You like to watch?
A short films special 🎬
In this issue:
Headliner These quick flicks deserve your (brief) attention
Revival Dance Your Way Home – Emma Warren’s book becomes a festival
Aftershow The nine-hour Prince doc we will probably never see, a politics podcast that cuts the s*&t and a reality check from Jemima Kirke-gaard
Thanks to The Smalls Film Festival for inviting me last Sunday in East London. Regular readers will know about my love of cinema, especially films that blur the line between fiction and non-fiction.
Shorts are my weekly pick ‘n’ mix treat. They give writer-directors freedom to pursue niche interests and road-test ideas, while the audience gets to leapfrog across a handful of wildly different experiences into one afternoon. To peek through a few windows on their walk to wherever.
It’s amazing how much story you can pack into a dozen or so minutes and how quickly you can build a world through bold choices. There’s an alchemy to the form that’s hard to prescribe or pinpoint. I am just as likely to fall for a sci-fi thriller with high production values as I am a romcom set in a flat with just two actors.
I saw selections in two categories: Change and Documentary.
Brown Brit hit very close to home because it is a love letter to an Indian mother. More than that, it encourages the adoption of a patchwork identity – something tailormade and abundant – instead of one that’s confined by tradition or hollowed out by a withering connection to home.
We follow the journey of The Romantix co-director Jay Stephen’s mother Aju, from an arranged marriage in India at 22 to having to assimilate on an 80’s North London estate. From piously following the rules to encouraging her daughters to break them.
It’s based on an evocative piece of writing by Jay’s sister Ashica, called My Mother’s Metamorphosis and pairs her words with archival VHS tapes along with some newer footage that was converted to analogue so as not to break the spell. Even younger sister Deepica, who is an actor, features as their mother.
Over three chapters, these scenes played out like transmissions from a parallel dimension. There was a lot of overlap with my own family’s story. A mother who was taught that finding a husband would complete her. “That if she just listened and obeyed and prayed and stayed devoted. She would be happy.”
“How much gold do you need to wear before you are recognised as having intrinsic worth?” asks Ashica. After which, my mind drifted to musty photo albums of a lavish wedding ceremony and the glazed expression of a resplendent bride all too aware of public scrutiny to enjoy the occasion.
How in the process of moving to the UK in search of a better life, parents squeeze their dreams into suitcases. Surrendering certain parts of themselves at the border and gradually hiding others so they can blend in. Allowing “their true potential and ambitions to be squashed and bent into place”.
I’ve written about my upbringing before and life as a corner-shop kid. The sacrifices that come with running an all-consuming business like that. My mother continued to be immaculately dressed in colourful saris day after day in Brighton, but the socialite in her felt isolated from her wider community, susceptible and at times unwelcome because of the racism. Good thing she was tough.
It was a far cry from a blissful youth spent in verdant Kampala or the initial buzz of being a working professional advancing in the UK. In these circumstances, transformation is survival. Nilu became Mrs P stationed behind the counter, while my father Pravin asked people at the cash and carry to call him Peter. Small but significant concessions.
Culture could endure through the mother tongue Gujarati, morning prayers and bhajans, time-honoured dishes and masala chai on the stove. We hear some beautiful imagery in the film that speaks to such remnants as anchors: “Aspects of India clung to her like a turmeric stain on her fingers and refused to be scrubbed clean.”
But new influences creep in and become emblematic of life in Britain. In my mother’s case, it was believing too much of what she read in the tabloids, becoming addicted to Trebor Extra Strong Mints, loving a flutter on The National Lottery and supporting England over India in the cricket.
We as children would also try to fit in and navigate the in-between. Years later, we trawl through memories to try and locate the meeting points of our twin cultures. In her narration, Deepica talks about their mother serving turkey dinosaurs with biryani rice as she wears a pashmina wrapped around her Levi’s. The leftover masala kept in a Viennetta ice-cream tub. Tubs, yes. We have a thing for tubs.
The climax is euphoric. The focus shifting to a new generation, the joy of girlhood, an awakening and a celebration of hard-won liberation, revelling under a crimson sky. Some wonderful cinematography here by Elliot Lowe, elevated by the music and sound design of TCTS and Baz Kaye.
A finely crafted piece and so rich in meaning.
Other highlights
Puffling offers a different vantage point on coming of age. We follow Selma and Hilma as they roam across Vestmannaeyjar rescuing baby birds who have lost their way because of the harbour lights. There is a gentle symbolism to Jessica Bishopp’s observational short. A rumination over independence and crossing a threshold, echoed by Jófríður Ákadóttir’s score. Thoughts of fleeing the nest preoccupy the girls, who will soon go their separate ways. Selma wants to find a career elsewhere while Hilma would happily stay on the island forever. Perhaps like the puffins who find their way home after crossing the oceans, a reunion will come sooner than they think.
