And then there’s the lush richness of features I’m gifted at my staff writer job. Hours of my time, dedicated to peeling back the layers of fabled superheroes to craft deep-dives into who they really are. Their morals, their strength, their weakness, their trials and their romances, offered like sacrifices to suffice the daily reader. A fancy way of saying I’ve been writing about Supergirl’s comic book lore – something I knew nothing about but have enjoyed researching immensely. Don’t blame me for getting fancy with it here; I have missed writing to my audience, to you now. And today, of all the stories I have told or could tell, I have chosen today to finally bear this tale to you. And it’s a simple tale, of a girl leaving her front door and choosing to walk.

Recently, before that horrendous late-May heatwave rocked the UK, I took to the spring air. Wanting to revel in the cool wind before it was hoovered away from me, I let my feet decide where they wanted to go. Thinking I would traverse my usual patterns, I instead weaved a new one, and found my brain simply unresistant. My feet, crammed into my worn-down trainers, moved me without thought. And I simply bowed before them.

I began to walk straight, under the soft blue sky and the dreamy clouds, past my old primary school. I think now of the assembly hall, the scuffed marks of tiny shoes that had marred its wooden floor. I think of the sun streaming through the pattern-marked curtains. I think of the spiky carpeting just outside of its doors, that used to hurt my little feet if I walked on it in socks. I think of the vast field, which must look tiny now. I think of how I used to feel it stretch for miles, how I used to traverse it with happiness, worry, freedom.

I then turned the corner, and found myself entering the tiny, tiny park nearby. A park that my feet had returned to time and time again. A park that contained equal history to the school, who saw dozens of versions of me enter and leave its pathways. And soon after, my feet took me to the bench facing the play area. The play area I had took to, when the grassy bump in the centre used to feel like a mountain.

My feet now resting below me, I feel my brain come to life, as if rising from a gentle yoga stretch. I pull off the shield of my white headphones, and look around me. Suddenly, I realise just how much nature has called to me, these last six years. And how much I’ve missed returning to it. I hear the wind ruffling me, tousling my hair with indignant affection. I hear birds chirping their old songs, returning to me like myth and poetry. I hear the rampant paws of a playing dog behind me, I turn to see it run with boundless energy and intent. I feel warmth fill me and own me. I think of where I am and I feel pride.

I look at the tree in front of me, watching how it splits the suns rays. I watch as the leaves dance and dazzle in the breeze. They move in unison, and yet somehow in opposition. They remind me of the many people on this Earth, moving in both sync and resistance. I shut my eyes briefly, and I hear them move. I hear them shake with joy at my presence. I think about all the other trees in the world, right now, who move as this one does. I think of the cities, that are bustling and thrumming as I stay still. I think of how of this town and how I won’t live here forever. I think of all the ones I will live in.

I look at the grass next to the bench. I think of the grass I used to sit on, with my secondary school friends, on a begrudging day, in a begrudging PE lesson, under a begrudging sun. I remember pulling on the grass, how each blade looked different, how some were weed and some were fauna. I think of playing rounders in groups, running that stupid ‘fun run,’ getting changed in that ugly building. I think, with a fondness, of those begrudging days. I think of their simplicity.

I look at the empty path in front of me, darkened by the protective shade of the trees. I look back at the path that lead me here, a protective tunnel of apricot, plum and grape coloured leaves. It cocooned me, as I entered. It gave me a place of repose, a sanctuary of quietness and warmth. I place my headphones back over my ears, and take slow, deep breaths. I remember how it feels to meditate. I picture the fresh air, entering my lungs, giving me fresh life, rebirth. I picture the deadened breath leaving my body, replaced constantly with beautiful, water-like air. I play Hozier’s '‘Shrike’ and I exist between the reverb of the instruments. I exist.

I let my feet stabilise my body once more against the earth. I notice what the park has done to my body, my mind. I notice how it cocooned me, hugging me like a parent. I notice how it had exfoliated, cleansed, soothed, healed. I notice how energised I feel, as I feel the oncoming waves of the future beckon me forwards.

And, as I walk once more through its tunnel-like pathway, I play ‘Would That I,’ once more by Hozier. I retain goosebumps as he sings,

The park exists as past and present and future – it cradles my past, it pushes my present onward and it holds visions of my future, spirit-like, before me. I think of the flickering versions of me, that exist somewhere inside this body, who I carry with me each time I leave the house. I think of the pausing beat that happens, the moment I step outside my front door. I think of all I have let pass and all I carry in that moment. And then I step outside. To this park, to returning, to leaving, to emptying and filling. To this park.

I have had agoraphobia for six years. Sorry, let me rephrase this. I had agoraphobia for six years. And, whilst I won’t go into all of the details here, it left me closed off from the world for a long time. For the last six months, I have made a concerted effort to build up my regular return to the world outside. And, with a dedicated support group by my side, I have turned short, daily walks into trips I haven’t gone on in years.

On that walk, on that simple walk where I let my feet take me where they may, I could’ve cried. I realised what was happening to me and what I was doing. I was giving parts of myself back to the world I had forgotten and neglected. I was seeing the world and I was letting it in. I was returning to it. And it was all thanks to the power of my trainer-enclosed feet. Those marvellous, courageous feet.

My close friends have recently been ‘treated’ to a mini-series I liked to call ‘Beating the Agoraphobia Allegations.’ Inductees were invited to watch mini-vlogs of me explaining my progress, or see pictures of where I’d been to. More recently, this has included bowling trips, getting a new piercing, working volunteering shifts, getting haircuts – and taking long walks to get sweet treats. And soon, the cinema will be added to that list.

You may have noticed, if you keep up-to-date with my Letterboxd, that my logs have been incredibly sparse this year. And that is actually due to these very efforts. Most of my time is spent going out, recovering or working on my chunky to-do list. I used to think films were my entire life; I recently tried to imagine the life of someone whose world doesn’t revolve around films and I cannot bring myself to understand it. But, I have now realised they are just a portion of it. There is so much else out there, beyond the screen, which can co-exist with work. I used to think that all I had was this desk, my words and my films. But suddenly, I have revealed myself to the world in weird and wonderful ways – and I have begun to live a life both with them, and beyond them.

Transformation is a beautiful, life-affirming thing – something I got used to believing wasn’t for me. I was content remaining with my words and my job, letting them orbit me with ease. But then I realised that a certain degree of breaking and remoulding is needed, if you want to add celestial stars to that orbit. And so, I walked further, faster, with ambition and fervour. I took car rides, I took longer walks, I took people along with me. I could feel this power, strength upon strength, building inside of my bones. It was like my whole body rippled with a cool, aqua coloured light. Like I was water, like I was both nostalgia and future, all embalmed within me. Testing my mind became easy, become fruitful, less dangerous. And now this body feels like it flows, rather than stutters. It meets the open air with trust, rather than a nervous anticipation.

Recently, I took my dad bowling to celebrate his birthday. Spares were made, strikes were had (not by me, but a girl can dream), and gutters were filled. I could feel the dark lights crackling like electricity in my body, igniting further as I gazed at the complimenting neons. It almost hurt to look at it, but I didn't look away. Like a fish in a coral reef, I found my head whipping around, unable to fully settle but able to just about wrestle with the tacky majesty of where I was. Pop hits blared out and reverberated in my chest – and walking up to take my turn, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. I was here, I was doing this. Look at where I am, right now. Look at where you are.

As we were leaving, I was nattering away when I caught wind of what the speakers were now playing. Around this dazzlingly-white lobby played the familiar looping notes of ‘Let It Happen’ by Tame Impala. I could not quite believe my ears. I explained, with disbelief, to my dad that this is my song. Ever since I started this job three years ago, when I could feel the very earth beneath my feet change, I had used this song as a promise to myself. A promise that things are going to change, if I let it happen. And whilst my dad merely laughed at the repetitive beats of the six-minute song, I marvelled at the possibility of the universe giving me a sign. That this was somehow, in someway, meant for me. Meant to happen.

I wanted to tell you all of this, my reader, for two reasons. One, I am learning to feel pride in these things, which I used to hide away from so many people. It was my secret, accepted shame for so long, that was so easy to seep below the skin. It was my reality – and I bore it with resignation. However, a recent conversation with a good friend – one who didn’t know my struggles to a deeper extent – made me realise I have nothing to fear.

I come here today to turn the tides and wash them back over myself with relief and validation. I was that person and I had those struggles. She is still within me, and I nurture her days in the open air and sun. I am working so hard and, though they are part of me, they are changing and shifting. I am becoming the person I want to be. I am leaving the house, and I am changing my life.

The other reason I am telling you this is to remind you that you are capable of change, too. All those people you see in movies, who go through immense character arcs, transformations that change the very aura of their souls – can be divined from you too. I used to think that was only for people in the movies. But, within you lies stores of capacity that can stack up such large quantities of fuel. You can act, star, write and perform your arc. Unfortunately, there is no director waiting in the wings, to tell you exactly what you must do. There will be producers, who can fund your efforts and motivate your actions. But, it will always come right back down to you – and what you are able to achieve for yourself.

This is a film of a girl, conquering her fears and changing her life. And she does all of this with her eager feet, crammed into those run-down trainers. Each chapter starts the moment she leaves her front door. And what once felt like cold, hard drills of leaving the house and returning, now feels like lightness, like freedom, like opportunity. To quote the song ‘Put On Your Sunday Clothes’ from Hello, Dolly! (1969),

So, over the coming weeks, you may see me return here with armfuls of other’s words, other’s stories. But this one is mine. And I’m so grateful that I get to share it with you. And I’m sure, down the line, I will return once more to regale you of even more allegations that I’ve dashed.

BellaWatchesFilms

Across this series, I have sat at the feet of titans of this industry and I have listened well. They have regaled me with stories featuring a-listers, mentored me with industry tips, provided me with pathways and recommendations and roadmaps. But, an interview with Chris I’ve been something I’ve aimed to attain for some time. And I can’t tell you how grateful I was to get the chance to grab it.

Chris has interviewed the greats, written fabulous features and entertained many listeners every week. And somehow, the part I was most nervous for was keeping up with his great sense of humour.

You can read the full chat below:

I was wondering if you had a defining movie moment, from your formative years?

