(Credit: The Guardian. Also this one is getting extra large photos, because I feel this is going to be in my top five of the year)
A romp and showcase for the talents of an absolutely spellbinding Callum Scott Howells (whom I am sorry to say I was unfamiliar with before this) telling a lesser known piece of outrageous queer Welsh history, featuring fucking legends of the Welsh acting scene (Stephen Speirs as a jeweller who gets one of the best chest-pumping parts towards the end, a delightfully devillish Paul Rhys; reliable Ian Puleston-Davies as an Ian Puleston-Davies character, and a fantastically cunty-shithead Tom Rhys Harries NOT playing a Welshman and it annoys me), as well as English stars allowed to have fun (Kevin Eldon puts on a pretty good Welsh accent actually, playing the local photographer, he's supremely underrated; Rupert Everett gives a beautifully understated performance in the vein of "Remains of the Day"; the excellent Louise Brealey has a vomiting scene which had me giggling; and a weaselly up-and-comer Louis Hynes is fantastic); as it weaves a tale of a non-conforming and all-too-fabulous eccentric wracked with consumption and making it his mission to burn thrice as bright for but a moment. It weaves a sweet tale of his complex relationship with his wife/cousin/best friend Lily (Ruby Stokes, also excellent here) and the knotty things that entails, whilst they make a splash in the community at large and high-society and the community around them. It juggles a lot of plates, and when Lisa Baker's script goes pedestrian in the centre (most crucially around the lowest point of that FUCKING SHITHEAD Nick's big fuck-you moment... though that I hate him so much is a testament to Tom Rhys Harries and Callum Scott Howells) it perhaps doesn't quite soar as it should with Celyn Jones' understated direction and period-piece accuracy; but by the time of the bold and audacious ending heist/bust-out/redemption arc/Ffion the Maid (Greta Jones') finest hour - there is just so much passion and love and joy on screen that it's infectious. The ending credits are Callum Scott Howells dancing to "I Feel Love" by Donna Summer in the mansion in a fuck-you to "Saltburn", and such a pure, joyously wonderful celebration of this film and its history and such a love leter to the character that I got misty eyed leaving the cinema.
Fuck yes.
Fuck fucking yes.
Support Welsh cinema.
Happy fucking pride motherfuckers.
Yeah, it may not land as well as it did for me, but I am ranking this movie on the fact that I felt something, this piece of art spoke to me on a personal level, it made me feel anger, joy, sadness, sorrow, whimsy, delight, an effervescent glee at being oneself and remaining true to it (the best line is "I should be myself, because everybody else is taken!") ESPECIALLY in an era when that sort of thing brings ruin and disgrace to false portraits of baroque "manners" and "society".
No comments:
Post a Comment