“Le changement, c’est maintenant.”

On the cusp of seven o’clock I arrive at a crowded French bar next to London Bridge. A low murmur of anticipation is spreading through the compressed throng of people. Some are standing on chairs and tables, precariously balanced, a glass of wine in hand, ready for the celebration. Everyone jostles for position, necks craned to catch a glimpse of a stuttering projection of French television. At the front, they are complaining about the technological issues the venue is experiencing. There is something about the sense of unfairness in the bar’s disorganisation being discussed, as they are making rather a lot of money from the occasion. It is so befitting of the event, it is difficult to witness this and resist a smirk at the irony, and the fact that it is apparently escaping them.

It is election night. This is the Parti Socialiste in London. In a Europe plagued by right-wing governments, tough austerity measures and rising unemployment, the people gathered here are hoping that the result of the evening can pave the way for change; not just in France, but throughout the continent, by electing their candidate, François Hollande, to the presidency. There is a feeling of genuine hope amongst them.  

Overwhelmingly, it is a young crowd, too young to remember a time when the French last had a socialist president. As is pointed out to me, it has been seventeen long years since Mitterand, and as an outsider, I am slightly surprised to be rather taken by this notion that I am about to witness something historic and triumphant.

Being used to general elections in the UK, where the nation collectively attempts to stay awake at 3am, as a blurry David Dimblebey finds new ways to tell us that the results are inconclusive, I am caught out at the immediacy of the announcement. A big cheer erupts from the front, next to the misbehaving projector, quickly making its way back to the masses gathered outside. There is jubilation. People are throwing their arms around each other as supporters of a football team might celebrate a last minute goal in a cup final. Chants of “On a gagné , on a gagné!” (We’ve won, we’ve won!”) and “François – President!” ring out. Some are more discreet about the victory, but grin at each other in spite of themselves; an expression which seems to be contagiously developing. One girl stands with her back to me after I’m introduced to her, staring into the middle distance; not through a stereotypical French antagonism for the Englishman turning up, as I first fear, but in what appears to be a pensive relief that the campaign she has been helping to run has ended in victory. It is a glazed look of someone who hasn’t quite taken in the news. My ‘congratulations’ sounds rather vacuous; the sentiment of an outsider. She pauses. “Thanks, I’m just a bit emotional.”

The conga begins. There’s unbridled joy. “Tous ensemble, tous ensemble; so-cia-listes!” (“All together, all together; Socialists”) and “Sarkozy, c’est fini” (“Sarkozy, it’s over”) are the popular chants, rising to a peak when Axelle Lemaire, the legislative candidate for the French socialists in Northern Europe turns up.

The relief is well founded in a France that has seen nothing but misery since the now former president, Nicolas Sarkozy took office in 2007, deemed as ‘unapologetically bling-bling’ by his adversaries, whilst they watched him parade around with his ex-supermodel wife Carla Bruni. With rising unemployment, tax cuts for the rich and dramatic slashes in public spending dominating his presidency, it has served to isolate the poor and create divides and a sense of unrest throughout the country.

The election wasn’t all about a return to the left. Rather alarmingly, the far-right candidate, Marine Le Pen of the Front National scored highly in the first round, amassing 18% of the overall vote, and coming in third place. This is serving as a warning call to the French socialists that managing to get their man elected for president is just the beginning. With many of Le Pen’s votes coming from disaffected and poverty-stricken young people living in the suburbs, it is François Hollande’s post-election promise that “no child of the Republic will be neglected,” that is a major focus. The abandonment the poor have experienced has led to feelings of xenophobia and anger, and the socialists know that there is a long way to go before France, and indeed the rest of Europe, can stamp out such abhorrent judgements from these sections of society. A return to the left is something to be celebrated, but France is now leading the way, with the responsibility to show the rest of Europe that the values and economics of the left can work.

The elder people speak cautiously, celebrating with more restraint, and happy to talk about other things, such as London pubs and how incredible The Shard looks by night. People in their twenties, who canvassed extensively throughout London for the last two months, are less self-controlled. A young French socialist in spectacles and a tartan shirt with red braces breaks into an explosion of joy every ten minutes, jumping up and down and occasionally managing to make people join in with his chants.