I should preface everything by saying I’m extremely old – so you’re asking me to remember back in the days of black and white! When I was a kid – it’s really boring to say – but the original Star Wars (1977) was huge for me, and I just loved film really, really early on.

I remember seeing Return of The Jedi (1983) in the cinema. And, the way I have it in my mind is I remember watching that, and Superman 3 (1983), a week apart. That might be true, because they both came out in 1983. And I remember going to my local cinema in Banbridge, Northern Ireland, which was a wonderful, massive one-screen art-deco cinema called the Iveagh – and I was just blown away. I loved movies already by that point, but that was something I really distinctly remember watching a week apart, in my mind. And just being transported and terrified by the part where a supporting character is turned into a scary robot lady, with laser eyes – and, for kids of a certain age, that is a formative horror experience.

For a lot of people I speak to, Star Wars is a big one for them. It’s one I didn’t really come to until I was around 16.

Is this all going to be making me feel really, really old? (laughs)

I can cut the part where I talk about how you’ve been at Empire for 25 years, if that will make you feel better! (laughs)

That is what my next question is about, actually! I was wondering what that roadmap looked like for you?

I was hired because they were looking for a junior writer in 2001, to come on for six months to cover maternity leave for our editor at the time. Not cover the editor’s job, that went to someone else, but just to be a junior writer. I was working at my hometown at the time, on my local newspaper, and I had basically just started out my journalism career. I saw this job being advertised and it was pretty much perfect for me – and I wrote a dreadful cover letter, which almost cost me the job. And, I sent off my CV and I was put on the ‘no pile.’ I was rejected initially, possibly because of the cover letter.

And then the legendary Ian Freer of Empire Magazine was asked to go through the ‘no pile’ to see if there was anyone they had missed who had potential. And then he picked me out, and I flew across for a couple of interviews – and got down to the final two. I got the gig and I moved lock, stock and two smoking barrels to London. I started out on what was initially mean to be a six-month placement – and twenty five years later, apart from a fourteen-month sojourn to LA to be Empire’s West Coast Editor, I’m still here! (laughs) It’s been a hell of a thing.

The roadmap to Empire was slightly torturous but, since I’ve been here, it’s been straight ahead. And I haven’t wanted to work anywhere else, because I never wanted to work anywhere else. Apart from Liverpool FC, as their hot-shot goalscoring centre-forward, but that was never gonna happen. So it was Empire for me.

And you became Executive Editor of Empire – and you are now. Do you have a favourite feature that you’ve written at the time you’ve been there?

I don’t really remember a lot of the features I have written – I think I banish them from my mind the second that I’m done, because it can be a painful process. I remember that the first thing I ever wrote for Empire were small reviews, here and there. And the first big feature I wrote (because they started me off on baby steps doing gradually longer features), was on rage in the cinema. This was 2001 don’t forget, because I’m very old, and even back then, going to the cinema was fraught with danger (laughs). And people weren’t observing cinema etiquette, so I wrote this piece about that.

My first cover feature for the magazine was 2003, which was X2 (2003). So, I very quickly became known at Empire as comic-book-geek-guy. And no one else at Empire was really into comic books or comic book movies, and I loved that stuff, so I very quickly established my niche. I then began to work my way up and be considered for that cover feature. So, I flew out to Vancouver, and did all the interviews, which was great. It was a real experience of being taken by the hand and guided by the features editor at the time in terms of what to write, having eye-catching opening sentences and structuring your feature in an interesting way. Long-form-feature-writing is very different to writing news stories or reviews, which I hate by the way! (laughs)

But that’s one that really sticks out for me. I’ve written a lot of features over the years; the most recent, I think, is Power Ballad (2026). I was on holiday for a couple of weeks and so I haven’t written that many features recently, as I normally do.

I remember writing a Creed (2015) feature which was unusual in that I basically made it up on the spot. A structure came to me and I just started writing the feature – but it wasn’t working. And this was at midnight because I used to burn the midnight oil for these features. And I remember thinking “Oh, this is probably really hackneyed. But, what if I structure the feature so it mimics the format of a boxing match? So I have twelve rounds, and they go back and forth, so each round alternates between Sylvester Stallone and Michael B Jordan.” And that’s what I did. I wrote it in about three hours and it just flowed out of me and went through with few changes.

I like my features to be playful and fun. One of the reasons why I loved Empire when I was growing up was because it had a very distinct voice; it was irreverent, it was humorous, but also loaded with information and you learned something. And, because it made you laugh as you learned it, the knowledge stuck in your mind. It wasn’t like eating your greens at all. And that’s my writing style, for Empire.

For my entertainment journalist role at Get Your Comic On, I spoke to the screenwriter and director Billy Ray recently, which was really fun. But he was talking about how your talent doesn’t exist in one room, at one point in time, with one type of music on. I was wondering, do you have any set way that you write? Or is it just a case of, you sit down and you do it?

I do. I can’t write with music (laughs), I can’t write with distractions – I have to be very, very focused. But that said, I will get up and wander off and I’ll get very, very bored. I also let deadlines come right to the edge, before I let them grip me. So I will tend to write stuff very last minute and hope that I have inspiration strike.

What I will tend to do for features – and I don’t know how other people do this – I do all my interviews beforehand, obviously, and I transcribe them. Or, nowadays, I have them transcribed for me; it’s the one thing about AI I like and hasn’t cost anyone else their job, this is a job I used to do myself! And I go through each of the interviews, each of the transcripts, and I highlight key sentences or quotes or areas that I think might be useful for the feature. And, then I will try and structure the feature in a rough notes document. Roughly speaking, if you’re writing a feature for Empire, you have a 2,400 or 3,000 word count – and that tends to be broken down into 5 sections, roughly around 600 words each. But it doesn’t always work out that way.

And I try and come up with a structure for the feature. You always try and come up with a fun opening sentence, as well. So I’ll write the feature and instead of stopping to get the exact quote from someone, I will go, “Here’s me, writing a bit of information. Oh I remember someone has a quote that is pertinent to that, so I’ll add that here.” And then I’ll move on.

And then, once I’ve finished that, my second pass is that I’ll get those quotes, and drop them into the piece. Now, by this point, I’m usually a thousand words over my word count. So then it becomes about tightening and refining and revising and taking stuff out and rewriting. But I don’t rewrite that much. Because of the aforementioned deadline thing, I’m not someone who takes a week to write a feature; I’m someone who takes a day or maybe even less, to write a feature. So I don’t have the time to go back and revise and refine. I’ve become a lot better at that, over the years.

One feature I do remember writing for Empire, back in the day, was a feature on The Evil Dead (1981), which is one of my favourite films. I spoke to Sam Raimi who is my favourite director, and Bruce Campbell who is one of my heroes. And, my first draft was 10,000 words, because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing – and I just wanted to put everything in. And, it was only a 1,800 word count. So, chopping that down (laughs) was horrific, it took me so long. So now, I’m a little bit more disciplined, I know what works structurally in a feature, I know how to tell a story – and I don’t tend to go that much over, maybe a thousand over which is then very easily cut back.

I’m definitely an over-writer, it can be such struggle.

If you come up with a gag or a line that you love, it sometimes can be hard to lose it but, you have to kill your darlings, right? So that is something I’ve learned over the time, as well.

But sometimes you really fall in love with a line, and you try and get it in. I remember there was a line I really loved, it tickled me when I came up with it. I wrote a feature on Taron Egerton once, and he comes from that Welsh town, with the incredibly long, unpronounceable-only-to-Welsh-people name, that I’m not even going to attempt to pronounce here. And I had an idea for a line which was, “You can take the boy out of ‘Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch,’ but you can’t take the name of town out of the boy.” And I just thought, “That’s a funny gag, and I can’t wait to see that in the magazine.” And I wrote and, no matter what I did, that was sacrosanct – that was not moving. It made print, and the formatting of that still tickles me to this day because it’s such a massive word that you don’t have room for.

(Laughs) I get that. I think sometimes when you get a line and even if it doesn’t work at the beginning or the middle, if you just keep it at the bottom of your document because you know you want it – it’s one of the best bits of inspiration you can have, for sure.

The motto or the maxim that keeps us going at the podcast is (laughs) "Entertain yourself first, and the law of averages would suggest that you’re going to entertain other people.” So I always try and write a feature I would like to read, or record a podcast that I would like to hear – and then hope that that will translate to other people, as well.

Do you ever feel pressure, when you have to write such a significant part of the magazine? Maybe you’re used to it by now?

Yes – no, I’m not used to it and yes, I do feel pressure all the time, when you’re writing big cover features and you have a story to tell. And then sometimes you may not have the material you want for that feature.

So, Avengers: Endgame (2019), for example – because nobody in that movie was talking at all, because they had their mystery box and they didn’t want it disturbed, interviews for that were tough. Real tough. And, writing it was tricky because I didn’t have a lot of stellar information (laughs) to impart to the readers. But, we tried and in cases like that, you maybe then twist your angle. We went in with the angle that the end of Avengers: Infinity War (2018) had been so impactful – most of the feature was about the ending and how the Russos and Feige and Marvel had boxed themselves into a corner, and how they were going to paint themselves out of this corner. So that became a really interesting write – but a really tricky one, as well.

I can’t remember how many people I spoke to for that, maybe ten or eleven people? And you have to get each of those people into the feature, even if it’s just one line from someone. I think maybe Hemsworth has one line, in that feature, which is wild; you speak to Chris Hemsworth for twenty minutes and he ends up (laughs) as one line in your feature. But that’s part-and-parcel of it.

So, do I feel pressure? Yeah, absolutely. And hopefully I’ll have that pressure again, later on this year.

Of course!

I think also, within journalism, it’s so hard because it’s a job of constant pressure. There’s a constant pressure of output. And also writing about things that you don’t necessarily have a big interest in – that can be a real challenge.

I would also be amiss if I didn’t ask about your interviews. I have a great reverence for them – they are amazing. My parents went to the Empire live 700th episode and they really enjoyed all of the interviews, especially the Russo brothers because they didn’t know that was going to happen, obviously.

I wanted to know, though, when did you discover that you were good at doing interviews?

Thank you. Sometimes I feel that that is not the case? But I’ve been doing this job for a long time now and I’m much more comfortable doing interview now than I was, back in the day. So I recognise that I have an ease of interviewing style, my interviewing style is very relaxed and conversational. But, you don’t see me paddling furiously under the surface. And there have been even recent experiences where I’ve come away slightly chastened and unsure of my ability as an interviewer. So it is not something that I’m always 100% confident about.

