2S3fXli4vpdEl3Q28jD_sKfkWOtYEmOdP8qFv5C4R8HhTDOa44j5DDVM1lKRxsKRgFrxy7D6GLpB8aRJIJWzMbV1PNp1zS6Hed0HHeA/s1600/horror.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrKb98BnI8OCMcSp02rZQZ0u1mlnGuDRCnQ5O2S3fXli4vpdEl3Q28jD_sKfkWOtYEmOdP8qFv5C4R8HhTDOa44j5DDVM1lKRxsKRgFrxy7D6GLpB8aRJIJWzMbV1PNp1zS6Hed0HHeA/s320/horror.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490307844843908658" /></a><br />A closer look at the work of the artist the intensely chiselled features freeing the human trapped in the wood. From tree to man or in my film interpretation- from man to tree.<br />What is human? Who is this man in wood?<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-57918728673973266912010-07-04T04:39:00.001-07:002010-07-04T04:39:54.552-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsENldTG51jtn2jUCbu7_SdGEmWGg_D9yTPHSP-hU-bQWJaNxc7_fA6EVglDgEqWK4QC3NW1Bvsx_dmULlYay2JesZx2PVJs34joNA8W4NxPglI30epislZhH6rp3ob0yZqb_b7OGUM7c/s1600/FrancisBaconSeatedWoman-730935.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 245px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsENldTG51jtn2jUCbu7_SdGEmWGg_D9yTPHSP-hU-bQWJaNxc7_fA6EVglDgEqWK4QC3NW1Bvsx_dmULlYay2JesZx2PVJs34joNA8W4NxPglI30epislZhH6rp3ob0yZqb_b7OGUM7c/s320/FrancisBaconSeatedWoman-730935.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490014396468267794" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-13464062992788446042010-07-04T04:36:00.000-07:002010-07-14T04:45:08.250-07:00A Blue Stone“You’re a cunt you know that?<br />The ice jiggled against the glass that he held in his hand. The whiskey was the cheap sort so the ice was a necessity. “I said you are a cunt”.<br />She sat by the dresser removing her makeup with a simple face cleanser. <br />“You’re just a dumb female with a pigeon brain,” he slurred finding it difficult to stand on his drunken feet. She continues to ignore him applying more face cleanser as he makes his way closer to the dresser.<br />“Look at me dumb cunt” he says. “Fucking look at me”<br />She doesn’t face him but talks through the reflecting glass mirror. <br /> “ Go scream at the whore in the bar” she says. <br />“What cunt”?<br />“You heard”<br />Now she turns towards him whilst tugging at the buckle on her high heel boots. “Go and fight with your whore”<br />“What whore”? What the fuck are you talking about”?<br />“The skinny slut in the bar who you couldn’t take your eyes off” the anger is now rising, her brilliant eyes are changing. There is fire inside. <br />“And so” he mutters.<br />Silence.<br />“Have you fucked her”? She asks gently as though she was asking if he wanted to have dinner, the calm before the storm.<br />“Now that’s ridiculous,” he says head facing the bedroom floor. Up she stands from the chair by the dresser with one boot in hand and hobbles a closer to him. A funny sight as though she had been stricken by poliomyelitis. <br />“You fucked her you bastard”! The boot in her hand is thrown across the room and crashes into his mouth instantly breaking his bottom lip. Hopping with such speed towards him her hands shaped like that of a cat prepared to tear at his eyes. He grabs hold of her wrist directing away the danger. <br />“Bastard”! She yells.<br />He grabs hold of a handful of her wonderful hair, shakes her head forcefully before tossing her to the floor. She lands on he arse, staring, breathing with gusto. He sits on the bed opposite and wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. She parts her legs slowly revealing the curls behind the lace of her knickers. She laughs. Her pants are wet, juices or piss. Both probably. Her hair wild and damp and beads of sweat rest on her forehead.<br />They stay in the position for some time. He on the bed examining his busted lip, she on the carpeted floor legs apart. <br /> She moves her knickers to one side and inserts her middle finger deep inside.