The party continues into the small hours, until almost every bottle of wine in the house has been consumed. Everyone seems to be aware that this is only the beginning, but for now, as a rousing second rendition of the national anthem, “La Marseillaise” breaks out, causing an Englishman to shiver slightly with goose bumps, it is hard to begrudge them their victory. 

Beach House - Bloom - Review

Beach House have become adept at crafting a brand of soaring pop music that it’s hard not to be charmed by, and although ‘Bloom’ finds Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally in familiar territory, this, their fourth record, may just be their best offering yet.

The band makes little attempt to break new ground here, but this is rendered irrelevant due to the quality and craftsmanship of the song-writing, which manages to combine being joyful, tender and pensive all at once. Lead single ‘Myth’ sets the tone, an amateurish drum machine giving way to a glittering, euphoric refrain that eloquently fills the space between these basic foundations. Whereas ‘The Hours’ is another excellent example of the kind of song Beach House excel at; a dense, reverb heavy vocal harmony, dreamy soundscapes, catchy melodies and the near-perfect chemistry between Legrand’s ethereal vocals, the bright synths and Scally’s charming guitar licks.

Elsewhere, the wind-up music box intro of ‘Lazuli’ somehow evokes an image of a calm lake in summer, where ripples from fallen pebbles disturb the water. “Like no other you can’t be replaced,” Legrand confusingly repeats over the outro, but there’s a sincerity there, and you can forgive the bad grammar when the sentiment feels this genuine.

As was true with Beach House’s last album ‘Teen Dream’, the second half of ‘Bloom’ is less affecting. They’ve found their niche, and it’s understandable that they’re reluctant to change a winning formula. The aesthetics of the music are consistent and unchanging, and for this reason, it can be frustrating that the band makes the decision to pack all their best songs at the beginning of their records. Over-excitement maybe; it certainly comes across that Beach House enjoy making music, and when most of their songs tend to rely on the same tricks, it’s perhaps logical that they rely on the immediacy of pleasure the listener experiences when they’re at the top of their game.

The final track, ‘Irene,’ is something of an anti-climax, not quite reaching the counter-point between blissed-out euphoria and subtle sadness that the best of their songs do. A rather jarring two minutes half way through this insipid number is unexpectedly thrust into the mix, a droning note played repetitively on a keyboard catches the listener off guard, wondering whether the record is skipping and pressing the stop button with a shrug that says “Ok, so they ran out of ideas.”

These quibbles aside, ‘Bloom’ mostly packs the punches in the right way. When the band are at their best, the arrangements are splendid, the combination of Legrand’s plaintive, fertile vocals and the brightness of the synths and chiming guitar work from Scally working wonders.

The Riots - Piece for GoldenRoom

The frustrations of an unequal society facing people in the poorest and most deprived areas in the country are hardly a revelation. Conversely, the ideas of the great chasm between classes in Britain have been a subject of discussion for centuries.

Why is it then that this divide still exists? As youth unemployment soars, and the rich continue to escape heavy taxation; as tuition fees treble and the government remains determined in its attempts to privatise the NHS, there is little wonder that there seems to be an increasing sense of isolationism in the poorest sections of society.

The riots of last summer were called unprecedented, mindless opportunism; sheer criminality, brought about as a reaction to the never-ending glorification of material possessions that consumes our society. However, subsequent research, such as the Guardian/LSE enquiry, has revealed a depth that had previously been dismissed.

The findings suggested that while it was perhaps true that this wasn’t a united, politically conscious uprising, in at least some of the notions of opportunism were accurate, it was important to look at the bigger picture. What the Guardian/LSE enquiry and ‘The Riots,’ a play by Gillian Slovo, performed at The Bernie Grant Arts Centre, have revealed is the extent of the disaffection of people in deprived areas.

The enquiry showed young people who believe that there are no opportunities available to them, and who felt they were being mistreated in constantly being targeted by an over-aggressive police force. They spoke of the relentless reminders of all the things they can never have, through advertising and a national obsession with obtaining the best quality products.

It is widely suggested that the resentment is borne out of seeing the privileged acquiring material possessions and education so easily, whilst their struggle is being ignored. The riots may not have been overtly politically conscious, but there were reasons to feel angry, undermined and left behind.

