I'm just a girl - standing in front of a boy - asking him to read my goddam creative writing.
// 21 / creative writing student / Melbourne, Australia / writer / photographer / hugh grant-enthusiast //
email me at : [email protected]
Rabbit Proof Fence (2002) directed by Phillip Noyce The heart-wrenching story of three young Aboriginal girls as they journey across outback Australia after escaping the hands white colonists who stole them from their families. It’s a common theme in many Australian films that the land of this vast country is unruly and unforgiving, often presented as a character in itself, and one to be feared at that. Many Australian films tell stories only of the limited perspective of white settlers, people who are new to the land and unfamiliar with the ultimate beauty of this country. But the story of Molly, Daisy and Grace in Rabbit-Proof Fence demonstrates the deep connection that the Aboriginal community has with their land, a familiarity with country that allows these young girls to be brave and embark on a journey that few white people would dare. This film ripped out my heart and swallowed it whole, before spitting it up and then slowly piecing what remained back together.
WARNING: SPOILER ALERTS AHEAD! The whole 1980s aesthetic Terrible. Disgusting. Heinous. *insert vomit emoji* If you’re going to make a film set in the 1980s, MAKE IT LOOK LIKE IT’S SET IN THE 1980s. It just honestly should not be that hard, considering people who worked on Wonder Woman 1984 surely lived through that period of time. If not, there’s a dense catalogue of visual material (e.g. best movie of the 80s: Heathers) of what the 1980s actually looked like. Instead, WW84 served up a dish that looked scarily similar to what the 80s thought we would look like NOW, in Back To the Future II. Gross.
In the most 2020 fashion, Taylor Swift has dropped not one but TWO absolute bombs on us this year. But instead of leaving mushroom clouds and mass destruction in her wake, the angel that is T-Swizzle has instead graced all of us inferior earthly peasants with the excessive grand total of thirty-two (THIRTY-TWO!!!) songs to chew our ears off with and pretend we live in a world in which this year didn’t happen. Tay has traded in pandemics and elections for teenage love triangles and climbing seven-foot trees and being the suspect of your dead friend’s husband’s murder. This is a feat made achievable by way of Miss Taylor Swift's ability to manipulate a story, to twist and turn her words into the shapes of narratives that she sends out to us lowly humans on her angelic soundwaves.
The entirety of this year I have been painfully aware of the absurd ratio of shit-ness to the number of days we have all lived through. No doubt, I am by far not the only one. I could list for you all of the varying ways in which twenty-twenty, the year of our Lord, has inflicted fluctuating degrees of trauma on us all, but you, my friend, have no doubt experienced some of these traumas, so I’ll spare you the depressing recap. But on July 24th, the world changed. Or mine did, at least. Because for a week thereafter, and in sporadic moments since, I’ve been allowed to forget the reality of the world going on around me. My body has stayed put in the apocalypse that is now, but an angel named Miss Taylor Swift has granted us all access to a heaven that only she has the keys to. the keys, this time around, were in the shape of an album called folklore.
A few weeks ago, I tucked myself into bed with my favourite mug of tea and an over-hyped anticipation for a film I’d seen popping up everywhere as of late. Ben Wheatley’s Rebecca (2020), a suspense-drama based on the 1938 novel of the same name by Daphne du Maurier, details the story of a naïve young woman who finds herself entangled in a marriage that is haunted by the shadow of the woman who came before her. The trailer promised hot British characters (Lily James and Armie Hammer play the leads), gorgeous early-1900s European scenery and some slivers of science-fiction mystery. What I happened on instead was, just as the year of the Lord 2020 has ensured, a shit-show of boring cardboard chemistry-less bad British accents.
When we’re young, our first loves tend to feel like our only. In Mila’s case, though, as a sixteen-year-old terminally ill girl, the reality of a first and only love is ferociously omnipresent.
Old mate Christopher Nolan has yet again taken it upon himself to absolutely brain fuck unsuspecting cinemagoers (although perhaps we should all suspect it by now) by making us question everything we know about time, space and the unemotional characters that frequent his films in just a mere two and a half hours. In other words: I watched Tenet.
I heard this thing the other day that whenever you remember a memory, you’re not only remembering the contents of the memory itself, but also each previous time that memory takes a visit to the forefront of your mind. I just can’t stop thinking about this.