Selma on a rescue mission Alpha Kings (directed by Enrique Pedráza-Botero and Faye Tsakas) introduces us to a group of teen boys in suburban Texas who are making thousands of dollars a week by flaunting themselves on OnlyFans. No shame and zero f*&ks given. The way they talk to their subscribers and donors, some of whom are old enough to be their father… Wow. Lots of heads shaking in disbelief at this one in the cinema. Fascinating insight into “the world of financial domination”. What is it about feet, I wonder?
Ur Heinous Habit (directed by Eugene Kolb) uses the gulp moment of a sextortion email to explore society’s shame around masturbation and the pursuit of self-pleasuring. The friends Eugene interviews are as hilarious as they are insightful and the illustrations by Molly McIntyre are superb. Look out for the imaginative hand animations too. Well, you can’t miss them, really.
Bonus: Happy Birthday MikeMike
Does anyone bother to leave voicemails nowadays? I really miss them. So much communication is through curt text in 2024, how easy it is to undervalue the power of speech. Remember, it’s your sound signature. A big part of what makes you … you.
Now imagine if the recipient is no longer here. How would their absence affect what you say and the tone or cadence of your voice? This is what makes Happy Birthday MikeMike such an intriguing set-up and one that tugs on the heartstrings.
An Even/Odd film in collaboration with Worthless Studios, it highlights the work of 1-800 Happy Birthday, a project to honour the black and brown victims of police killings and systemic racism. And to fight for justice in their names.
MikeMike is Michael Brown, of course, who was shot and killed in suspicious circumstances on 9 August 2014 in Ferguson, Missouri. He was 18. The officer was later cleared of any wrongdoing after raising his gun, apparently, in self-defence when Brown came towards him. A Justice Department report ruled that Ferguson’s police department engaged in systemic racial bias. But not Darren Wilson. He was one of the good ones, right?
Ten years on, we see mother Lesley along with other family and friends gathering on his “born day”. The majority of footage is black and white but you can feel a warmth and reverence in these scenes that gleams like light through a church window.
At the phone booth, plastered with photos of a young MikeMike and graffiti type, attendees leave messages or listen to others’ voicemails. We hear happy birthdays, miss you’s, thank you’s, words of reassurance about his mom, pledges to hold him in their thoughts and to keep fighting in his honour.
There is jovial chatter, like two people catchin’ up, pauses for deep reflection … and tears. The phone booth becoming an intimate space to commune with a lost soul or to pray for them. One lady later asks MikeMike for a favour: go tell her daughter her mother loves her.
They all head outside, into the golden hour, where Lesley releases a white dove. As it soars up to the heavens, followed by a flock of others, I think of birth and rebirth.
Back in the room, the dancing commences, bodies moving together in defiance as much as revelry.
A beautiful short capturing the emotional truth of the day and the life force of the black community that sustains and uplifts its people. It brought me to tears because at the heart of Happy Birthday MikeMike is a mother’s enduring love for her son eclipsing the bitter injustice of his sudden departure, if only for a day.
A spirit exulted.
PS you can call 001 314 200 5093 or visit 1800happybirthday.com to leave a voicemail.
Dance Your Way Home
Congratulations to Dance Your Way Home author, subscriber and all-round force for good Emma Warren, who will curate a summer season at the Southbank Centre in 2025. We’ve seen films become immersive events. Why can’t a book become a festival? Let’s make movement a movement. That’s the spirit.
I wrote about the book last year, reflecting on my relationship with club culture and the deeper significance of the dance.
There is personal space, however minute, to express oneself in that moment and yet simultaneously we are moving as one. The collective life force we experience can be restorative, invigorating, transformative.
Dance Your Way Home is not a definitive history of the dancefloor. This is “a” history.
So Warren takes us from bedroom and kitchen bops, to dancehalls and school discos, to coming-of-age raves in Chislehurst Caves and The Civic in Orpington, to seminal club nights at the Hacienda and Sankeys Soap in Manchester, Heaven and Plastic People in London. Cultural touchpoints may differ but you might recognise the formative feelings that Warren and her interviewees are relaying.
Although written with candour and humility, there is also great generosity and optimism in these pages, right from the first line. We are told, unequivocally, that,” If you dance, you’re a dancer. This is where we begin.” It’s a mighty statement of intent in one of the best introductions I have read. These words are like an invitation to commune and find common ground.
The Prince we never knew
The New York Times’ Sasha Weiss may have written the culture feature of the year with her ruminative report on Ezra Edelman’s blocked nine-hour Prince documentary. The Oscar winner has been working on it for five years, interviewing more than 70 people who were in the superstar’s orbit.