<br />“I love you baby,” she purrs. <br />She removes the finger and raises it to her mouth. A tiny sticky bubble is delicately poised, the honey from deep inside her well. She smiles at him. The bubble burst. She laughs, a cackle of a laugh, witch-like. <br />“I love you baby,” says she. <br /><br />They make out. He lies on his back with her on top knickers in hand. She controls riding ardently in search of that orgasm that will give her the triumph she is desperately seeking. He fights back, fucking as vigorous as she. He feels his juices rising to the tip of his prick like mercury climbing in a thermometer.<br /> “ Don’t you fucking come yet?” she snarls. He tries to speak but words fails him, with the orgasm stuck somewhere between his throat and balls he whispers her name. She tells him to be quiet whilst forcing her clammy knickers into his mouth. He struggles to breathe as they continue to fuck. His head sways from side to side as he pushes deeper inside her towards the door of her womb. He fucks her. She fucks him. Cock fights against cunt. Cunt battles against cock. He hears the sound of his beating heat louder and louder in the centre of his ears. Death seems to be beside him. He cannot breathe. She continues to gallop whilst forcing the knickers further into his mouth to the entrance of his throat. He feels a stirring sensation in his balls, a sharp pain in the centre of his back. He comes in long powerful spurts, again and again. She cries out, a deep mournful cry before falling on his weak frame removing the knickers from his mouth. He takes a huge gasp of air before passing out. <br /><br />She sleeps curled up beside him, peacefully, like a cat that her has had her feed. He leaves the bed slowly careful not to wake the sleeping beauty. He looks across the room for his boxers then gives up, vision too blurred. The poster on the wall of Jean Harlow stares at him. He stares back. Considerably out of focus. Jean Harlow. Nice face, kinda, but sad eyes. Nice face. Sad eyes. Yeah. <br />His head is pounding and stomach roars. He needs a drink fast. The early morning light leaks through the slightly open blinds spilling a glorious glow on the sleeping beauty. She still has her knickers in her hand and her dress rolled up to her waist where her moist sex is revealed and a trail of dry sperm glued to an inner thigh. He takes a pillow that has fallen to the floor and places it between her legs. She drearily moves her body and murmurs something, perhaps his name, then encloses her legs around the soft pillow. She falls back to sleep. Mouth slightly open. Tiny little sounds of breathing, so different from the wild beast before. But she is loveliness itself. Her beauty radiates like a precious stone. <br /> A blue stone. <br /><br />He sits alone and naked in the kitchen with the clean morning light rapidly rising. He pulls on the bottle of beer to satisfy the roaming monster in his stomach. The cool of the beer caresses his insides. ‘Thank you’ it says. The chirping sounds of the birds making play in the garden brings him to smile as he finishes the last pull of the bottle. He returns to the refrigerator searching for more answers. There is a bottle of white, half empty. He pops the cork releasing the wine from its imprisonment and necks a good quarter. He sits back by the kitchen table and takes another gulp from the cool white. He feels his swollen lip and then remembers the night, the fighting the fucking. He smiled then laughed out aloud shattering the tranquillity of the gentle morning. He suddenly realizes his loneliness and it scares him so he takes another hit of the wine. He places the chill of the bottle between his thighs, closer to his sleeping penis. It feels good. A trickle of sperm emerges from the tiny eye. He inspects his penis. Something to do. The head is a rosy coloured red. Purple. No red. Kinda red. A dusky kind of purple. <br />There is a tap on the window. He spins around to look, penis still in hand. A little bird sits out side on the windowsill. It shuffles its wings a little, turning its beak towards the window and tapping. What did it want?<br />It was a red breast.<br />His penis falls back between his thighs as he finishes the last of the wine. He places the empty bottle on the table and the little bird flies away.