My style has evolved over the years, I guess? I was a proper journalist before I did this (laughs), before I did film journalism. And so I would interview people all the time. They could be anything from local politicians to grieving parents to sports players to people who were being canvassed about their opinions on something happening in my local town. And so I had a wide variety of experience on dealing with different types of people. I mean I’ve never done anything harder than talking to people whose child has just been killed. It’s never going to get harder than that.

And so when I became a film journalist and suddenly I was interviewing famous people – yeah, it’s a baptism of fire. But I’d also had quite a lot of experience. But, that being said, I was really, really nervous.

I still remember that on my very first day at Empire, it was the Empire Awards in 2001. Because I was a junior writer, I was given lots of junior writer tasks to do! Not menial stuff, but stuff that some of the more senior people on the magazine didn’t have time or the inclination to do. I was asked to go around the after-party and talk to a bunch of famous people and basically ask them the same four questions. I was so nervous about it, so I had the questions written down on a piece of paper. And I distinctly remember interviewing The League of Gentlemen, and drying up after the first question – because I couldn’t remember the second question. And I literally had to take the piece of paper out of my pocket and explain that I was nervous and it was my first day. And Mark Gatiss – bless him, to this day I still think of this as a very touching moment – he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “You’re doing really well.” And then I carried on, and it was lovely after that.

But my style has changed over the years. I was incredibly nervous and I would always wildly over-prepare for interviews. I’m not talking about knowledge of someone’s career or the film that you’re talking about, because I’d been a film fan all my life and I have a pretty good base knowledge of most aspects of movies. But, if I’m interviewing an actor or a director, I tend to have a pretty decent snapshot of their career in my head already. It’s not to say I still don’t do extra research, I do.

But back in the day, I was so nervous about interviewing that I would write down questions. It’s a little bit like when you’re asking someone out when you’re fourteen or fifteen… (laughs). When I say this, this isn’t a very general experience. When I was asking a girl out for the first time, I wrote down topics of conversation which gradually got to, “Would you like to go out with me?” (laughs)

And I did that with interviewees! I would write down dozens of questions. Dozens! Way more than I would possibly ever have a chance to ask, because I was worried I’d forget the key stuff to ask or overlook something or run dry. Over the years, you just do so many interviews that you get a little bit more comfortable with that.

When we started doing the podcast… I will never go back and listen to the early days of the podcast. I’m sure if you go back and listen to those, you can hear the nerves. And we were so nervous at the time, when we started out in 2012. Back in the day, we used to act as back-up for each other. We used to interview people two or three to a subject – and if we did run dry, which was quite frequent, I could just look at Helen or Phil or Ali and go,”You take the next question because I’ve got nothing.” And then they’d leap in and then you’d remember.

I’ve gotten a little bit more comfortable at doing that, over the years. I’ve done a lot of Q&As on stage as well and that helps you get experience too, So, nowadays, a lot of my interviews, I will go into the room and treat them more as conversations. I’ll maybe have a couple of questions or key areas in my head to talk about. But, a lot of the joy of interviews for me is the discovery of unexpected tangents or listening to what people are saying and spark off what they’re doing. It’s one of the reasons that I’m interested in improv, because I think interviews are improv, essentially; you’re “Yes, and-ing” constantly with your interview subject.

So, the Me of today is a lot more relaxed about stuff than I was. That is not to say that in some interviews I will still write down questions. A lot of interviews, I will go quite off-the-cuff. The Russo Brothers on stage, for example – I had a couple of key areas I wanted to hit but otherwise it was, “Let’s see what happens!”

I think that’s really impressive. I’ve not been doing interviews as long as I’ve been writing but I find that sometimes it can be intimidating. You have to get over the fact that this person is very cool and interesting – and just go to the questions.

There is that element as well of wanting people to like you, which is entirely natural as well, it’s very human. And sometimes, there are people I’ve struggled to strike up a rapport with and I come away going, “That was a hard nut to crack.” Maybe it’ll sound okay on the listen-back, but sometimes it won’t and you have to cover it up a little bit. So, my approach or my personality is not always a one-size-fits-all situation.

But, in terms of interview style, I’m most influenced… weirdly, not by other film journalists. But, I’m influenced by the likes of Jonathan Ross, who I know is a bit of an acquired taste for some. But, I think he’s an excellent off-the-cuff interviewer, who has a cheeky irreverent style.

The one who really influenced me was Craig Ferguson. He is a Scottish comedian who was the host of The Late Late Show, before James Corden. And he was the host of that for a few years. And he is so phenomenally talented as an interviewer. He is interested in people. He doesn’t go into any interview with an agenda – he made a thing on his show of ripping up his cue cards with questions on them, every single interview, and throw the pieces behind him. He let the conversation go where it may.

I listened to the interview you did with Theo James, recently. I was really struck by how it almost sounded like you were friends, just talking. When he started asking you about your auditioning experience, I thought that you were very clearly at ease with each other. Which isn’t always easy to make happen.

And we had literally just met! (laughs) So, that’s a compliment, thank you!

I was wondering, as you had mentioned earlier, when an interview isn’t quite working and you can feel it, how do you navigate something like that?

I wish I knew (laughs)

I think, in that case, you just keep going and you just keep asking questions, and hope that you will hit upon something that is of interest. I’ve always wanted to interview Tommy Lee Jones, who is famously a nightmare to interview. But he would be one I would go in with 200 hundred questions written down, and almost make a point of asking each one.

But, it has happened. It really knocks you back. So if people think I am this confident interviewer – if something goes pretty bad, I can become quite meek and stammery. Which is bad, because you shouldn’t betray nerves to the other person; they shouldn't know that you’re wounded beneath the surface (laughs). Because it can get a bit worse.

It’s a really tricky thing to do, to try and get people back on side. Especially for a podcast, because the podcast interviews are meant to be entertaining and informative and if someone isn’t giving you much, that can be a problem. I think one of the ways we avoid that, on the podcast (if it happens), is that we’re able to pick and choose who we want on, for the most part. So, I will pick people who I know are interesting and funny – or who I hope are interesting and funny. And try not to pick anyone who could potentially be a pain in the backside.

I know we don't always have the luxury of choice but I think that’s what is great about the podcast. It’s nice to hear from people that you would never think to hear from. Like that Sigourney Weaver interview you did – that was really interesting because she commands herself with such a level of respect.

Another question I ask everyone is a three film recommendation question – but its’s three different questions each time.

1. A film that is surprisingly funny when you didn’t expect it to be.

Lord! Are the other two as specific as this because (laughs)… I could struggle! That’s a really interesting question.

Aliens (1986), which is a film that’s never too far from my thoughts (laughs), that’s an unexpectedly funny movie. Die Hard (1988) is an unexpectedly funny movie. I like movies that, even when the stakes are completely real and grounded, the characters are organically funny. So Die Hard, I think, has one of the greatest supporting casts in blockbuster movies. There are no unnecessary roles in that, there are no small roles; even someone who has a couple of lines in that movie will make an impact.

So I would say Die Hard, as a straight-up action movie. Aliens, until it becomes incredibly intense, because you have the marines riffing off of each other and bantering.

2. A Sam Raimi film to start with, for people who can tolerate a certain level of horror

Well, Sam Raimi has only made four horror films really… five! I keep forgetting about The Gift (2000), which is not very good… He’s not really the horror guy, but obviously he started off with The Evil Dead. I don’t recommend that people started with that because it’s quite an intense movie. It was trailered as “The ultimate experience in gruelling terror,” which is one of those lurid lines that you say to get people into the cinema. But, it kind of is, even though it’s really clumsy and it has, I kid you not, a finale featuring a lot of plasticine gore. But, despite that, it’s a really nasty, brutal film.

His other horror films are Drag Me To Hell (2009), which is maybe the place I’d start because its incredibly funny, got some amazing precision-tooled jump-scares, it has one of the great endings of all time, as well. It’s maybe not quite as out-there as Evil Dead II (1987), which is, in my opinion, the greatest movie ever made. It is bonkers, it is absolutely bananas. But it is also, for me, one of the greatest examples for a virtuous director that I can think of. Raimi was in his twenties at the time, and I don’t think he thought he was ever gonna get to make a movie again – so he put everything he could think of into it. It isn’t a horror film in the way that will keep you awake at night. But, it’s mainly a live-action looney tunes cartoon, with an amazing Bruce Campbell performance.

So I’d start with Drag Me To Hell, so you get a sense of what Raimi is like when he’s dialling up the style. And, if you like that, I’d go for Evil Dead II.

A film that you’ve spoken about in an interview with someone that meant a lot to you.

I mean, there are so many movies that mean a lot to me. I’ve been lucky enough over the years to interview George Lucas and obviously Star Wars means a lot to me, so that was wild. I’ve interviewed James Cameron so many times and Aliens, Terminator 2 (1991) are some of my favourite films of all time.

And obviously Chris McQuarrie for the Mission Impossible films. If people don’t know, we've done these epic interviews and we’re still hoping to do Part Two of our Final Reckoning (2025) podcast, in case people are wondering. He no longer lives in London, so it’s harder for us to get together than it was last year. So, it’s coming, we hope! (laughs).

He’s an obvious one. But, in terms of movies that really, really mean a lot to me… The Shawshank Redemption (1994) is one of my favourite films. People are probably rolling their eyes now, saying “That milquetoast piece of crap!” If you think that’s the case with Shawshank, go back and see it again, I implore you. And I’ve interviewed Frank Darabont about that, a number of times over the years – and that is always a real thrill for me to do so. He’s a wonderful guy, and he’s very sharp on that movie as well. I’m gonna say Shawshank – Shawshank and Frank.

That’s a good answer. I watched it for the first time recently and I went for a walk after and I remember wanting to stop people in the street and say, “I saw the best film of all time!” It has that effect on you, in the weirdest way.

I had almost exactly the same experience. I watched it when I was at home in Northern Ireland – I watched it around 1995 or 1996? I think I was on holiday from university, at the time. I rented it from the video store, I watched it, I loved it and immediately ran downstairs and said to my mum and dad (who didn’t share the same tastes as I did, in films), “You have to see this movie. We’re going to watch this film again, right now.” And we did – and they loved it.