Gillian Slovo’s play, ‘The Riots’ was a portrayal of real life accounts and interpretations of the riots in London last summer, covering all perspectives of those involved, from the participants to the politicians, to the police. One of the most compelling stories, taken from the many hours of interviews and research that went into compiling the play, was a portrayal of a Hackney citizen’s take on ’The Great Clean-up’ that occurred in the aftermath of the events. Here was a character not directly involved in the riots, but a woman living in a deprived Hackney council estate, and closely affiliated with people who were. For her, to witness an army of middle class ‘do-gooders’ coming to ‘fix the broken streets’ was an act of severe patronisation, serving as a powerful visual representation of the misunderstandings and divisions between classes that exists today.

Some analyses of the events were less measured. David Starkey, a respected historian, took to the BBC’s Newsnight to give his opinion that the influence of “Black culture” had some part to play in events. “The Whites have become Black,” he argued, to widespread and deserved condemnation. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OVq2bs8M9HM)

The notion that the riots, as some have suggested, were in any way to do with racial orientation has been dismissed, given there is no evidence to support this. No overwhelming percentage of one particular ethnic minority was involved.

In a society where so much division already exists, it is dangerous that some are intent on creating more. It is also unfortunate that the targeting methods of young Black teenagers adopted by the police force and some sections of the media can lead to such animosity.

Parallels can be drawn between recent events in the UK’s major cities and The Brixton Riots of 1981. The Brixton Riots came about in the wake of a recession, just as in 2011.
One night, youths from a deprived area of London watched the police intervene disastrously in an incident involving a Black teenager being stabbed. Police allegedly led the bleeding youth away to be interrogated, rather than calling for the medical assistance he obviously required. The crowd jostled with the authorities, which resulted in a greater police presence in the area. This ultimately caused an isolated event to escalate tensions; and a whole group of disaffected people decided to fight back. Unemployment figures for people in Brixton stood at 13%. Unemployment among Black youths in the area was estimated at 55%.

In 2011, the shooting of Mark Duggan, and the mistreatment of his family by the police lit the torch paper for the events that were to follow. Though talk of institutional racism in the police force carried less weight, as many accounts of socially deprived White teenagers spoke of incidents in which they were being similarly mistreated.

The events of last summer showed a whole section of unemployed youth demonstrating their anxiety and anger in the most ruthless way, regardless of ethnicity. It is perhaps true that racism is less of an issue in 2011 than it was in 1981, but it is difficult to say how far things have moved forward. The overwhelming amount of similar accounts of the trials facing deprived young people suggests that social divides are just a much of an issue today as they were in 1981.

Reactions of two Prime-ministers have not helped the argument that there is a parliamentary understanding of the wide divisions that exist. Margret Thatcher dismissed talk of unemployment and racism being behind The Brixton Riots in the 1980s. ‘Nothing can justify what happened,’ she had said. Calls to increase investment in deprived parts of the inner cities were met with similar disdain by Thatcher. ‘Money cannot buy trust or racial harmony’ she opined.

In 2011, David Cameron, and members of his cabinet blasted the riots as ‘sheer criminality’, before an investigation as to why they happened was able to take place.

When there is a lack of understanding of the problems facing the poorest in our society from our country’s leaders, how is the divide between classes ever going to become narrower? How are the increasing amounts of unemployed people, living in over-crowded council estates throughout the country, ever going to feel comforted and reassured by a government made up of highly privileged, expensively educated politicians?

These are difficult questions to answer, but it is only by being aware that the divide exists and is a fundamental problem that we can begin to try and rectify the situation.
There are ways to make stepping-stones. By giving increased funding to the arts and apprenticeships, we can give all people the chance to get involved with something positive, regardless of social background. There are schemes in place that have worked in the past, and have led to many who were involved in crime previously, giving their devotion towards something positive and being given a taste of success.

Of course, these are troubled financial times, but it would be nice to one day look back and be re-assured that a whole generation of disadvantaged people haven’t been left out in the cold.

Thoughts on the latest England football team saga

Is there a thing in existence as fickle as the furore surrounding the England football team?