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-88821273428984027192010-06-28T00:30:00.000-07:002010-06-28T00:31:27.712-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoMczK8jWOv8p_nepxhuV70eSjr5LckyPZh-Zx6RCHhCoKf_7e9s_QV6CrSKVp8YKv7w5mCnNZDCrHSaJuQhApNGSQr3u1L5Qs8LRof0vYHs0C7eQKV2MtdxBniWSiGBK2MzUtKNOkR-o/s1600/QElogo.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 92px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoMczK8jWOv8p_nepxhuV70eSjr5LckyPZh-Zx6RCHhCoKf_7e9s_QV6CrSKVp8YKv7w5mCnNZDCrHSaJuQhApNGSQr3u1L5Qs8LRof0vYHs0C7eQKV2MtdxBniWSiGBK2MzUtKNOkR-o/s320/QElogo.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487723838162021634" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-68973044239026550132010-06-28T00:28:00.000-07:002010-06-28T00:29:51.323-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigV2umZNc81B3RCLhvUWQF-9JeyRB9ByR0G5brL_OiWfM6aeLEOd161NAxuADRZRhNfwBbBrk2j6r_Uypldgoh8TwTc5dUT6LuD1pAmQrZGHOpSL6PogSi1Vs3YpwWtTbb0jPzodFW1iI/s1600/nadine-poster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigV2umZNc81B3RCLhvUWQF-9JeyRB9ByR0G5brL_OiWfM6aeLEOd161NAxuADRZRhNfwBbBrk2j6r_Uypldgoh8TwTc5dUT6LuD1pAmQrZGHOpSL6PogSi1Vs3YpwWtTbb0jPzodFW1iI/s400/nadine-poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487723319153096242" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-64660824030334018682010-06-28T00:20:00.000-07:002010-06-28T00:24:01.006-07:00Review of Ian Simpson's Nadine from Quiet EarthReview of Ian Simpson's NADINE<br /><br />Posted on Monday, June 28th, 2010 5:15:39 GMT by: Rick McGrath<br />Posted under: movie review drama united kingdom<br /><br />Year: 2008<br />Directors: Ian Simpson<br />Writers: Ian Simpson<br />IMDB: link<br />Trailer: trailer 1 trailer 2<br />Review by: Rick McGrath<br />Rating: 9 out of 10<br /><br />“Nadine, is that you? Every time I see you, you’ve got something else to do…” Chuck Berry may have been perplexed about the restless activities of his future bride, but he’s not even in the same tenement flat as Ian Simpson, who actually follows his Nadine as she finds lots of something else to do.<br /><br />None of it nice.<br /><br />Shot in a seductive mixture of arthouse cool and cinema verité brutal, Nadine is an incredibly powerful look at what it means when “some day… everything goes wrong” for a psychologically disturbed teen at the ignored end of Britain’s impoverished lower classes. The basic plot was revealed on Quiet Earth when Nadine’s second trailer was posted: "Nadine, a teenage girl who is a regular self-harmer, is subjected to a hostile mother, an abusive stepfather, a drug addicted boyfriend and crude sexual violence from the locals. She lives on a desolate council estate surrounded by nature where she finds occasional solace. However, the profound weight of indifference, injustice and cruelty, proves too much for Nadine, whose life enters a rapid downward spiral."<br /><br />That’s close enough, although the downward spiral is misleading: Nadine’s story is about her misadventures at the bottom of the spiral, and surely anything else must be up from here. This bone-toss to optimism is one of the odder elements of this excellent movie, as writer/director Simpson has chosen to bookend his drama with short docu-style interviews in which Nadine discusses her life and mulls about the future. In between we get to experience what’s she’s talking about. It’s depressing. It’s shocking. It’s a subculture of aggression and instinctual violence equal to the middle-class antics of the characters stuck in the zoo that is JG Ballard’s classic High-Rise.<br /><br />Yeah, the plot is cool and the action zips along, but what separates Nadine from your run-of-the-tenement-hopeless-poverty-sucks stories is Simpson’s killer direction and his actor’s incredibly great performances.<br /><br />Simpson’s sense of style is sensational. Apparently shot in black & white, Simpson has allowed just one colour onto his palate – a dark burgundy red, sort of like dried blood. It’s used subtly and seemingly without specific symbolic sense, on shoes, a car, a nightgown, on white sheer curtains… and often not at all. He uses a wide variety of shots, from very long to lingering close-up, and has an affinity for the long slow zoom and perfectly-paced panoramic pans. He’s also very patient. What’s also impressive is his sense of the restrictive aspect of this nether world, where adults hide alone in alcoholism and race hatred, where kids overlap in drugs, sex and casual violence, and to emphasize the “innerness” of it all Simpson keeps it tight and combustible in claustrophobic rooms, ugly tenement halls and the surrounding roads of South London, breaking only occasionally to meander through a neighbouring park, where Nadine comes to recharge – such a romantic.