I’ve seen many films twice in one day, over the years. But Shawshank is the only film, as an adult, where I’ve watched it immediately back to back.

My final question is about film as a whole, this year – I ask everyone this too. What are your thoughts on film so far this year, and with what is to come?

I’m cautiously optimistic. It’s hard to be 100% optimistic about the future of cinema and cinemas, given everything that’s happening; it’s an industry that is in quiet tumult, at the moment. But I don’t think that there’s been a film this year, so far, that has really grabbed me and said, “I’m a five star classic!” Not yet.

But, it’s hard not to look at the movies that have come out this year and are doing well at the box office, that are not your usual blockbuster – and be heartened by that. There’s been all sorts of doom and gloom about the theatrical experience, about how people are leaving it behind and are choosing streaming, or video games or choosing not to watch anything, really. And, you can get a little bit pessimistic about that.

And then, you see something like Project Hail Mary packing them in or The Devil Wears Prada 2 packing them in. Or Michael – you can look down on that movie, but you can’t look down on the fact that is connected with millions of people around the world. And you look at what Obsession is doing at the box office, which isn’t unprecedented but really unusual; it’s gone up three weekends in a row, which is incredible. You look at Backrooms which is a horror film with a first-time director with actors that aren’t a-list, huge movie stars. And its opened bigger than the Mandalorian and Grogu. So that is exciting.

I’m excited about what’s to come. I don’t think it’s the most overwhelming summer, in terms of the titles we’ve got lined up. I’m looking forward to lots of them but I don’t know that I’m wildly excited about any of them. But I’m hopeful for things like Spider-Man: Brand New Day and The Odyssey and Dune Part 3 and Avengers: Doomsday. They might be great, but also pack people in because I want cinemas to do well. This is crazy, I know. I want them to exist, quite frankly. And the only way to do that is to keep continuing to put bums on seats in huge quantities. So, with movies like this… no matter what I think about the quality, they’re punching through. That’s amazing, and I’m all for it.

The year that’s gone by, I feel very happy about it. And I’m cautiously optimistic for the future.

Bellawatchesfilms

There is a point in this interview where I was incredibly touched, touched because I had that strange feeling of being seen by a person who barely knows me. You will probably figure out which part of this interview that was. It was a lovely moment, where interviewer and interviewee break free from routine and structure, to talk like normal people. It seems to be a reoccurring theme in this series – a feeling of immense validation, at the chance to talk to fellow neurodivergent critics. So, for that I’m extremely grateful.

James was charismatic, passionate and incredibly patient with the advice I sought from him. You can read our full interview below:

When you were a child, what sparked your interest in film and TV?

I have to say it was Star Wars. But, largely for the reason that it’s the only film I owned. So, when I was very, very young, we did not have a VHS player (back when VHS guys were a thing), but I did have two VHS tapes – I had Star Wars (1977) and I had E.T (1982). Those were the only two films I owned. And E.T scared me, so I didn’t like to watch it. But Star Wars I would watch every day, because it’s the only film I had.

I used to go to work with my mum in the summer holidays, and she just plonked me in the boardroom – where there was a VHS machine – and just put on Star Wars. So, imagine me, boardroom tables, Star Wars on, and me playing with little Jawa figures and stuff. Star Wars was like my babysitter, it was like my child care. So, I watched it so many, hundreds of times.

My mum worked at a recording studio, and it’s where they had done the soundtrack to the film. And so they had a VHS, which they essentially recorded on when they had mastered it all. But, the tape was just under two hours, and that the film was like two hours and six minutes long. When they go into The Death Star trench for the second run, the X-Wing comes in, and you hear the clap of thunder of the explosions. It made all these noises – and then it just stopped! And because kids are so f****** stupid, it never even occurred to me that there was more to this story. I’m thinking “Oh we don’t know if they blew it up, who lives, who dies – we’ve got no idea what happened!” It genuinely wasn’t until years later that I watched it and went, “Oh my God, they get medals!”

So, just the first two hours of Star Wars, to answer your question, is what got me into film.

Now that my little brother is obsessed with Star Wars, we didn’t know about the Cerveza Cristal thing until the Empire Podcast. So I got to show that to my little brother that is genuinely one of the funniest things – it’s amazing.

Jumping forward a little bit, I wanted to ask about how you started your journalism career. How did that progression look for you?

When we’ve had people in to do working experience at Empire and everyone asks “How did you become a journalist?” But, I don’t think you can really replicate the way it happened, because everyone at Empire took a slightly odd, circuitous route.

I did a degree in theology (because, of course!) I then worked as a web designer for about seven months – this was the infancy of the internet, where everyone was playing around with Dreamweaver to make a website. So I did a bit of that because I had graduated after my theology degree and realised, being an atheist, I wasn’t going to be anointed Pope, and I was thinking, “I need something to do.” So, I played Nintendo 64 for about twelve months, I temped when I ran out of money, and then went back to playing Nintendo 64.

And then I was playing around with HTML and the internet – it was the late 90s. I was thinking, “Ah, this internet thing is very interesting, I can build a website.” So I did that for some friends and then I thought, “Maybe this could be a career!” So, I applied for and got a job with a design agency, doing Webmonkey stuff with HTML. I did it for about seven months.

I’d always enjoyed writing, I’d always been quite good at writing – and, at one point, thought I’d be a journalist, but I guess it just drifted away. But, I couldn’t get it out of my head. And one day, bored as I was at my web design job, I composed a very long ‘funny’ (in heavy, inverted commas) email and sent it to a lot of my friends; I won’t go into the details, but it was me trying to be funny. Apparently, I succeeded, because they all said “This is really good, you should maybe try doing this for a living!” And I just said, “…Okay!”

So, I applied for a postgraduate diploma in Periodical Journalism at the London College of Printing, which I think is now called something else. I did a three-month course there, and they taught me basic journalistic craft, which I think is quite valuable. I did that for three months. That was at the beginning of the year 2000!

Wow!

Yeah… as you can tell, I’m very old. Like Yoda, but with less wisdom.

But, as par for the course for these things, you do work experience. And, the only place I wanted to do work experience was Empire. Because, when I applied for that course they said, “Where do you want to end up?” And I said, “Well, I want to work for Empire Magazine.” And he said, “Where do you think you’ll end up?” And I said, “Well, I’m going to be at Empire Magazine.” And, he said “You really need to manage your expectations.” And, he was absolutely right.

But, I wanted to work experience there, so I called them and asked if I could. And they said, “Yeah, sure, had you called a year ago! We are well and truly booked up.” And I was thinking “s***.” But, I was talking to a person there at the time and she says she was leaving because she was being replaced by another editorial assistant. And so, cheeky little f***** that I am, I called the next week and said, “Oh, hi! I’m coming in for work experience next week – could you just tell me where I need to go?” And she said, “We have no record of you.” So I said, “Oh my God, this is part of my course, what am I gonna do?” And she says, “I guess you better come in!”

I just lied, and then got a week’s worth of work experience there. And, because of my background in web design, I went up to Ian Freer (always Ian Freer, he’s in all of these stories), and I said, “Could I spend a couple of days at the website?” The website wasn’t in the same building – they were based in Farringdon. And he was like, “Alright, whatever!” He thought it was a baffling thing to ask. But I went out there – the website was run by an artist called Catherine Hanley and Amar Vijay who was a designer, a very small team. And I spent a day there, and I chatted with the people who were in that digital office. I got a good feel for how they worked and the stuff they did, because it interested me.

That was my two days on the website and then… it must have only been a month or two months later, that I saw this job being advertised on the Empire website for an assistant online editor. And I thought, “I am totally applying for that!” I never thought for a second I would get an interview and get the job. But, the thing was – when they sent the application, there was a section that said something like “The successful applicant will know the importance of midichlorians!” So, obviously I wrote a whole paragraph about midichlorians… But crucially, because I’d been there for those two days, and I knew so much about how they worked, it gave me a massive advantage in terms of my application.

And, when I did the interview, I knew I had a lot of information to draw upon. When people say work experience helpful, it’s really f****** helpful. I was able to go and say, “Well, this is interesting, I love the way you do this.” They thought I’d done a ton of research – I’d really just done two days in their office doing work experience. And, by some miracle, they gave me the job, and it’s literally the first job I got out of my journalism course – and I’ve been here now for 26 years.

You could make a film out of that story. I don’t know why, I just have images of Ferris Bueller pulling off something like this.

I like to think I have Ferris energy. I probably have more Cameron energy.

I’m with you on that.

I also just wanted to ask, how did you form your style of writing? Because I think it’s always so interesting when you come up in journalism and you become a writer. I was literally thinking earlier about when I started like my writing – I think, most people who write say this, my writing when I started my career was just s***. Like, it was so bad. And then, when you do more and you learn more, your style is influenced by lots of things. How did you form yours?

That’s a really interesting question – I have absolutely no clue. I think some of it’s innate, I think we all have distinctive voices and ways that we express ourselves. So, Chris Hewitt’s writing is always very humorous – there’s always a thread of humour going through his writing. He doesn’t need it, he’s a really good writer.

I’m sometimes a little bit florid with my writing structure.

I get that.

I’ll have subordinate clauses within subordinates clauses. Sometimes, I read it back and even I’m like, “I don’t know what this means.” So slightly complex sentence structure is definitely a thing that I’ve always gone for because I love language and I like playing with language. My humour is quite dry and understated, not overt. So I tend to think some of the stuff I write is funny, but it’s a very British, deadpan humour.

But it did just evolve over time. I think you’re always influenced by the people you read, to a greater or lesser extent. Ian Nathan, former editor of Empire magazine – I always loved his writing while I was reading Empire because he had a wit to it, but also a real edge to it. Ollie Richards – I find his stuff really good, he’s very funny, it’s got a real bounce to it. He has an energy to his writing, I really like that. But I think Empire is a home to so many different writers with so many different styles. I think everyone brings something slightly different.

Ian Freer, again, has an incredibly deep bench of knowledge. He was literally a BAFTA-winning film editor, before he became a journalist. But he’s not just incredibly knowledgeable, he can write really thought-provoking pieces. He’s really funny, so if you give him something quite dry, he can make it light and he can make it entertaining. So, I tried to bring an element of that to it.

