The Bang Bang Club (dir. Steven Silver)

Cast: Ryan Phillipe, Malin Akerman, Taylor Kitsch, Patrick Lyster, Frank Rautenbach

Characters: Greg, Robin, Kevin, James, Ken

Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.

It might be directed and produced by South Africans, but this is the very worst kind of “Hollywood” film, as it is pandering to that market and doesn’t deserve to be spared grouping in with them just because the company address is outside the Thirty Mile Zone. The makers have sold their souls and trampled on the memory of the events that took place around Apartheid. They should be strung up with meat hooks and left to swell in the sun. It is a disgusting betrayal of their homelands history in the pursuit of quick dollars and a house in LaLaLand.

It is rude, abusive tripe. There is not one moment of merit in the entire (first hour of the…) film. It is just a phalanx of terrible American actors with inexcusably bad South African accents, screaming the word “brew” because that is as much as their beleaguered voice coach managed to cram into their dainty brains.

There is the generic love story; the maverick new guy who is going to shake things up, who does things “because they scare him”.

They use a conversation about secret massacres and the role of international journalism as background chat for a sex scene.

** This is the point at which I walked out of the screening. I do not make a habit of walking out of films, and I assure you I did not leave because of the poor quality (a precedent that would see me reviewing a measly number of films these days). I left because I refuse to be duplicitous in the atrocious behaviour of a respected international film festival. There is no excuse for screening this tripe. It is offensive to the medium of the cinema, and only serves to devalue the hard work of the deserving filmmakers that struggle to get here without Ambercrombie models and Reese Witherspoon’s knock-offs to help them out.

Calvet (dir. Dominic Allan)

In 2004, Allan went to Costa Rica, and on a drive to Nicaragua met Calvet and saw the paranoia and intensity of the man. A few years later Calvet was still haunting him so he called the artist up, and that was the beginning of a four-year journey to creating this intensely personal documentary.

Paranoia

“Self-destruction is not a bullet in the head. Self-destruction means to suffer”

If he had just held his girlfriend and son when he was about to walk out on them, he would have stayed. That one decision to turn and walk out the door instead of holding them one more time set off the rest of his life.

It is interesting to hear from someone who has pinpointed so many of the specific points in his past that caused his downfall… but it is typical of an ex-addict to have thought these things through in such a clinical, almost guiltless fashion.

He says he was the worst type of person with little guilt, and it is up to the audience to decide whether he has just really come to terms with it, or whether he has never really considered the meaning of it.

The work flashes up occasionally, like images from the psyche. Lightning flashes of muddled screaming faces, or a hopeful, smiling child with hopeful blue eyes. There is so much in the pictures, paranoia, desperation to avoid thinking too much – but the way they flash up at specific points leads our eyes straight to the elements that relate to what we have seen (such as his delusions and nightmares, and suddenly we see rodent like, toothed figures in the muddled pictures)

It is well formed in its attempt to tell his story: we see the hectic and self-destructive years (heroin, rape, prostitution) before returning to the calm foreboding of his childhood and young adulthood.

But the man is an addict, and it is very common for addicts to have a well rehearsed and almost third person attitude to their own story. This is certainly a brutally honest confessional, it is deeply personal and at times moving; but it is difficult to completely buy in to his guilt and retribution.

The director has not found a way to put any perspective on his subject (we do not hear from another person to gain other opinions on Calvet); this may have been an artistic choice, but it means that the film lacks weight. There is a sense that the director isn’t sure what he wants to get out of the film, and he is chasing shadows throughout.

He has decided to find his son.

The art is about finding a way to expel his demons and formulate an understanding of his mistakes. In that sense, this film is a direct relation to his art. It is not “about” his art, it is a part of his art. In his work he expels and arranges his issues on paper with his hands; in the film he is using his mouth to force his memories and issues out of his body.

To see a man, up close, speaking to his 18 yr-old son on the phone for the first time in over a decade, every exhalation and brow crease is filled with pathos.

The climax: just a series of grainy stills, from across a square, of a handshake between father and son.

If you feel drawn to Calvet from the outset, then this is a simple and quite touching tale of redemption, rebirth and hope. If you don’t trust him, it is an odd platform for a recovering addict to excuse his past mistakes. Unfortunately the filmmakers have not done enough to persuade discerning viewers that the former is true; and the latter, alas, seems a much more likely scenario.