England's national team's fortunes and decisions are apparently based on what a guy with the intelligence of a pork-pie may or may not have have said. Racism is very serious, but even the wildest imagination would struggle to understand how an incident at Loftus Road, which is apparently being dealt with, could, according to some, have a potential effect on the chances of the national team in the next competition. We're supposedly dumbfounded as to why the team 'under-perform' at major competitions, but the sense of self-importance and desperation from all quarters will mean that it is unlikely that any sort of achievement is ever possible.

What is this English obsession with the captaincy anyway? As it stands, the majority of confirmed England regulars have such massively inflated egos, they could play without a captain and probably be more effective than they otherwise would have been. The position is a fallacy, designed to appeal to the notion of nationalistic pride. The antiquated idea of the strong and noble England captain leading the team to do battle against opposing nations. The reality is much more like an Under-14s game, where players whinge under their breaths how; 'That's not fair, how come John got to be captain when he's suspended from school?'

What the players say and think is reported on the news as though we should be scrutinising their comments with the tenacity we would have of tackling great thinkers and philosophers. Bizzare when you consider the nature of the comments in question seem to follow along the lines of Wazza7Rooney - 'Capello great manager. Want manager to be Englandish next time. Redknapp please,' like some Neanderthal. Yet TV anchormen furrow their brows and host a ten minute analysis as to whether 'Wazza' should be making such comments.

The whole sorry affair would simply not happen anywhere else. If an investigation of this nature was pending on the captain of most national teams, they would consider it rather obvious that individual would perhaps not in the best position or frame of mind to be the captain, particularly in a team with such ethnic diversity. The matter would hardly be considered as an after-thought in the actual story, which is one of alleged racism. The player would be dropped.

Whatever did happen should be far removed from football anyway. If people really want the campaign to 'kick it out' to be successful, perhaps the best way to go about this would be to treat anyone found guilty with utter disdain and public ridicule. A Newcastle United fan recently apologised for making racist remarks on Twitter. A Liverpool fan was seen apparently making 'monkey gestures' at Patrice Evra. No event of this nature has been reported on for years in the game. Proof that if you give these stories of racism on the pitch an elevated sense of importance and scandal, sections of a fickle public will react in a damaging way.

Perhaps the next England manager should adopt a policy of dropping any player from the team who is in the media for any other reason other than their ability to play football. When will people realise that the celebrity culture is damaging any chance of success for the team? There are good young players who have not yet had enough of a career to become celebrities. Let them play. Goodbye to Terry, Ferdinand, Cole, Rooney even. Perhaps that will actually give them a fighting chance.

'The Riots' by Gillian Slovo review

The riots of last summer divided opinion so sharply as to light a beacon to the wildly contrasting opinion people harbour for the society in which they live. Depending on who you spoke to the riots pointed to all sorts of things; mindless opportunism, sheer criminality from bored unemployed children, a demonstration of our glorification of material possessions, or a deep rooted social-economic problem that made events inevitable, as the gap between the rich and poor becomes wider and youth unemployment soars.
An inconceivably difficult job then, to incorporate the extent of this opinion and debate into a two hour long piece of theatre, but Gillian Slovo's 'The Riots' somehow manages to accomplish it. Compiled over 50 hours of interviews, eye witness accounts and extensive research, the painstaking effort for this sort of intense analysis can only be admired.

The impact of social networking has long been talked about as a large factor in the development of the riots, and as the audience take their seats, a scrolling screen of twitter feed acts as a backdrop to the stage, a provocative way of demonstrating the influence it undeniably had.
The first half of the performance gives us eye witness accounts from people in the local community, from Chief Inspectors demonstrating their disorganisation as they struggled to contain the scenes, to friends of the Mark Duggan family, the man who was shot by police, an incident largely responsible for the first signs of disorder that were set to escalate. The people who labelled the riots as 'mindless opportunism' are perhaps given a smoment's vindication, as we see accounts from people who were indeed clearly out to take advantage of being able to attain the things that they would never normally be able to posses, but as is pointed out 'there are people who are genuinely angry, and there are people who jump on that anger.' It is hard to get away from the troubled social issues that led to the riots, as the play accurately highlights.
Though perhaps the performance could be accused of showing a political bias to the left, it never lends itself to preaching or telling the audience what to think, leaving them to deduce what they will from it.
Politicians are painted in a negative light. Dianne Abbott, played to a righteous tee by Donna Coll, sees events as a recurrence of the Brixton race riots, despite it widely being considered that they came about as a result of an antipathy towards the police. Something which can absolutely be drawn as a parallel to last summer's events. The Guardian/LSE inquiry showed that 'stop and search' tactics adopted by police have done much to increase harboured feelings of animosity from young people that, it is suggested, would inevitably implode into the frenzy that was the events of last summer.
Michael Gove is appropriately pompous in his attempts to understand why the riots occurred, while John McDonnell is the voice of reason for the concerned, analytical lefties, and his views certainly seem to resonate with the audience appreciation of the complexity of the issues that surrounded the event.