When I get deep, deep down my Dune rabbit hole, sometimes I can get a bit carried away! And the humour gets lost and it just becomes “Alright, calm down.” There’s definitely an element of that to it. But, generally speaking, I try and keep my writing well-structured, lyrical – but also slightly irreverent and hopefully entertaining? And then it will succeed.

All writers are neurotic, right? Writers, I think, by their very nature are often consumed by self-loathing. I think all the good ones have an element of neurosis about their work, I know I do; before I hand in a piece of work, I will read it aloud multiple times, until I’m happy with it. Not everyone does that, not everyone needs to do that. But I get quite neurotic about my writing.

I feel like we’re quite similar in that way – I’m the same. I’ve had so many different tips from writers. I remember when I first started writing, Robbie Collin told me to read everything I do, out-loud. And that was how I started to learn to self-edit.

I also think that’s why Empire is great though because every time I read it, it’s really nice – specifically the review section – you get so many different voices.

I have a harder question – which do you find it easier to write about, movies or TV?

I don’t actually find a distinction, I would say, in terms of difficulty with those. On a fundamental level, you have to watch less s*** to write about films. Because it’s an hour and a half, two hours. TV? It’s like, “Well I’ve got to go through 10 hours of this s*** and make notes.” So, that makes it more difficult, certainly from a viewing point of view, the time investment.

I spend an awful lot more time watching TV than I do watching films – this, of course, should be abundantly clear to anyone who listens to the podcast. But part of that is because there’s so much more of it. And I do think – and have thought for a long time – I remember being at Empire when the peak TV world started to come into being. And I remember, we ran a piece in the magazine, “Is TV getting better than the movies?” And my answer at the time was, “F***, yes.” And I still feel that way.

Because I’m a person who likes escapism, and I engage with long-form storytelling – I don’t read a book. I read a series of books. Give me one book and I’m like, “F*** that, that’s a promiscuous, one-night-stand of literature. I want a committed relationship with characters over multiple novels, give me f****** Robert Jordan’s 14-volume Wheel of Time, and I am there!” And I feel the same way about screen entertainment. “Yes, I’ll have a great time at the cinema, watching something that’s two hours long.” But I would love to watch 73 hours of Game of Thrones.

The experience of watching something like Avengers: Endgame (2019) in a cinema – there is nothing else like that in the world. In that regard, for a pure, concentrated, explosive, emotional, sensory experience – cinema is unparalleled. But I think if you are looking to connect on an emotional level with characters, I think – and this is not true of all things – as a rule, it’s easier to do that over a long form television structure.

But, from a writing point of view, I think I find it easier to write about things that interest me. So, if it’s a thing I like, I would generally find it easier to write about. If it’s a thing I hate, I can probably find things to say. The worst thing to write about is something you just find, “It’s all right, it’s fine.” Having to review something that’s aggressively three stars is awful, I hate that.

Yeah, I understand that. Do you have any tips for when you have to write about something that you don’t necessarily love? Because you have to do a lot of that in journalism.

Yeah you do, and honestly, it’s just research. My approach to all of these things is to just become an expert in whatever it is. And it’s so easy to do that now, whether you’re using Wikipedia or just Googling – you can always find a ton of information about it.

And I find things interesting, as a rule. Just things, in general. So, if something captures my interest, I will find it easier to write about. And, if I know a lot about it, I’ll almost start to find it interesting. Even if it’s something like whatever tracks they’re using on whatever railway –I could find something about that that’s quite interesting. Because I revel in the minutiae sometimes, I like the detail. So I think sometimes, it is just a case of, “Right, if you’ve got to write about tax returns, become a f****** expert in tax returns.” Find the weird, arcane rules of lore that no one uses – you can find the story in there.

One of the things I always tell people when they’re writing film features is, “You’re not always writing about films, you’re writing about people.” And what you’re looking for in any feature is – and I always think there’s a true of a review as well, because a review, in some way, you want to be entertaining – what is the human story? What is the emotional story that takes you from point A to point B? And whether you’re talking about film, whether you’re talking about politics, whether you’re talking about railways, there will be a human story in there somewhere. There will be some man or woman, who spends their lives hand crafting the f****** sleepers… there’ll be a story there. Yeah and if you can find that which enables people to find some emotional connection to it, then I think these things write themselves a little bit.

I can really relate to that – if you’re not writing emotionally, I think you’re doing it wrong. Even when I write a review, I try and always say that it’s a journey, right? You want to take someone from one place to another, even if it’s informing them about something.

100%. And, if you don’t enjoy writing it, no one will enjoy reading it.

Exactly, you have to find the enjoyment.

I wanted to move onto the interview side of your job, because you have interviewed some high-level people. Do you have a standout moment?

So, because I grew up in the 80s and 90s, Arnold Schwarzenegger was my absolute idol. I watched all of his films. I had a friend who I grew up with, who lived on my road, who I lost in touch with. But, whenever there was a new Arnie film, we’d hire it out, we talked about Arnie, we had Arnie posters on the walls – we loved him.

I remember he did Terminator 3 (2003), and I covered the premiere. I was so awestruck, I couldn’t ask him a question –I was absolutely paralysed. And then he went off and became Governor of California! And, when he came back, we were going to do this big Arnold issue with him. I was like, “I will literally sell a kidney if you let me do this, this is not my dream assignment.” They gave me 45 minutes, it was on a Monday morning, and I spent the entire weekend reading up every interview he’d ever done, writing thousands and thousands of questions. And when I did the interview with him, it went well. But, I got through maybe three percent of my questions?

He’s a great talker, and I was just geeking out and he had clearly enjoyed it! But, I was just like, “I do not have enough to write a feature.” I think that feature was 9,000 words at the end, it was one of the longest features we have ever run in the magazine – it was a monster.

So, I started chatting to his team and I said “Look, is there any way I can get more time with him? Could that maybe it work?” And they said, “Just hang about and we’ll see if we can we can fit you in.” So, I just sort of shadowed him, and lurked around the fringes of the stuff he was doing. He was in town for one of The Expendables movies, and the premiere was that evening. So, he had meetings at The Savoy, and I’d be sitting on my own, two tables over. Honestly, it was like a cold war thriller, it was like I was spying on him.

It didn’t happen, so then they were like, “Look, he’s going to the premiere, he can make some time for you at the premiere, if you want to go along with that.” So, they drove me to premiere, they spill me out into the red carpet next to him, and go, “Arnold, you remember James?” And, he says “Ah yes, James!” And then, I’m interviewing him as we’re going up the red carpet. So he’s signing autographs, and I’m interviewing him! His security team are like a phalanx around the two of us. We’re going into the cinema, and he stops, and he’s answering the questions – all I can think is, “We are literally holding up the entire red carpet, nan we please go inside? This is just so excruciating.”

And we went in, we chatted for a while. I was geeking out so much, I don’t think I got anything usable. But luckily, I was talking to his team and they allowed me to go out and spend the afternoon at his office with him in Santa Monica. He showed me the props from his stuff, I got to hold the Conan sword, all that cool stuff. I spent an afternoon with him, and I was just like, “This is f****** mental."

And the first thing I did afterwards was track down that guy that I had lived near, called Nick who I had not spoken to in decades. And I said, “Hi, it’s James, we’ve not spoken for ages, but look at this picture of me and Arnold!” He was the only person who could understand what that meant to me.

That is crazy. I think interviews are always an interesting beast, because you just never really know how they’re gonna go, until you get there and you start asking the questions. Do you have any advice for conducting interviews?

Honestly, it’s similar to the advice for writing features – become an expert. There are two ways to do an interview – one is to write out a load of questions and read them out. You will get, at best, an okay interview from doing that. And part of the reason is because it’s slightly wooden, and most people – not all – cannot read and make it sound organic, you can hear when someone’s reading a question, even if it’s just an audio podcast.

The other thing is, because you’re working off a list, while they’re talking, you’re not listening. You’re thinking about what the next question is, you’re trying to remember the next question so you have to look at your list. The best way I’m doing an interview is, if you have the time (because you don’t always), become an expert in that person and everything you want to talk about. Do tons of research, but more research than you could possibly use in an interview, and then you go into the room and you have a conversation. You just chat, freestyle it, whatever they say, you pick up on it. Because you know your stuff, you feel comfortable enough putting your questions aside.

Now if you’re like me, and you’re also massively real with social anxiety, you’ll have those f****** questions on your lap in case you need them.

Yeah, I’m totally not doing that right now at all…

And that’s absolutely fine. You’re autistic right?

Yes

I’m ADHD. It’s not the same, but there is a lot of overlap in certain areas. But, a big thing with ADHD is memory is incredibly unreliable. So when I go in an interview, there’s a very strong chance that I will cruise through the whole thing and I will remember everything. There is an equally strong chance that my mind will just go completely blank and I will forget my own name – and there’s really nothing I can do to predict whether that’s going to happen or not. So, I always have to assume it will happen, and then be glad it doesn’t.

So, I did an interview with Emilia Clark today for Ponies (a new show she’s done) and I went in, we had a lovely time, she’s an incredible human, really, really personable – I didn’t look at my question once, we just had a conversation, that’s great. But, you best f****** believe, I had all those questions written out! I just had them down here, in case my brain shut down. It’s a necessary thing. And, if that gives you confidence, that’s great.

What I used to say to young journalists was write your questions out in full, as you would say them. Read them through a few times, then do another list where it’s just mnemonics. So, one or two words for each question, just so that you’ll see those two words, and you will remember what the question is. Because, generally speaking, you don’t have time to read lines. But you can look at words. Otherwise you glance down and it’s awkward.

And then again, hopefully, you won’t need any of this s***, but if you do, it’s helpful.

It is super helpful. I think there’s also something to be said about building up. Sometimes, when you get like a job at somewhere like Empire, you don’t get a choice of what you do, or how you build it up. But, I’ve been trying to build up the level of the person I speak to. Like, I just interviewed Billy Ray, who wrote the screenplay for The Hunger Games, and I was trying to teach myself to have a conversation with him.

I remember Helen telling me that the one time she was really thrown when she did interviews was when she met Robert Pattinson! I think that’s the hard part when you’re doing interviews – the higher up you get, you have to snap out of being like, “That’s a really cool person who’s done really cool stuff!”