<br /><br />Simpson also took a chance by casting nothing but non-actors to fill this movie’s many roles. Believe me, you’ll find this unbelievable if you get to see Nadine. I have no idea how Simpson cajoled these performances out of nothing, but there they are and all you can do is wonder. His greatest find is Lisa Jane Gregory, who plays the hapless Nadine to perfection. She’s amazing, especially as a physical actor, although she can turn on the waterworks and crank the emotions as well. Gregory’s presence is amazing. In her suicidal, self-cutting mode, she’s a walking billboard of defeat. Slouched shoulders, perpetually downcast eyes, knock-kneed legs bursting out from under a miniskirt, pigeon-toed feet shuffling in chunky-soled hooker shoes, broken nails, ragged, greasy hair, complete lack of make-up, and underneath, a simmering aggression, all make Gregory’s Nadine a character to watch and remember. The psychic power of the character comes from her unresolved relationship with her lost father, and Gregory is surprisingly good at conveying that emotion. It’s apparent she unknowingly blames herself, hence the self-mutilation as a form of punishment, and her relationships are all coloured with a kind of self-disgust… perhaps the idea behind Simpson’s sporadic use of spot red throughout the film. Menstrual red? The rest of the cast also does a fine job, but you can see how Simpson has carefully set them up so less acting becomes more acting. Nadine’s “boyfriend” Wayne rarely moves or talks. Not only does this make him more enigmatic (he’s supposed to be an artist), it does away with virtually every amateur fault! This basic technique – keep it simple when you have to – works well with the sparse style and B&W format Simpson has chosen, and actually adds to the vacancy of these people’s lives, where their social status and possibility of escape is so low that any intellectual concerns are completely dominated by the instinctual emotions, by addictions, by the need for action – any action – to postpone a death by boredom.<br /><br />In this way Nadine covers more cultural ground than the shoes of its heroine. Simpson’s overall landscape of tenement despair allows him to take a good look at other social issues of the poor and the young, such as crime, rascism and morality, and works up his plot to generously reveal the fears and hates of Britain’s version of American white trash, as well as the dog-eat-dog choices of their youthful black neighbours, who may be thugs and drug pushers, but who dress better and have more money. And get most of the white girls. Hmmm, unsurprisingly similar.<br /><br />Nadine… you’re always doing something else, you wacky outsider. Is that you? This Nadine is, and if you get a chance to hang out for a day or two in her neighbourhood, I’d highly recommend a visit. But don’t stay to long, OK?<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-23153037926308317082010-06-26T02:35:00.000-07:002010-06-26T02:37:12.057-07:00and then sometimes...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcdTs5RwGmxDiOl7X8Dpfv8CtYdo8pmMDF-hQ7Ee15R9uRHVlBDmLJFkS3aJj9RxcjkLIiWVacw967YZg2EYBo__AomvtFdNYK2wgcx9oDmBoUFvcvtfo3xgzTwjITP971udwli_bhPSY/s1600/hidatnight8kg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcdTs5RwGmxDiOl7X8Dpfv8CtYdo8pmMDF-hQ7Ee15R9uRHVlBDmLJFkS3aJj9RxcjkLIiWVacw967YZg2EYBo__AomvtFdNYK2wgcx9oDmBoUFvcvtfo3xgzTwjITP971udwli_bhPSY/s320/hidatnight8kg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487014070082302322" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-49542315421201170812010-06-26T02:26:00.000-07:002010-06-26T12:25:41.461-07:00Where you goin' love?He had treated the waitress