One interesting take is that of a representation of a Hackney resident, who, despite being dismayed by the riots, is far more put out by the 'army of cleaner-upers' who descended onto the streets in the aftermath of the riots. She sees it as patronising, as the 'do-gooders' come marching up their streets with their brand new brushes, to clean up the scrubby dwelling areas of the working class. A viewpoint that was largely ignored by the media, as the overall interpretation of this contrived event seemed to be revelling in the suggestion that 'look, we're not all bad.'
'The riots' is a highly relevant, engrossing and thought-provoking watch, that goes a long way to successfully summarise the contrasting feelings of the nation. As unemployment continues to grow, and the gap between the working class in council estates and the politicians in their cosy Westminster bubble continues to grow, you are left with the feeling that 'The riots' is a very important piece of theatre that should be brought to a wider audience.

Curious Joe

A heavy beat blared from the beaten up van. Hardly an original act of provocation, though he had always taken pleasure in the disapproving looks from passers-by . Truth was, the weekend’s drinking was taking its toll. The familiar feeling, as though the body was bruised on the inside. Monday wasn’t supposed to be a working day.
The combination of these factors darkened his mood. He recklessly swung the van into the parking space, narrowly missing the parked car behind him.
‘You have reached your destination.’ toned the disembodied woman from the SatNav.

“Hello. Joe isn’t it?’ said the young guy who answered the door.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re Mark, I assume. Hi. Hi. Yeah. Take care.”
The handshake had already gone on longer than necessary by the time it had taken him to say all that, and Joe was now aware that some mild form of polite tourettes had slipped from his lips. The handshake continued.
“Take care?” asked Mark, reasonably enough.
“Oh…Yeah. That’s what you say at the end. Not when you meet someone, right? Right. My bad.” Joe shrugged. Mark raised his eyebrows, as they finally finished shaking hands.
Mark chuckled nervously, noticing the badly parked, graffiti strewn van.
“That’s your van?”
“Certainly is,” Joe proclaimed proudly, as someone might respond to being asked "Is that your Porsche?"
“Oh. Ok.” Mark seemed apprehensive now, not that Joe noticed, or particularly cared.
“I’ll be in the van.”
“Ok. Give me a minute.”

Joe turned the music on, but at a reasonable level now, as his hangover was getting steadily worse.
“Come on, mate..” he mumbled to himself, impatiently shaking his left leg up and down.
Mark had barely time to sit down and put his seatbelt on before Joe had swung the van out in front of an approaching car. A horn sounded, angrily.
“Jesus!” said Mark.
“Woah, sorry man. What am I doing? That’s right. Oops. Right, where are we. Um, yeah, first gear. That would help.” Joe was gibbering.
“Careful mate.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I mean, woah, right? Jeez.”
“Mm.”
Mark chewed on a fingernail that was already bitten away. It was another minute or two before either spoke again.

The first word was an excited proclomation.
“Tune!”
Another dangerous, over excited lurch of the van. Another horn.
It at least broke the silence, and Joe had appeared to decide at this point that any more silence would be a terrible thing. His chatter was incessant for the rest of the journey, topics changing seemingly from the approaching autumn, to how hard it was to find somewhere that serves good coffee. Joe would randomly discuss the plots of various films, then seemed annoyed when Mark offered a short contribution. Keeping a constant rhetoric seemed to be Joe's only concern, so his passenger fell quiet.
Mark’s insecurities lay away from the social awkwardness clearly being experienced by his companion. It was in the fact that Joe would look at him for extended periods of time when talking, appearing to forget he was driving. Making pleading nods towards the road didn't seem to help much, but Mark didn’t consider picking up a sofa for the new flat worth a fatal motorway accident.
He gripped the seat apprehensively as Joe leant across him, and fumbled in the glove box.