100%. Everyone has their screen crushes – if you get to interview your screen crush, things can go horribly wrong. I speak from experience – there are times where you just gabble!

I’ve got to know now! You’ve got to tell me who this specifically!

I absolutely cannot tell you who it is! (laughs) But, I’m sure anyone who listened to the particular interview, which was a few years ago now, probably guessed. It was quite something, and it was excruciating, and I could never listen to it again and I was not able to edit that interview because I can never hear it.

The other question I’m going to ask you – I ask everyone this on the blog – it’s three film recommendations, but they’re different each time.

1. A film that you think is good that other people don’t, but that you would die on a hill for

Uh, Nuns On The Run (laughs)

…Uh, okay (laughs)

It is my slightly comedy answer, because I know it’s a bit s***. ButI don’t know why, I find it really funny. It’s Robbie Coltrane, it’s Eric Idol, it’s 90s, it’s ridiculous, got a soundtrack by Yellow – it’s just so stupid. But, it’s also problematic in its own way, especially when Robbie Coltrane, as a nun, is in the young nuns showers and they’re all naked behind him with his wimple on. I find that film really, really charming and deeply stupid. So, often that comes up on the podcast one of my guilty pleasures.

I think one that I always end up telling people is Cars 2.

(laughs) Cars, 2, wow. You’re on the hill alone!

But I’ll die on that hill alone!

2. A TV show (that isn’t West Wing) that you want made into a film.

Do you know what? I wouldn’t want a TV show made into a film. I think, fundamentally, those two mediums are largely incompatible. I don’t think TV shows make good films. I think films can make good TV shows, because you’re essentially expanding upon a narrative, you’re spreading it out and you’re enriching it. I’m not sure truncating a narrative tends to work very well. That’s why I think books generally make better TV shows, than they make films.

If I would recommend a TV show that I don’t think that many people have seen…Anyone that listens to Pilot knows that I bang on about The Expanse, which is a show based on the books by James S.A. Corey (which is Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck, that’s their pen name). But it’s a magnificent space-opera, it’s hard sci-fi in the way that it deals with physics in a believable and material way. But it’s also fantastic storytelling – it’s like politics, it’s espionage, there’s a murder mystery in the first season; it becomes this huge sweeping sort of like solar-system-wide uh sort of almost factional war. And I just love the characters. I love everything about it. I was mortified when that ultimately got cancelled, but they also end it with one of the books that has a natural endpoint, so it wasn’t a bad place.

I think if people want a fast-moving science fiction show – that’s a lot of fun.

I’ll have to check it out. I’ve been trying to get more into TV recently. Me and my boyfriend, we’ve been trying to do a lot of classic TV. We’re doing The Sopranos. I’ve never watched The Sopranos and we’re four seasons in, and it’s crazy.

I don’t know if it’s also because I’m a sensitive person, but I think sometimes when I watch films, you know that they’re going to end sooner. And, sometimes you want to stay with characters. And I think when you know it’s going to end… I find that challenging. Like you said, TV is better because if you want company or escapism, watching something that’s longer and won’t have an end for a certain amount of time is also nice.

One of my favourite shows that no one my age really cares about is Frasier because it was on every morning. And it’s that thing of comfort, right? I’ve literally watched that show 20 times and I can still watch it.

They talk about – if you’ve seen stuff multiple times, there’s sometimes an element of emotional regulation about it; when you know what’s going to happen, the parts of your brain that are stressed, quieten down. And this is why some people I know will read the whole plot to a film on Wikipedia before they watch the film – if you know where it’s going, it defuses the stress.

But here’s an interesting neurodivergent thing, which you may or may not have. Again, it’s one of these many symptoms, which is ADHD-coded, but it’s also autism-coded. Which is hyper-empathy. And I think that neurodivergent people experience escapism in a way that neurotypical people don’t. There’s almost an element of dysregulation to it, where you almost can’t separate your own emotions from the characters on the screen. Like, you live whatever’s going on. So, when it’s really intense, it’s just emotionally exhausting. And sometimes, when a story finishes and you’re pulled out of there, it’s like being pulled out of a dream and you’re suddenly like, “Okay, nobody talk to me for a while, because I’m in another place at the moment.”

And it can be quite a lot. This is why I think long-form is so useful, in that regard, because you can immerse yourself in this for such a period of time; you don’t have to suddenly be ejected from it, at the end of the two hour film.

I get that. I know so many other neurodivergent people who do re-watch stuff obsessively – like you said, it is a form of emotional regulation. And I definitely get hyper-empathy. So, with Kung Fu Panda 2…

(Laughs)

When I was 10 or younger – I don’t know – I couldn’t finish it. I rewatched it when I was 18, couldn’t finish it. I don’t know why, but Po being abandon by his mum, and then his mum dying off-screen was genuinely traumatising to small me. And it makes sense now.

Yeah!

3. And now, the final question – What’s the best film to put on, when you’ve had a long day work?

You know what? For me, there isn’t one, because I don’t think I would ever put on a film after a long day at work. And it’s not because my work is watching films although. It sounds weird – I would never, in my own time, want to read a magazine about film, because that feels too close to home. I’m like, “No, no, no, go away, I don’t need that.” Watching films or TV doesn’t do that for me.

There are many films that I love, but my films are always appointment viewing. I’m always like, “I really want to sit down and watch The Town. I really want to sit down and watch Predator, whatever you want,” and I’ll sit down and I’ll just mainline it. At the end of a long day, a TV show – and it’s always a TV show for me, partly from a Pilot standpoint. But sometimes I find that, if you jump into a TV show, you know who the characters are, you know what the setup is, there’s no emotional heavy lifting to them whatsoever, because you’re familiar with the basic situation. So, you’re just continuing a story that’s already started. With a film, there’s that period where you’re like, “Am I getting into this? What’s going on?”

I find that TV has a comfort, it’s like a warm bath, sometimes. So I think at the end of long day, when I’m stressed out, when I’m a little bit fried, for me, it is almost always a show – and I would just find that quite lovely.

The exception being, when I’m not watching a show and I have to start a new one – and the stress! The stress of starting a new show is so much more than the stress of putting on a film. I cannot possibly start a new show, if I’ve had a bad day at work, because the amount of commitment that requires is beyond me.

I don’t know if you have this but I think, being autistic, I hate change. So when I go to watch a TV show, I will find it comforting, even when I know it’s awful. I had that with The Walking Dead. I remember being like, “I’m still really comfortable because I know I’m gonna come back and see all these characters again.”

I mean, I’ve worked at Empire for 26 years, so I certainly get that there’s a comfort in that. But, weirdly, the ADHD brain obviously thrives on novelty and new experience. So, you end up almost needing the opposite. Like, I need new things, I need things to change – or I get bored. And for me, if I lose interest in something, I become so overwhelmingly lethargic, I can’t even function. I genuinely don’t think, if my life depended on it, I could have done a nine-to-five job, like a regular career. I don’t know what I would’ve done, if I haven’t ended up here, because I just don’t think my brain would have allowed it?

Because even now, I’ll be in marketing meetings and I’m just (makes snoring noise). I don’t even listen, I just don’t listen. But luckily I’ve been here so long and people know me, they go “James, James, back in the room!” It can be struggle.

I love things to not change, but being freelance is constant change, because you just never know what’s gonna happen. But I think there’s something about being able to write and being able to talk about film (especially if films are one of your hyper-fixations, they are definitely one of mine), I think there’s something really calming about that. It’s challenging! But, my younger sister has ADHD, we’re very much a neurodivergent family, so I get it.

I think that’s why finding a job that can cater to your needs is one of the most important things.

Oh, 100%. People say to me, “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’ve been in the same job for 26 years!” And I say, “Well, first of all, it isn’t the same job because my career has evolved.” There has been a real topography to my career. But also… there are new films and shows every single week! I literally watch new stuff every week! I talk about new shows every week! The stuff that I cover changes all the time. So, it’s constant novelty, constant change, constant interest – which is why it works for me. To other people, it’s “Oh you haven’t done anything different.” Trust me, I do something different every week.

And I think that’s what I needed, and very few jobs would give you that.

I really empathise with that. I think a lot of neurodivergent people feel the same way, especially in this country right now. I can’t really work a nine to five in something like retail, because it’s so overstimulating, really distressing, lots of change. But, something like this job – I know definitely for you, right – it’s very helpful because it’s creative but also has a sense of structure. But it is different – picking up different assignments, that offers difference.

That leads me to talk about my next question. My dream is to be working at somewhere like Empire. This isn’t me trying to be like, “I want your job!”

(Laughs)

Down the line, like you said earlier, you knew that you were going to work there – that’s something that I feel. How do people like me start to make that happen, in their own way?

It’s such a difficult thing. When I started, which was literally in 2000, even then it felt like journalism’s heyday was over. Even then, it felt like all the money had gone out of it and things were on the downslide. It was quite gradual then – and compared to now, those were the glory days! But, they weren’t the 90s!

I mean, look – you don’t need me (laughs) to tell you that the social compact that Gen-Z and Gen-Alpha have, is radically different to millennials, Gen-X’s. It’s a very different beast. We’ve often talked about journalism as extreme employment, like it’s the extreme sport of the working world where you just never know whether you’ll have a job one day to the next! But what’s hilarious is that every other profession – thanks to AI – has now caught up with us, and now everyone lives like that! Which is funny because I think, “I’ve been doing this s*** for two decades!”

But, journalism is in a bad place. Print exists, we have Empire Magazine, which is great! And, it’s still a print product. But, print is struggling because younger generations don’t really read print. So, we will continue as long as our current readers are alive. And then, when they die (laughs), we’ll have no readers, because younger people don’t read magazines! So, you evolve and you adapt.

But digital journalism is a very different beast to print journalism. If you’re writing in print then your copy has one thing to do – and that is to be as good as it can possibly be. The only piece of marketing in a magazine is the f****** front cover, which is all marketing. The rest of it is great content. Every piece of digital journalism is written for Google first, AI, algorithms, trends, social headlines. It’s all marketing, you’ve got to use key words, you’ve got to put in the open-graph headline, the OG headline because that will get pull-ins from Facebook. So you’re no longer writing for the sake of excellent writing. And that’s not to say that there isn’t good writing on the internet. But, there is a lot of it. And now, people don’t go to destination websites to read the articles – they come from social media, they come from search engines; AI will scrape your s*** and serve it up to people.