There are former partners and protégés (Jill Jones, Carmen Electra, Shiela E), close collaborators (Wendy Melvoin, Lisa Coleman), friends (Dr Cornel West), bodyguards, sound engineers, hairstylists and many more. He also got access to the hallowed vault. Some of Weiss’ descriptions of the footage used are enticing to say the least.
Hired by a former Netflix executive, Edelman has encountered resistance from the owners of Prince’s estate (currently in dispute), who don’t like how the artist is depicted and question the film’s accuracy at certain points. The director should have final cut. Nevertheless, the project is bound up in contractual tape. Maybe their real issue is the financial cost of any potential reputational damage.
I hope we are all honest enough with ourselves in 2024 to know how possible it is for makers of great art and geniuses – heroes to many of us – to be flawed individuals. Particularly someone as guarded and autocratic as Prince. He was perhaps the greatest of all musicians at creating mythology and cultivating mystery by withholding access.
He never let us get too close to his trauma. His parents separating when he was seven. The cruel behaviour of his stepfather and his mother kicking him out at 12. Nagging estrangement from his father whose love he’d long coveted. The tragic and unspoken loss of his baby son Amiir with ex-wife Mayte Garcia. The physical toll of all those superhuman performances, which led to opioid addiction and, ultimately, his death.
Weiss teases a paradox or two at the outset, presaging how the project might harrow devout fans, if they ever get to see it.
Like most Americans who grew up in the 1980s, I had an image of Prince emblazoned in my mind: wonderfully strange; a gender-bending, dreamy master of funk. He flouted and floated above all categories and gave permission to generations of kids to do the same. Edelman’s film deepened those impressions, while at the same time removing Prince’s many veils. This creature of pure sex and mischief and silky ambiguity, I now saw, was also dark, vindictive and sad. This artist who liberated so many could be pathologically controlled and controlling.
I won’t say too much more. Read it for yourself or listen. Devotees may sense a hit job in the works and plead, let him rest. I can sympathise with the latter emotion. But there is a “disparateness” to this enigma, as Weiss describes it, so gaping that my curiosity just takes hold.
I’ve gleaned enough from this article to see how monumental a character study the documentary could be. A majestic testament to his greatness that also serves to crack the facade of invincibility that (in musician and documentary maker Questlove’s eyes), haunts black men in particular.
Edelman’s work on OJ: Made in America, and the insight into his process leads me to believe he has integrity and rigour. Perceptiveness too: his skillful juxtaposition of old and new footage could open portals to new meaning. Look out for the part about Prince’s astounding The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame performance in 2004 and how it’s been recontextualised as a pathos-driven “act of revenge”.
AsVibe’s former editor Danyel Smith says, zooming out, you have to wonder if a David Bowie or a Paul McCartney would be subjected to such forensic “atomisation”. What right do any of us have to pour over his private moments and personal effects without Prince’s blessing? If he’d made a will, that would have been something. A right to reply, even better.
I’m conflicted. Feeling the deep loss all over again. 😩
Let’s go to a happier place. This story 💜
Over The Top Under The Radar
Earlier this month, I had the pleasure of attending the first live recording of podcast Over The Top Under The Radar, a plucky upstart in the arena of news and politics. It’s hosted by veteran journalist Gary Younge (who influenced my career path) and communications specialist Carys Afoko.
If you lean towards awareness over apathy – and share a distaste for disinformation – then shows like this should be on your radar. The dynamic between Gary and Carys is much like a chinwag between workmates from different generations. There is mutual respect, insight, introspection, silliness and freedom to digress. All that in around 30 minutes every week.
Their guest was MP Zarah Sultana, frozen out earlier this year by Labour over the two-child benefit cap. She won me over with her commitment to grassroots politics and holding truth to power, no matter the personal consequences.
A final thought: what if we’re just not that important?
All hail Jemima Kirke, or “Jemima Kirkegaard” as someone dubbed her. The artist and occasional actress is an agony aunt to followers on Instagram, dispensing pithy wisdom like this that feels applicable in all sorts of situations. Like, I don’t know, personal essays and using too much “I” 😬
Róisín Lanigan expanded on this around the cult of “main character syndrome” in a recent comment piece. Awareness of our thoughts, feelings and actions can help us be more empathetic and considerate towards others. But there’s a fine line between self-reflection and self-absorption.
Therapy culture has done many good things for the world (if you don’t believe me, ask your dad when the last time he cried was). But it’s not a cardinal sin to question the end goal of this monetised, individualised cult of knowing ourselves. Is there a strength to having an unknowable self, of thinking about ourselves less? If the alternative is the narcissism of analysing ourselves in perpetuity, I am inclined to agree with Kirke. When we boil it down, really, what is the point in making self-awareness a virtue above all else?
This topic reminds me of a passage from scientist Carl Sagan’s Pale Blue Dot, which reminds me just how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things.
Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.
Good night and good luck.