It is unfussy, unobtrusive, and not forceful; it is just a camera to talk to. This can be seen as a positive thing, if you are happy for the film to justify itself as a confessional. But it is the responsibility of a filmmaker to uncover the truth behind his subject’s story, not simply to take the story on merit.

A confessional – brutally, shockingly honest. Purging.

It feels urgent at the end, as we become wrapped up in the hunt for the son. The tumbling journey along the local roads, hunting through the town, finding people in a bar who know where the family live. It is quite exhilarating.

In the end we are kept at a distance: his confession is complete, he can handle privacy again.


Q&A

Catharsis, to put things out of his head, but from the mouth instead of the hands, this time.

He had to stop hiding, because it would have killed him

Using stills means that your imagination runs wild; it is much more affecting than filming it up close.

The Q&A raise another interesting facet to the story. They have not discussed with Kevin how he will watch the film (alone, at a Premiere with friends, etc). When queried, Calvet says simply; we have not discussed that yet, we are still taking things step-by-step. The story is not finished, and a part of it is standing in the flesh before us.

Only after early screenings did he realise that he hadn’t just done this for himself; it was valuable and affecting for people with absent fathers, drug problems, etc.

He only learnt about artists like Pollock and Basquiat because people compared him to them, and he felt silly saying he didn’t know who they were.

Rabies (dir. Aharon Keshales, Navot Papushado)

Cast: Lior Ashkenazi, Danny Geva, Ania Bukstein, Menashe Noy, Ran Danker, Henry David

Characters: Danny, Yuval, Adi, Menashe, Mikey, Ofer,

Far too much pointless dialogue and attempts at character/ verbal humour.
- The thrills are momentary, and the long periods in between are mundane and void of any suspense or drama. A great horror film is a composition: an overture of heart-stopping intensity, eerie stillness, and nervous energy. This is just a poor slasher movie with cheap thrills and no story holding it together.

It is contrived and stupid: a policeman would never act in such a way (if he were to do something so self-destructive he would have to be strung-out on a ledge, not a charming sleaze-ball, who would be much more intelligent in his abuse); and friends would never suddenly go from teasing friendship to bludgeoning one another to death.

It is a funny premise: the psycho that set everything in motion is knocked out for almost the entire duration of the film, and the various victims who could have made it out alive end up killing each other due to the heightened tension and stress, the mines, bear traps, guns, sledge-hammers, etc.

It is not a good film by any stretch of the imagination, but it may be a breathe of fresh air for a generation of Israeli’s who need some respite from the guilt-ridden war films of recent years.

Other than the language, there is nothing at all to suggest our location. Good horror films are a consequence of their surroundings (the deep south, grimy urban locals, the suburbs, the Balkans, etc) but this is just some generic woodland setting.

It seems as though the director is perhaps poking fun at the idea of teen slasher films. But he is deluded if he feels he is in a position to do so. The film is in fact far less imaginative and impressive than many of the films he derides.

Jack Goes Boating (dir. Phillip Seymour Hoffman)

Cast: Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Amy Ryan, John Ortiz, Daphne Rubin-Vega

Characters: Jack, Connie, Clyde, Lucy

It’s a nicely paced romantic comedy.

It has a spirit of When Harry Met Sally; but with PSH and Amy Ryan giving it more gravity.

It is not pointlessly, generically awkward: they are closed off, but have a sort of strength and stillness and openness to kinship and romance.

He never takes his hat off, even on a double-date
He listens to the same reggae song over and over again and constantly reminds people that they wont really appreciate the lyrics because they haven’t listened to it enough – we all have that song or album or film that we feel anxious about because nobody cares about it as much as we do… nobody really understands it like you.

Now he has to learn to cook as well as swim! He is really branching out

Clyde’s wife a serial adulterer – he seems happy to finally be able to confide in Jack about this. Jack is now an equal, in a relationship, and Clyde relishes the opportunity to confide and offer advice. Jack is at the beginning of his journey, and is hopeful. This is infectious to be around.

Jack’s new adventure can help all the people around him. It just takes one person to march out into the unknown for all the people close to them to be whisked into a new phase of their lives too. Not just physically and situationally, but on an intensely personal level for all involved.

“Maybe a little good night kiss? Y’know, nothing overwhelming”
“I’m not ready for penis penetration”
They are so charmingly, hopelessly open and naïve. And utterly without romance.