rather mean but still left a five bucks tip, that was more than reasonable in this neck of the woods. <br /> The late September rain fell gently against the tinted windows of the small town steakhouse restaurant ‘Tim and Toms’, where George had eaten a T-bone steak with potato fries and green runner beans preceded by an egg mayonnaise salad. His wife Fanny had a small bowl of minestrone soup to start and a main course Caesar salad. Although it did not entirely satisfy her hunger, at thirty eight years of age she was becoming incessantly aware about the descent of her once taunt and slender physique, hence the unfinished bowl of Ceaser salad. George several years her senior never had any quarrels with his oversized bear-like frame and finished his plate triumphantly quickly ordering the apple crumble and cream dessert, whilst Fanny opted for a fruit salad.<br />They had been married for fourteen years, and were celebrating that very fact. Conversation between the two was cheerless and uninspired, like the wine they had ordered, well the wine George had ordered claiming he had some knowledge since he had spent a few months in Paris once upon a time just before he had met Fanny. In fact Fanny who had never been abroad was charmed by this young mans escapades who appeared to her as an adventurer who had left his small town of Middleton Midwest USA, to venture overseas to big ole Europe. <br />But on this occasion let’s leave the frivolity of how they met in peace. The wine was a beaujolais, dull and fairly cheap.<br />The chubby and red-faced waitress gratefully took the five bucks tip and smiled as husband and wife left the restaurant, George leading the way as if he were in a hurry for some unknown reason. But this is George always in a hurry for some unknown reason. <br /><br />They drove no more than three kilometres when Fanny declared that she had an instant need to pee. The drive home had been even less talkative than the ‘Tim and Toms’ steakhouse restaurant episode and equally dismal. The radio played Elvis Presley’s classic song ‘love me’ which they both loved. Yes they both loved.<br />He stopped the car by the side of the calm yet still rainy countryside road. She steps out of the car closing the door behind her. Her walk starts steadily then begins to gather pace. Soon she is running. Running away. Never once looking back. George leaves the car, door open gathering small drops of rain.<br />‘Where you goin’ love?' he yells as she fades into the distance.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-64441808315637229532010-06-20T05:55:00.000-07:002010-06-20T06:16:30.438-07:00Les Dernières Nouvelles d'Alsace<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzMC-sF4vGMbQjHXTwVn75PMer-fwIaWfI4d9LiG1r78jisWYEDloZSKz_DZh8jNmVrgfdCiQkxytdD33Xuug' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-33460656122110124192010-06-20T05:41:00.000-07:002010-06-20T05:44:56.046-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuk1BsPNJPXIHTI0vaEXiXXaGpdKIuv-3sNAaJdoJ2bThnpvyFCTdCM19qi6l2z_73Wx5X2zE4ffVpj-Db5tal0EJkeFPYd3JZza-QwCpE812LpgMMBjMsgVqZiziFxKFrYIlbLnFO8g/s1600/Clich%C3%A9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuk1BsPNJPXIHTI0vaEXiXXaGpdKIuv-3sNAaJdoJ2bThnpvyFCTdCM19qi6l2z_73Wx5X2zE4ffVpj-Db5tal0EJkeFPYd3JZza-QwCpE812LpgMMBjMsgVqZiziFxKFrYIlbLnFO8g/s320/Clich%C3%A9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484835928805793426" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-84441570480717070872010-06-20T04:58:00.001-07:002013-04-25T01:14:40.362-07:00Ian Simpson- A short biography<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfRlQv_1H8ulyvEvDJlTt2IQiO72qG-mBLQjBEll9Z6sq4MuTiTEPjOHifBAl7n0K3SPzRzcXsujZPX58g3UCf4MG4XkNsacuvVgxmMCdyJdx8s5SRteblyHvZijYcHUzABx0GnHnkQ4/s1600/toothache.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484825758767018386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfRlQv_1H8ulyvEvDJlTt2IQiO72qG-mBLQjBEll9Z6sq4MuTiTEPjOHifBAl7n0K3SPzRzcXsujZPX58g3UCf4MG4XkNsacuvVgxmMCdyJdx8s5SRteblyHvZijYcHUzABx0GnHnkQ4/s320/toothache.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 50px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 50px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDwsSxhSTsSbdqEzxsDAQGzThxwRWLoVBv432XHv5iKgP108jEBrKRrOKmYDUXN33jU_6oCDrnKdBKOXjXvj2NV_FtEMXysUu-DyEHpd5QZe-aBEO06qc4vZP5TDmpbjxx1bKM_T6bAI8/s1600/nadine.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484825437794193218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDwsSxhSTsSbdqEzxsDAQGzThxwRWLoVBv432XHv5iKgP108jEBrKRrOKmYDUXN33jU_6oCDrnKdBKOXjXvj2NV_FtEMXysUu-DyEHpd5QZe-aBEO06qc4vZP5TDmpbjxx1bKM_T6bAI8/s320/nadine.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 50px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 50px;" /></a><br />