They were stood in a empty room on the fifth floor of a block of flats. Empty except for the spotless white sofa and armchair. The girl selling the sofa, Kate, and Mark made small talk, as Joe stared out of the window, vacant.
“Well, yes, it’s served us well.”
“Yeah, it looks great to..”
“That horseshoe will bring that house bad luck,” offered Joe suddenly, raising a finger to demonstrate that what he was saying was important. He was referring to the house opposite, which had a lopsided horseshoe attached to the wall.
“Umm,” said Kate, unsure what to say.
“It’s bad luck to have it on its side like that.”

“Well, thanks Kate," Mark said, interrupting the silence. "My wallet’s in the car. I’ll pay you as soon as we get it in the van.”
Joe suddenly came around.
“Right!” he exclaimed. “I’ll get the rope?”
Mark laughed. At least he’s got a sense of humour, I suppose.
Joe, however, was shrugging, as if to say ‘What’s funny?’
“No. I’ve got a rope in the back of the van. We’ll tie it round the thing and I’ll lower it down to you out of the window.”
Mark laughed again. Another little shrug in response.
“You’re…You’re not joking?”
“It will be quicker.”
Kate covered her hand with her mouth, mixed feelings of amusement and embarrassment. She went into the kitchen and pretended to busy herself.
“It’s..It’s a £100 sofa”
“It’ll be fine!”
“I’d really rather not do it that way.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re paying quite a lot of money for it.”
Joe was genuinely incredulous. It was as if Mark’s objection was completely unreasonable.
“Well, alright. Fine. We’ll at least get the rope round the armchair. No bother there.”
“I think we’ll carry them down the stairs. You seriously want to tie a rope around..?”
“Oh, for christ sake..Right! Come on then!”
Joe was visibly annoyed.
“Clearly you know best. Come on, we’ll get the armchair first.” He flung one of the cushions across the room, and kicked the other one out of the way. Mark was too stunned to respond.
Joe turned around, holding the armchair up behind his back. Kate had returned into the room and she and Mark exchanged brief, perplexed looks.
“Hold it straight!” Joe barked, and continue to grumble under his breath for the four or five trips up and down the stairs it took to load up the rest of the sofa.

They were back in the van. Silence had returned between them. Joe kept shaking his head, still visibly irritated that his rope idea had been rejected. Mark preferred it this way, the chances of a motorway pile-up having been slightly reduced.
“How much is this guy charging?” Mark asked in a text to his girlfriend.
The reply was rapid.
“Says fifteen an hour on the website.”
Joe pulled into a garage.
“I need thirty quid in the tank. Have you got it on you?”
“Well, is it not 15 an hour?” They had been an hour or so, so far, and were twenty minutes from the flat.
“Thirty for the job.”
“Oh..”
Joe got out to fill the engine, paid for it and got back in the van.
“Are you going to argue with me?”
“Sorry?”
“It’s thirty. Are you going to argue?”
“It says fifteen on your website.”
“It’s thirty.”
Mark, weighing up the situation, considered it to be reasonable enough, considering it was fairly difficult to load up and would be just about two hours by the time they got home.
“That’s fine.”
Joe started the engine, drove back and didn’t say another word for the remainder of the journey, shaking his head incredulously throughout. Mark sat there, trying not to laugh by this point.

As Mark handed the money over, Joe had one final thing to say.
“Wet-wipes.”
“Sorry?”
“Good for getting out marks on sofas.”
“Right.”
And with that, Joe the furniture deliverer drove away with a screech, with a bemused Mark staring after the van in the plumes of exhaust smoke left behind.

We need to talk about Kevin

The unsettling opening shot of a white net curtain dancing silently in the breeze sets the scene of Lynne Ramsay's superb adaptation of Lionel Shirver's novel, 'We need to talk about Kevin.'