But then… “I like how you touch me, how you barely touch my skin”
- She has a real sexuality and an understanding of her body

It captures the warm glow and crisp freshness of New York in winter.

The dichotomy between J&C’s hopeful, hesitant vigour and C&L’s painful, bitter loss may be a bit laboured at times.

Grizzly Bear is the perfect New York winter music; but it was used to better effect in Blue Valentine.

His nervous tick cough gives him away to Lucy – he is no match for her vixen-like confidence. He is adaptable and dependent.

“I think I might be ready, if you overwhelm me, if you force me.”
He stands for what feels like an eternity, what is he thinking? And then… BAM… he bull charges her onto the bed. It is the most astounding show of energy and confidence we have seen from this timid but determined man. He isn’t going to let anything beat him in this journey.

It is an empowering and hopeful film.

“I knew you would be good.”
“I am for you.”

Albatross (dir. Niall MacCormick)

Cast: Jessica Brown Findlay, Sebastian Koch, Felicity Jones, Julia Ormond, Peter Vaughan

Jonathan, Beth, Emilia, Joa

He is a “writer” too busy jacking off and browsing Wikipedia to find out why turkey ham is called “ham”. He really should take a leaf out of Franzen’s book (no pun intended) and disable the web on that computer of his!

The script is so desperate to be funny. Why cant British filmmakers just use images occasionally, and film silence for more than five seconds? It is cowardly, needy and immature to just talk without remittance for nearly two hours… and yet to say almost nothing of importance.

Jessica Brown Findlay is an atrocious actress… but it somehow just about works because she at least has unjustified confidence, and that is exactly what Emilia possesses.

The camera is madly in love with Brown Findlay, and follows her around like a lovelorn teen so desperate to make a connection. Alas, she is incapable of requiting the camera’s passion: every time we feel we are getting closer to her, she opens her mouth and severs the connection.

It is not entirely her fault. The character is a half-sketched botch job of clichés and romantic ideals with no human centre whatsoever. She is a sarcastic, gin-chugging myth that bears too fleeting a resemblance to anybody you have ever met before. She is not real, she is not ideal, she is not ethereal, she is a cheap contrivance.
- She runs headlong into the sea, fully clothed, just to – like – get away from society, man. She answers back to customers.

Another major issue is that Tamzin Rafn has catastrophically mistaken sarcasm for wit. Of course sarcasm is an essential part of the character, but it is also the only tool in Rafn’s arsenal and this becomes painfully clear within the first ten minutes of the film.
“Excuse me, I’m a vegetarian.”
“That’s not really something to boast about.”
“How do you write like that?”
“Well I found these long claw like appendages on the ends of my arms”
I vomited in my mouth.

The real star is the mother, Joa:
“Come on Posy, we need to get going if we’re going to really fuck your father off.” – taking her to ballet class against his wishes
“You’d slept with half of Basingstoke by the time you were her age.”
“Lucky FUCKING Basingstoke”

It flits along merrily, skating across a sleek and glossy surface. We feel secure in the knowledge that MacCormick will never take a deep breathe and plunge us into any mystery, subtlety, gravity, nuance, emotional drama, etc. And sure enough, he doesn’t disappoint… he just keeps right on skating.

It is manicured, never real.

Screaming at the ocean, discovering cargo from a shipwreck on the beach, it is just a long series of cosmetic ideas that the scriptwriter thought would be “cool”. So little of it really does anything to explore the characters. It is contrived and incoherent, and essentially cowardly because it is a film that is too scared to explore itself… “the unexamined life” and all that.

The central message, the arch of Emilia’s story, is that caprice and pretence are much easier to pull off than sobriety and honesty, but they will not get you very far in the long run. It is a painful irony that neither the director nor the screenwriter thought to shine this very light upon the film itself!

Felicity Jones provides her infectious pixie wonderment in the role of Beth. She is the prissy over-achiever who falls madly in love with the cocky rebel. Emilia tantalises her wanderlust and reveals the stepping stones towards independence and learning from your own mistakes. Jones is pitch perfect, portraying the complicated emotions of that first “friend” crush with wide-eyed, childlike wonder and a discerning frown. The fact that she does all of this with almost no help from the script or her fellow artists is a testament to her astonishing potential. The sooner she leaves our fetid shores behind, with our Chalet Girls and Albatrosses, the better.