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Born in Balham south London on 1st December 1967. </span></div>
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After studying at a polytechnic for media and film studies Ian Simpson worked
as an assistant to chief documentary editor Jane Val Baker at the BBC. In 1989
as part of the BBC British Art Week, Ian Simpson assisted the Scottish
contemporary sculptor David Mac. </span></div>
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Throughout the 1990’s he work in several different fields- in Television, Pop
Videos, for companies such as 3D Productions and Hard Metal Films. In 1991 Ian
Simpson made his first short film ‘Ingredients’, a visual poem exploring such
themes as loss, violence, eroticism, birth and death in an ode to cinema.</span></div>
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Several short experimental super 8 and 16mm projects followed, before
independently directing and producing a documentary on the popular hip- hop
group the Fugees.</span></div>
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Another short ‘Actress’ was shot in late 1999 with the Parisian production Mic
Mac, a wry and vicious comedy about an Actresses love affair with her co-star.</span></div>
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2000 brought Ian Simpson first feature film ‘Toothache’ A.KA ‘Rage De Dent’ a
bitter satirical comedy following a group of bored middle class artist and
their troubles in love during a weekend in Paris. Starring Julie Depardieu,
Ludivine Sagnier, and Marc Barbe, Toothache was produced by Arte France cinema
and Mic Mac productions.</span></div>
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<span> </span>Ian Simpson second feature
‘Nadine’ was shot in September 2006. The film follows a teenage self-harmer who
suffers regular abuse from the locals and her family.<span> </span>Nadine premiered at the Odyssee Cinema Strasbourg in July
2007 as part of british cycle of films with Ken Loachs ‘The wind that shakes
the barley’ and Stephan Frears ‘The Queen’. It was also shown in competion at
Ghent film festival and Cork film festival.<span> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">‘i am Kombi’ (2012) a documentary directed by
Claudia Marschal for France Television was co-written by Ian Simpson.<span> </span>His third feature ‘Man in Wood’ is
currently in production.<span> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2351091/</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142598818754441207.post-89367567858216502972010-06-18T10:56:00.000-07:002010-06-18T11:03:52.980-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbhVdlbJhC1KmUy60JpAQ59lDd4JUxzeaLH9l3NOKM_KsuOYtljkRhCSb-YhuSXjAPhkwO1GI2zU9i5Dxny_erAKBZCF7SmI5X_tx-11PM-D4KiyxoVSfru686poe8hRODhO8jdgFB0JY/s1600/script+reading.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbhVdlbJhC1KmUy60JpAQ59lDd4JUxzeaLH9l3NOKM_KsuOYtljkRhCSb-YhuSXjAPhkwO1GI2zU9i5Dxny_erAKBZCF7SmI5X_tx-11PM-D4KiyxoVSfru686poe8hRODhO8jdgFB0JY/s320/script+reading.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484175957814484082" /></a><br />A Script reading session with the actress Ludivine sagnier in Meisenthal, a commune in the Moselle department in Lorraine in north-eastern France, where part of the film Man In Wood is intended to be shot.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.quietearth.us/
http://www.ukvibes.net/</div>Ian Simpsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05075395760039158142noreply@blogger.com0