So, you’ve got that aspect of journalism. And then you’ve got the fact that print was quite profitable (laughs). It was a decent amount of money, and where there’s money, there’s jobs. And now, digital journalism isn’t as profitable, and so there are fewer jobs – and maybe they are a little more thankless, as well.

So, I’m not going to lie, it’s really, really challenging. There are definitely jobs, there are just far fewer of them than there used to be. And yet, people still want to do those jobs so there’s competition. And the competition was fierce when I came into it – and now it’s ridiculous.

It’s over-saturated – I think that’s how bad it is right now.

Oh yeah, without a doubt. So, I wish I had a roadmap and I could say, “Ah, I can totally tell you, what you need to do is go here, and here, and here, job done – you have a career in film journalism.” And the answer is – you just have to be in the right place, at the right time. It’s wildly unhelpful. But, I remember when I did my job interview, I said to the interviewer “Look, I can do HTMl, I can use Photoshop, and I can write. So, if all of you died in some freak, website accident, I could run the whole thing by myself.” I could do all their jobs, because I had an unusually broad skill-set, at that time. It was an advantage, but it was pure luck; it wasn’t strategic, I just happened to fall into a situation where I was at the right place at the right time, with the right work experience, and they needed a person – job done. But, it could’ve gone another way so easily.

When a job comes up at Empire, we get so many applicants. And some of them are great – a lot of them use AI for their stuff, that’s regrettable! They don’t get interviews! And I could tell they did – because the story I asked them to write all f****** started with the same sentence!

That’s shocking.

If you cannot be bothered to put in the work, you don’t deserve the job. I think – and this is genuinely my advice to anyone who wants to apply for a job, ever – give 500% (this is Trump maths) of the effort you think is required, to prepare for the interview. So, for example, if someone says “Write me a news story, and give me three ideas for the front section of the magazine,” write the whole front section of the magazine. Flat-plan the whole magazine. Go that extra yard, because you will blow an interviewer’s mind with that because they won’t expect it, no one else will do it – and you’ve immediately almost got the job.

Ben Travis, who has been here for about 7 years, did this – I asked him for a bunch of ideas for the next 6 months. He wrote me an editorial plan for the website, stretching to the end of the year. And I was like, “This is someone who not only wants the job, but has the skills to do it.”

I totally get that. I left school early with one A-Level because I found Covid really difficult and then I didn’t know what to do with myself. I got an assignment job for a magazine that is now closed – but for 9 months of my time, I was get monthly assignments and was writing. And so you do just have to be in the right place, at the right time. I have a staff writer role now – but these jobs are so hard to come by.

My final question – I ask everyone this – what are your thoughts on film, and TV, this year so far, and with what is to come down the line?

From a film point-of-view – obviously, I write for Empire so it’s not going to be a Ukrainian arthouse film or something like that – but Project Hail Mary is the best time I’ve had at the cinema so far, this year. I thought that was a genuinely wonderful film, and a wonderful surprise. I wasn’t expecting it to be anywhere near as emotionally resonant or moving as it was – or to fall in love with a rock! But here we are (laughs).

In terms of the rest of the year, Dune: Part Three is the thing I’m most looking forward to. I am fascinated to see what Avengers: Doomsday turns out like – could be genius, could be an absolute car crash, either way I cannot wait to see it.

Yeah, I’m intrigued (laughs)

Yep! I’m excited about Spider-Man: Brand New Day, because those films have a wholesomeness and a warmth to them that I’ve always loved, and they’re funny, and Tom Holland is great. And then Nolan, The Odyssey – that’s a big one for me this summer.

From a TV point-of-view – House Of The Dragon is back, I’m very excited about that. Silo season 3, I’ve already seen that. Star Trek: Strange New Worlds is back – I didn’t love the last season but I’m excited about that. Dark Matter is back later this year (I may or may not have already watched that, really liked the first season of that, without spoiling anything or breaking the embargo!) Rings of Power is coming towards the end of the year. I have a list of everything that’s out and it just goes out of my brain because, for Pilot, I tend to work week to week.

But, there will always be a bunch of things that I’m super excited about. Some of them will be getting to reunite with characters like House Of The Dragon, and some of them will be, “Oh my god, this is a new and exciting thing, I cannot wait to see what this brings.” And doing Pilot has been really eye-opening for me because, not only am I watching the s*** that I would always watch, but its also being able to discover things I would never have watched.

But I think doing things like the Pilot and Empire podcast, it pulls you, by necessity, out of your comfort zone to broaden your horizons. A lot of this stuff, I’m going to hate regardless because it’s stuff that I don’t like – and that’s fine. Do I learn something? Sure. But I love that, that idea of discovery. Every week it’s like opening a present, and sometimes that thing you open will end up being one of your favourite things ever. And that’s magnificent.

When I’ve spoken to people in the past, they have been very negative on this question. But, when you look at it more from a TV angle, I think we’ve got a lot of good stuff coming up, this year.

I think the entertainment landscape has changed a lot. Film in particular has changed a lot – not for the better, if I’m honest? There is lots of stuff in the cinema that absolutely is, and there are lots of great, artistic films, international films. Some of the blockbusters are still incredible. But we’re in this world now where, if you’re going to the cinema, you’re either likely seeing a film that cost three hundred million dollars and will make a billion at the box office, or you’re watching a horror film or something that cost f*** all, but will make many, many times that in revenue.

And that’s, broadly speaking, what cinema is now; you’ve lost that mid-budget, adult-oriented, a 15 or maybe an 18 (basically what the 90s was made out of) era of cinema. And they don’t really exist anymore, because they’re all on television. And, that’s great if you subscribe to Apple TV Plus or whatever – brilliant! There’s a ton of that for you. So, we’re not starved of it, but where’s your Michael Clayton (2007) in the cinema? Michael Clayton is not a film now, Michael Clayton is now a six-part streaming service on Paramount Plus, that’s what it is. We’ve just had to shift our expectations.

There’s still some people (I work with some of them…) who see cinema as an inherently superior art form to TV. Which I think is the most extraordinary bulls***. I’m not saying TV is always better than film – I think they do different things well. But, I think that TV now is at least on a par. These are two separate beasts that do slightly different things, but excel in their respective areas. I think we are so lucky to be living in this time, where there is so much incredible entertainment. And it’s so accessible as well – it’s literally in your living room. It’s wonderful.

The world may be on fire but, f*** me, we’ve got some good television out of it.

Well maybe it’s because I’m turning 22 in a few days, but I’ve walked back into the lilting arms of my childhood classics. And it’s not unlike your mother’s embrace. Not unlike when someone kisses you on the forehead, absorbing all knowledge of what’s ailing you just from lip-to-skin contact. And, let me tell you, life is exactly like those Disney musicals say it is.

Listening to them has been something of a rediscovery for me. A familiar, aged anecdote in my house is that, from a very young age, BellaWatchesFilms loved Aladdin – and would watch it 5 times a day. I’m not kidding. Why? I wish I could remember. But, whilst I can’t recall that, explicitly, I can tell you that re-listening to the Aladdin soundtrack has been delectable. Almost like being at a fine-dining eatery, consuming the hits of the 1992 musical has been rich, varied and satisfying. Notes of spice, kicks of high-jinks, and a sweeping sauce of romance – it's sharp, smart and plentiful.

It is a reminder of one of my favourite parts of my autism – my passion for music. For someone who has so many unique sensory requirements, I find within myself rests a glorious paradox – I hate loud, unpredictable noises like car horns, the bustling brew of conversations, the eddies and swells of general life. But, within music, I am whole. It fills me, wraps its fingers around mine, melts into my senses like bath salts. It makes me feel real, makes me feel alive, makes me feel like my entire mind and body is on a rollercoaster. I picture it like Rainbow Road in Mario Kart – everything else fades to black as the magical colour of music pulses and hums, carrying me to the finish line.

Aladdin has reminded me that music has the power to draw from the body, sensory memories. It is one of the great joys of autism that I need to remember more. I really should. And Aladdin is one of those musicals I can turn to, time and time again, to remember when music first entered into my life – and gave me that tremendous kind of joy. And it’s a story with pages that I have turned time and time again. ‘Sleepyhead’ reminded me of my siblings. 'Vienna' made me feel like I was in a film. ‘Space Oddity' reminded me of wonder. 'Going Back To My Roots' reminded me of my grandfather. And ‘Prince Ali' reminded me of joy. And off it goes, cycling round and round and round within me. It reminds me of who I am, where I come from, how my autistic joy is always just a play button away.

It’s been some time since I watched Aladdin (and I’m sure 4 year old Bella is kicking me for it). But listening to its music once more awakens something in me, awakens that childlike wonder for starry Arabian nights and forbidden treasure. I can picture Aladdin, hightailing through bustling streets, dodging enraged vendors, Abu by his side. And don’t even get me started on the Genie. I don’t think I could fully appreciate Robin Williams’ genius as a child. But, my God, ‘Prince Ali’ is a feat in not just musicality, but sheer, entertaining comedy.

Anyways, before I get swept away on a magic carpet ride of sentimentality… I realised there was something deeper to my rediscovery. Sure, Disney musicals are ornamental, and remarkably well-composed. But, I also realised that their point of connection is grand, their capacity to fill you will emotion, boundless. And, as I’ve been drawn to thinking about my autism more, I noticed something – they made me feel seen.

Let me get one thing straight, Disney music is saccharine. Their lyrics promise young girls a life full of sugar-spun ball-gowns, glass slippers… and infallible princes that will sweep you away from an otherwise tragic life. They are generic; a sleepy, unbreakable handshake that ensures all of you are winners, fairy godmothers will always be your failsafe and love will always last forever and ever and ever. You will grow up to realise that this isn’t exactly true – that man isn’t a prince, that shoe isn’t your size and that kiss was pretty mediocre. But this isn’t what truly matters.

Ask any autistic person about what they struggle with, and it will be a long-list. And, that list will be different no matter who you ask. As will the list of things they love about their autism – both will be long, short, varied or simple. But, what I find most troubling about my autistic struggles isn’t the struggle itself – it’s the lack of representation of what it means to be autistic, and to struggle. This is something I have unfortunately gotten used to, although this has made me uncomfortable and somewhat despairing. However, as I’ve gotten older, I have found comfort in creative media (specifically, films and music) that appeals to a turmoil I had resigned to endure alone. And remarkably, as I slipped on my noise-cancelling headphones in the solitude of my room, I found that Disney music could do just that.