The central issue, as is so often the case with British films, is the amount of bloody talking!! Nobody can shut up for two minutes in a British film, and I despair at the lack of silence, where images and expressions and unspoken words tell us everything we need to know. British scriptwriters would much rather talk and talk and bloody talk than take a back seat and let the story find a life of its own. Their incessant dialogue strangles actors and directors and, most importantly, the stories themselves. I for one would support a slash-and-burn technique, or even a government-imposed quota on dialogue in Final Draft.

Tomboy (dir. Céline Sciamma)

Cast: Zoé Héran, Malonn Lévana, Jeanne Disson, Sophie Cattani, Mathieu Demy

Characters: Laure (Mikael), Jeanne, Lisa,

Immediately the film is permeated with the airy, breezy, sun-stained, ethereal, floating beauty so native to French cinema

Courageous to make a film based almost entirely around young children; but they have been blessed with a precociously talented cast.

Her slow-building fascination with her body, and boyhood (playing football shirtless, spitting at will) is beautifully realised.

All the boys go for a wee… but what can she do?

She keeps her Plasticine penis in a keep-sake box on her bedside table… ripe with symbolism; a surreal and moving image.
- She is innocent and scared.

Jeanne’s face when Lisa shows up asking after “Mikael” is one of the most entertaining moments of film the EIFF. And it is the beginning of one of the finest comic performances of the year.

The “wise younger sister” is a cliché, but it feels so right here.
- She joins the illusion; spinning fantasies about her amazing older brother who protects her and gets all the girls.
- She cuts her hair and supports her
- She is too scared to open her mouth so she wont even eat.

The climax is a heartbreaking, Lord of the Flies moment of childhood cruelty. But nobody can be blamed because these youngsters are just confused by the idea of it all. They are too young to understand gender ambiguity.

Was it disgusting that they kissed; just because it now transpires they were both girls? They cant take back what that kiss means, they just have to incorporate the caprice and dishonesty. Lisa clearly doesn’t entirely regret the kiss, and she is perhaps the most confused and put out. But she senses that it should be “disgusting” and, too scared to stand up for her personal feelings in the face of overriding “normality”, she consents to join the abuse of her one-time lover.

But she cannot let go. They share something simple and honest, and it cannot be crushed by bullying or matters of physical anatomy.

Zoé Héran is perfect in the lead role. Her sandy complexion and androgynous pixie looks allow her to shape-shift seamlessly from one identity to the other. We are lost with her throughout.

Oliver Sherman (dir. Ryan Redford)

Cast: Garret Dillahunt, Donal Logue, Molly Parker, Kaelan Meunier

Characters: Sherman, Franklin, Irene

A stranger comes to town…

He is like John Wayne returning to the ranch, emerging from the wilderness to which he belongs.

If you save a life, are you responsible for that life? There are those who suggest this is so. And when you add in the traumatic kinship of war, it is easy to see why this friendly, lonely man cannot bring himself to turn his back on his troubled brother in arms.

“It’s just a finger, barely half of one.”
“I’m probably not even worth that.”

Fading out from one day to the next introduces a sense of forboding.

Timeless, placeless – there is no mention of any specific conflict. This is a human story of archetypes: brotherhood, guilt, forgives, masculinity, etc. It is not another film about Afghanistan.

It feels slightly easy and formulaic at times: the “everyman” who married, and his “ex-partner” who cant let go of the trauma/ institutionalisation of military life.
- He trips in front of the children and swears himself blind – he is an outsider.

Have a good life, try to behave.

Franklin isn’t doing this out of some unquestioning jarhead loyalty; he is a truly, openly good man.

It begins to feel a bit stagnant and repetitive – library, dining room, bar – because not enough has changed in him or his situation each time we revisit a location.
- The short story might have worked, but not enough has been done to flesh out. Sherman.

Three truly outstanding performances. Dillahunt grunts and rolls his eyes, utterly convincing as a man who has lost part of his reason and all of his hope. He is dangerous but earns our sympathy.

It is taut and subtle, slightly distanced, it doesn’t give too much away. It is still affecting because it has depth of feeling, and honesty, and three wonderful performances.

