A troubled woman living in an isolated community finds herself pulled between the control of her oppressive family and the allure of a secretive outsider suspected of a series of brutal murders.IMDB
By J.P. Devine
Director Chris Foggin’s “Fisherman’s Friends” is in town on Amazon Prime. It’s meat loaf and mashed potatoes with gravy. It’s fried chicken. It’s that comfortable, that evocative and heartwarming.
But they were fictitious. “Fisherman’s Friends” is, for the most part, a true story and here it is:
We meet Danny (Daniel Mays) who is a struggling mid-level promoter in a London music company.
At opening, Danny and his office buddies are on vacation in a tiny village in Cornwall. While strolling the waterfront, they come upon a group of fishermen, young, old and middle aged, entertaining visitors with an impromptu string of sea chanties.
Danny’s cynical buddies leave him behind in the village to try and sign the singers to a contract.
REVIEW: This is an insubstantial film, but a defiantly big-hearted and pleasant one too.
Someone a lot wiser than me (and frankly, who isn’t?) once said, “íf there truly is a god, and he likes us, then he would let dogs live longer”.”
Anyone who’s ever been owned by a dog understands that exactly. Dogs do have a way of transforming us, even as they are moulting and farting their way through our lives, eating us out of house and home and then dying just when we weren’t ready for it. And, dogs do have an uncanny knack for introducing us to new people, who we at least have dogs in common with.
Which is, near enough, the premise of 23 Walks, from writer and director Paul Morrison (Little Ashes).
Holding the leashes of their respective best friends are Fern and Dave. She is 60-something, freshly divorced and really not interested in starting anew with anyone just yet. He is Dave, apparently a widower, and seemingly the loveliest bloke you could ever run into on a blustery day in a north London park.
The two become fond of each other while walking their hounds. An initial friendship turns to a tentative romance. But, both have their secrets and privacies, and there’ll be a few fraught moments before anything like love can prevail. Continue reading
Mark Kermode reviews White Riot. Documentary exploring the founding of Rock Against Racism in 1976, against a background of anti-immigration hysteria and National Front marches.
Amid all the decadent food and Michael Caine impressions, the four-part series has always had a darker edge.
By Bilge Eberi / Vulture
My grandfather, who died several years ago at the age of 98, was a Turkish archeologist who specialized in ancient Hellenic ruins. He spent almost half a lifetime digging up a long-forgotten Greek town on the Aegean coast of Turkey, a site that happened to be right next to a coal-mining facility. It both tickled and saddened him to see the old world juxtaposed with the new, timeless Greek columns and graves framed against huge piles of black, black coal. He wasn’t much of a romantic, but he did love the poetry and majesty of myth. When I was a child he’d glance out over the horizon, at the ships and sailboats passing in the blue distance, and tell me about how through these very Aegean waters had sailed the navies of Paris and Menelaus. He loved to enliven the everyday with evocations of the ancient world.
(He was obsessed with Troy, and spent years writing a book about it.) I, a snot-nosed kid for much of this time, paid only scant attention to his stories.
Only later did I realize what a gift he was giving me.
So, weirdly, I was reminded of my grandfather as I watched The Trip to Greece, the fourth and final installment of the film and TV series following Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon as they make their way around the hotels and tourist spots and fine-dining establishments of the world. This film (which actually begins in Turkey, in the area around Troy) opens and ends with words from The Odyssey, and at various points evokes the stories of Odysseus and Aeneas as Coogan and Brydon eat, joke, imitate, and niggle their way through Greece. The parallels are inexact and rough, and to director Michael Winterbottom’s credit, the film doesn’t try too hard to adhere to any kind of mythic structure. But what does remain at the end of this final and most despairing of the Trip entries is a sense that the past is never quite done with us, that today’s heartbreaks and passions and tragedies are merely variations on ancient patterns. Continue reading