Shirver himself has praised the film, something used prominently in advertising the release, the author's seal of approval stamped across promotional posters and trailers. Adaptations of best selling novels usually lend themselves to negative press. For every half a dozen people that enjoy the film in its own right, there will always be a 'not-as-good-as-the-book' naysayer standing with arms folded from the sidelines.

This doesn't seem to be the case here, and justifiably so. It was announced last night that 'We need to talk about Kevin' had triumphed at the London Film Festival, winning the award for 'Best film'. John Madden, chair of the jury, praised it for being "a sublime, uncompromising tale of the torment that can stand in the place of love." The amount of hyperbole being directed towards the film certainly seems in no danger of running dry.

The film explores a mother's inability to cope in the aftermath of her son committing a high-school atrocity, and the tell-tale signs that lead up to the event. Set around the sort of tense score that Radiohead's Johnny Greenwood is becoming so accomplished at, (There will be blood, Norwegian Wood) the director's use of symbolism in imagery and colour is consistent throughout, from the barefaced metaphor of Eva's inability to scrub the red paint of her graffiti ridden house from under her fingertips, to Kevin's deranged enjoyment of preparing a snack, deliberately spilling a jar of jam across a slice of bread whilst his mother attempts in vain to engage him in niceties. Harrowing montages of Eva driving or lying awake in bed, with flashes of disturbing dialogue and snapshot images of the event itself leave the viewer breathless. Her dilapidated house is attacked by trick-or-treaters on Halloween, whist she cowers in a corner. Director Lynne Ramsay makes you feel Eva's sense of isolation so painfully, it is impossible not to be drawn to her plight. Tilda Swinton turns in an incredible performance as Eva. She seems to thrive on playing this sort of feminist, tragic role, and is perfectly cast here.

The film raises the question of whether someone can be born a sociopath, or if this occurs through the way a child is nurtured, or as a consequence of troubling events that happen throughout their lives. We see Kevin as a baby, unable to stop crying, as Eva battles with the daemon of an unwanted child forced upon her. In early childhood, Kevin is reluctant to speak and refuses to toilet train. Eva's attempts at developing and caring for her child are met with an unflinching resilience towards her. We know that Eva never wanted this child. Is it Kevin's awareness of this from an early age, and the development from being slightly resentful of her, to bitterfully so that perpetuates the crime? It is on a particularly frustrating morning, with Kevin still refusing to speak, that she tells him as a toddler 'Mummy was happy before you came along. Without you, Mummy would sill be in France," and we get the sense that Kevin takes this on board, aiding to his feeling of animosity. Certainly there are signs that suggest that Kevin is already detached and monstrous from a young age. When Eva breaks his arm in a sudden rage due to Kevin's misbehaviour and disregard for her, as opposed to being upset, Kevin calculates that he can use this to his advantage, and as leverage against his mother in their ongoing battle.

Eva's isolation is apparent throughout the narrative, and her husband's naivety in the assumption that he has a normal teenage boy highlights the point. Eva's ongoing battle with herself is whether she should feel responsible for his terrible crime. Certainly there are enough signs that her son is drastically unhappy and in some cases disturbed. He considers his mother taking him out to dinner to spend "quality time together" to be futile. A typically teenage attitude perhaps, but it is the way he takes delight in belittling Eva and paints an opinion of the world which lends itself more to nihilism than to teen rebellion. She suspects him of being responsible for blinding his sister. Something unconfirmed, but again there is an unspoken malevolence in the way that Kevin revels in making his mother know that he is responsible.

The film adaptation makes less of Kevin's loneliness than the book, instead focusing on his family relationships, detachment and unwillingness to follow normal social constraints. Kevin is portrayed excellently by the three actors cast for him. Particularly impressive is six-year-old Rock Duer, who, during a reluctance to participate in a simple game with Eva of passing the ball back and forward, shows the audience signs where the character is moving towards.

'We need to talk about Kevin' makes for uncomfortable viewing. At times, toe-curling and at at others desperately sad, it is nevertheless a superb and engaging film that explores uncomfortable issues that are very rarely dealt with. To say this is a film about a student high-school massacre would do it an injustice. It functions on a much deeper level, dealing with the fractious nature of a relationship between a mother and son, and showing the development of a disturbed mind, and how something so violent and tragic can occur as a result of this.