Page Eight (dir. David Hare)

Cast: Bill Nighy, Rachel Weisz, Michael Gambon, Ralph Fiennes, Judy Davis, Felicity Jones,

Characters: Johnny, Nancy, Benedict, Julianne,

Style and class exude from the very un-David Hare opening credits – more Inspector Clouseau than David Hare.

Snappy dialogue:
“Don’t you have any faith Johnny?”
“The sun will rise in the morning, I’m going to have a drink at six.”
“Many members of your church are there?”
“Lots, most people actually.”

The music tells us everything we need to know – the ‘sax and wane’ of the opening are replaced by chilling, brooding, violins.

The real intrigue arrives just at the right moment – it builds slowly and entertains – a nice balance between cinematic thriller (quick) and slow-broiled TV drama (slow).

Nighy is perfect – dapper, charming, fleet-footed, but detached, lonely, more and more desperate and lost, and less and less able to hide it.

But in the end this really is just a good two-part TV drama – it doesn’t have enough scope to be truly cinematic; it isn’t quite Le Carre, Constant Gardner, etc. It is smaller than that, but no less compelling and entertaining in its way.

It wraps up quite nicely, but it is all talking, there isn’t much fighting or twisting. Everybody seems quite content to settle things in a fairly amicable manner.

So he just lets them all off? He allows them to get away with torture and corruption and civil rights infringement so he can give a lover a nice going away present?!?

Elite Squad 2: The Enemy Within (dir. Jose Padilha)

Cast: Wagner Moura, Irandhir Santos, André Ramiro, Milhem Cortaz, André Mattos, Maria Ribeiro

Nascimento, Fraga, Capt Matias,

Utilises different media as a doc would do… zooming in on security video bank during riot, and hearing a man screaming at a TV news crew and then seeing the rest of the rant on a series of TV screens.

Cutting to recorded TV news broadcast footage – another doc trope

The opening battle is breathtaking, but the ensuing period of the film (where the recent history of the conflict is explained) feels more like an educational video or a diary than a visceral action film.

Is it contrived that his nemesis married his ex-wife? Obviously it is an excellent device for rendering the social situation on a personal level, but it cheapens the complexity of the issues. This couldn’t feel further removed from the gut-wrenching frankness of Bus 174.

Great helicopter shots over the city – reminiscent of the famous opening to Bus 174

Much of the acting is stilted and poor.

It is quite a fascinating story of duplicity and corruption: allowing police militias to run the slums ensures that crime is contained, those involved make an enormous amount of money, and politicians can ensure more votes. Everyone wins… except the millions of impoverished, uneducated slum dwellers who risk murder if they fail to pay up for the militia’s “protection”.

It has that uniquely Liberal willingness to portray the horrors of abuse and corruption in all their brutality. It is faintly unsavoury, and bordering on sadistic.

Surely there is some sort of “other side” to this story. Respectable international journals (Prospect, RSA magazine, Time) report on the recent surge of community-led schemes in Rio; with local police forces taking over from the heavy-handed military police forces that are so cemented into the fabric of South American society. Padilha has a motive, and there is nothing wrong with that. Being staunch and angry can be attractive in an artist or a rebel; but it is unattractive in a respected documentary filmmaker and an important voice for Brazil’s left.

The journalist isn’t just murdered, she is gang-raped and burnt to a crisp; this is just one example of the horror that could have been made more implicit and unsettling, rather than guttural and tastelessly cinematic.
- It is just so deeply unpleasant. Of course Rio is one of the most horrific places in the world for human rights abuses, violence, and corruption; but this feels more like an opera than a documentary.

It is very difficult to believe that the testimony of one disgraced policeman, without any evidence or witnesses, could lead to the arrest of high-level politicians.

The son survives, and Rio is left to rot. Of course there are no answers. But feeding us horror and brutality for 100 minutes and showing us a recovering boy at the end hardly counts as penance. The film would have been better without this trivial and contrived ending.

Our Day Will Come (dir. Romain Gavras)

Cast: Vincent Cassel, Olivier Barthelemy, Justine Lerooy, Vanessa Decat, Boris Gamthety

Characters: Patrick, Remy

Rémy seems like a typical teenage boy: he is a muscular youth, a sportsman, and he spends too long on his computer. But he is also a redhead; and in High School, red hair is enough to have you banished to the oyster boats.

Stylised – chintzy, red house, celebrating the loud ugliness of welfare housing.

Humour – flashes of it; especially the laconic Cassel

Sudden bursts of intense classical music

Almost absurd – young man goes to cemetery to meet a Gothic girl he met on WoW, only to discover that it is really a troubled teenage boy with a Marilyn Manson hang-up.

What is it with Gavras and redheads?!?

Cassel is half-crazed from the outset – starting fights with Arab gangsters and feeling up elderly women.

Seducing young girls – flicking their noses and patting their heads. He is a harlequin, a Lothario, and a nutjob.

Surreal moment in an closed hypermarket when Rémy discovers a giant sign for some weird cultish ‘redhead’ land of dreams… it is a publicity stand for Ireland Tourist Board!

It all flips when they try to buy a nice car – Patrick accuses the salesman of only stocking French cars (round and lacking style) and Porsche’s that Jews drove in the 1980s. The Jewish salesman takes offense and calls him a “carrot-top”… and the rest is history.

They go on a crazed murder run – seeking retribution for the enslavement and abuse of their people (redheads). They chant that they are a people with “no country, and no army”.

“I will make them more refined… and then you will love me for what I am”

Gavras’ work always seems to have a surreal, dark humour – it is violent and cruel but tinged with a strange jolly warmth… even when genocide is committed against all redheads to the sounds of MIA.

Remy can’t shit  without taking all his clothes off.

Patrick attacks him… why is he running away? Does he want to be an immigrant? Does he need to be somewhere where he can be just like everybody else? Or should he stay in ignominy as a Messiah? Should he stay and fight. Either way… the logical next step is to buy a dapper new suit and cravat and compliment it with a shotgun and a lethal crossbow.

There is a decadent hotel orgy with buxom young women being set alight by a sullen Patrick… incapable of rousing his spirits even to fuck, and taking his exasperation out on a sexually confused and increasingly volatile Remy, who attempts to rape the concierge just to check if he really is gay… to the concierge’ relief… he discovers he isn’t!)
- Patrick also pisses in a Jacuzzi before masturbating before the terrified couple too scared to move in case Remy release an arrow in their direction.

They raid the hotel kitchens naked, all under the watchful eye of a sadistic, silent young redheaded girl straight out of a Kubrick fantasy.

This almost becomes a fable – where our anti-heroes nearly make it but are destroyed by their own vices at the final hurdle.

They are the most fucked up, weird, misguided rebel couple in the history of the cinema.

A horrific bloody finale – but still somehow colourful, and strangely jolly and warm.

The Turin Horse (dir. Bela Tar)

Cast: János Derzsi, Erika Bók, Mihály Kormos, Ricsi

Ohlsdorfer and his daughter

 “mutter ich bin dumm” – “mother, I am stupid”

haunting, Gothic – the plight of the struggling creature.

With it’s stub neck and pudgy physique the horse seems like a pony that has grown bedraggled with age but no more capable of facing it’s lot.

It is a cruel, dank, blustering, miserable landscape.

The whipping wind

The heavy, agrarian clucking of barn doors, heavy yolks, stirrups, iron grates.
- These sounds are thudding staccato rhythm for the cacophony of whistling, blustery winds.

Long shots offer a tangible sense of the drab, arduous labour of their lives – it is a mundane, well-rehearsed, forced existence.

Is the music a bit heavy-handed at times? While boiling spuds it feels almost melodramatic.

With his thick beard and strong, haggard features he looks almost mythical – Sisyphus, or Prometheus shackled to the Caucasus

They stare out of the window at the howling, tempestuous wind

There is something dirge-like and Gothic about the score, and it also moans and groans like the ever-present wind.

When the horse refuses to work, do they read a book or sleep? No, they work. They chop wood and fix equipment and clean undergarments. There is no happiness or spare time. Every moment is dedicated to bland utility – the mundane routine of survival.

The same routines are filmed from different perspectives: one day we see him eating his potato (hot, rushed, bothered, pained), and the next day we see from over his shoulder – she is calm, considered, with hands well-worn and accustomed to the heat.

It is black and white, but it is difficult to imagine this landscape with any colour – everything is faded and grey.

“What is all this?”
“I don’t know”
“Even the embers went out”
“Tomorrow we’ll try again”

Their life is only embers, never a raging fire.

Surreal ending – sudden, all-encompassing, unnatural darkness.
- everything is debased, nothing is great any longer.