There’s two specific examples I’ve been drawn to - both which left me almost shell-shocked at their similarities to my own life.

1998 musical Mulan is renowned for its coming-of-age themes, as well as introducing a wonderful streak of diversity to Disney’s lily-white canon. It traverses important, developmental themes, such as identity, conformity and what it means to be strong. It was never a huge family favourite (but let’s be honest, what else could stand amongst the pyramid-high columns of Aladdin) – but, I have recently found incredible meaning in one of its most cherished songs.

‘Reflection’ is most identifiable, of almost any song I’ve heard, of the autistic experience. During the song, Mulan sings a deeply emotional ballad, after failing to impress the matchmaker her family forced upon her. After enduring a rigorous make-over, she stands in front of a set of mirrors, half of her face coated in make-up, the other half normal. It is a song of deep-set angst, a troubled, shattering dedication to feeling imperfect, othered.

Like many other autistic people, I struggle with pressure. I struggle with the pressure to, at times, feel exciting, to feel like I need to say the right words, to mask what I truly am, when I am in situations that don’t feel comfortable to me. Whilst masking is almost second nature to me and many other autistic people, it is draining and can be profoundly confusing. Who am I, truly? Will people only find this part of me engaging? Why is it so easy for me to pretend to be something I’m not? It is as though you are half-yourself, half-pretend. A concoction to keep fitting in, keep them interested, keep yourself neat and expected and ‘conventional.’ There are a select few people that I do not mask around – an environment which is completely freeing and somewhat sentimental. You have found a person for which there is no pressure to hide – you can be theirs entirely, with their affection and with your gratitude.

As Mulan walks to the mirror, she undoes her hair, and begins to clean off her makeup. She sings:

Though I am (and forever will be) a champion for autistic pride, I will admit that there are times where it is hard to feel that pride. There are difficult days, days where part of me wishes I could take that part away and experience what it could be like to be ‘normal.’ I have been wrestling with this a little recently. I didn’t want to feel like an imposter, lying about celebration and pride when, behind the door, there has been occasional hardship and struggle. Reflection is a place I can go to and, like Mulan herself, it’s a place where I can let the expectations go, to remove the war-paint of the day and feel. In a neurotypical world, that song is my reminder that it is okay to be autistic. It can be hard, and I can never change who I am. But, I can never change who I am. I will always be this way.

I am looking in the mirror right now and, like Mulan, I can see the two halves. I can see who I truly am, and I can see who I think I am expected to be. But, sometimes, I have the strength to glue them together with one, powerful fact – inside me exists both autistic sadness and autistic joy. Both can exist, like bickering twins. And both are necessary to who I am.

Although I’m not the biggest fan of the 1997 classic, ‘Hercules’ is beloved for its soul-frenzied music. It’s a thrumming vein within the heart of the Disney classics canon – fingers slam the keyboards of pianos, muses sing their stories with zeal – and figures from greek vases throw their bodies in time to the beat. But, the song that I relate to from this vivacious score is much more classic Disney.

No matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, (and apparently, right now – no matter what I type!) ‘Go The Distance’ will always bring me to tears. The song comes at a pivotal moment in the life of an adolescent Hercules. After suffering ridicule from his peers due to his lack of strength, Hercules decides that he will make the trek to the Temple of Zeus, in search of guidance. He decides to leave his adoptive parents behind, all in search of finding a place where he can truly ‘belong.’

As you can see in the actual video for the song, a lot of this sequence is lit by the falling sunset, which dwarves Hercules in its golden light. It is implemented to represent how he is entering the ‘sunset’ of this phase – he is choosing rebirth, choosing to keep going and choosing to make change happen.

A lot of my life recently has been a series of big, important changes and decisions. My autism has made certain aspects of my life harder, meaning I have to be wise with energy-accounting and time-management, implementing rest when I can. But, as I enter my early 20s, I would say that a lot of my time has been devoted to changing myself, learning about myself, and starting the trek towards who I want to be. Not what I think I should be for others or what I think I have to be doing for others. And, like any process of transformation, this has been a physical and emotional journey.

Whenever I feel lethargic or stuck without progress, I return to this song. I kneel humbly before it, much like Hercules does before his father, and ask it to show me my future. As Hercules climbs mountaintops, fields and narrow passageways, he sings:

As I make this journey, a journey of acceptance and understanding, of strength and will, I keep my eye firmly on the place I belong. A place where I am proud, strong, independent and capable. I know that, with each song I play, each word I write, each step I take, that place is getting closer and closer to me. And, when it feels beyond me or perhaps too large for my tiny being, I remember that it is within me to grow and change in miraculous ways. Just as it is within you, too.

Go The Distance is my promise to myself, that one day, I will achieve greatness. I will get to that place where I belong. Like an effigy I keep on my bedside table, I return to it day by day, sometimes with the burdening feeling of pressure, other times with the lightness of being alive. But, more than anything else, that song is my reminder, even in a world where I sometimes feel like I can never fit in, I can make it work. I can make it worth it. This is the sunset of that mindset. This is the sunrise of my life.

You may think it strange that I chose to frame this blog around such a seemingly unconnected topic; when you think ‘autism,’ your mind won’t necessarily go to ‘animated musicals.’ And that’s completely fair, by the way. But, when I was trying to think of just how I could communicate something that is often so far from mere words, this just felt so fitting.

Disney musicals are my autistic joy – the ripples of goosebumps that erupt on my skin, the hairs that stand to attention as the chords lilt and swell.

Disney musicals are my autistic sadness – the reminders of the harder parts of my life, one of few places where I can retire to, in solace, after a hard time.

Disney musicals are my autistic pride. My reminder that it all exists within me, chirping and buzzing with all these different sounds and noises, and I love it. Even on the days I don’t. I love it.

I hope that, on this World Autism Awareness Day, that any autistic person reading this, treats themselves with love, and with kindness. And I hope that they remember that, whilst inside you exists a frustration that you feel no one can understand, you are more than just a different mind. You are more than what they tell you that you are. And, in a world where we have presidents telling us that our existence is a mistake, born from ‘error’ from our mothers, or governments who want to strip away our rights and take away our support, we will find a way. We can do the distance. We can make each other proud.

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*Also, a reminder that my virtual quiz night is in ten days time! Join me, Clarisse and Lillian on the 12th April at 7pm for a quiz night dedicated to autism through cinema. To get your emailed ticket, make any donation you can at the link here! All donations are going to the National Autistic Society. And, we can now reveal the prizes for our top three winners! Have a look below:

As part of my work as an Entertainment Journalist for Get Your Comic On, I was given the opportunity to speak to Billy about his debut novel, Burn The Water. What I quickly learned about him, other than the fact that he had written the screenplay for beloved childhood favourite ‘The Hunger Games,’ was that he is a generous man. He is incredibly giving both with his time, and with his advice. It is hard to stay on track and do your job when, sitting right in front of you, is a man that has an Academy Award nomination in the field YOU are concerned with. And, in the very few times I did stray away in conversation, he dropped silvery whispers of tried-and-true guidance. Lifelines, to a 21 year old writer like me.

And that one piece of advice that’s tacked up on my wall? Well, it reads:

I was incredibly lucky to be given the chance to keep in contact with Billy – and even luckier to get the chance to hop on a quick Zoom call with him, so we could map out his career. And I can tell you one thing – it was incredibly surreal to hear a writer of such calibre use the word ‘we,’ when giving me writing advice.

You can read our full conversation below:

I wanted to start with the very beginning. I know your dad was a literary agent and he helped set the bar for you, when you were a younger writer. So I was wondering what screenplays you can remember, when you were a child or a teenager, that really propelled you to want to write?

Well, I can tell you that my father didn't want me to be a writer, really. He made his living in show-business, but really thought it was a sewer and begged me to do anything else. And, when I came to him at the age of nineteen, I had just sold my first thing – it was an episode of The Jetsons – and I said, “Dad, I want to be a screenwriter.” He said, “Okay, come with me,” and he took me back to what they called ‘the stacks’ in those days – they literally had stacks of client’s screenplays – and he pulled out the screenplay from Ordinary People (1980), written by his client Alvin Sergeant. He said, “Okay, do this.” And that's where he was setting the bar – and I've been trying to hit it ever since

I was gonna ask about your breakthrough at nineteen. I was wondering what motivated you at that age to keep going as a writer. I started at nineteen, and it's not easy to keep that motivation going when you're so young,

No it isn't. But, if you want to be a writer, you can't do anything else. So, whether it's hard or not, you just keep doing it. I had the incredible blessing of having people around me who believed in me, who kept me encouraged and just wouldn't allow me to deflate. And yeah, you get kicked in the head, of course – and I still do. I mean, I've been doing this forever, I'm now sixty-two and I get disappointments on a daily basis. But, there is just no profit in the moping business, you have to get on with it.

I mean, it's now lead you to writing 19 films in your career. I was wondering if you could walk me through the process of writing a screenplay for a major commercial release. What does that look like?

It's different with every animal. For example, on the most recent Hunger Games, Sunrise On The Reaping (releasing November 2026), they were so conscious of security, because the book hadn't yet been released, when I was writing the screenplay. And, so they wouldn't let me write it on a computer that was connected to the internet. So, I would drive to Fox and go to the office of Nina Jacobson (who was the producer), and an assistant would lead me into a room where there was a safe, and they would pull a laptop out of the safe, and put in front of me and I would write all day. And then I called the assistant back in and she'd close up the laptop and put it back in the safe. And that's how that script got written. That's unusual in terms of security, but it's not ridiculous; there are times where you just have certain circumstances that you have to adhere to, for the most part.

What it means to write a screenplay for a major studio is, unless they come to you with the idea (which is the best of all possible worlds), you put together a pitch. My pitches are highly detailed. They are generally around twenty minutes, but I've done hour-long pitches too, where you hit them with everything. And, if they are interested, then they pay you, and you write the script until everybody's happy. And then typically, they'll try to find a director or a star to attach. And, if you are lucky enough that that happens, then you write draft after draft for that person or those people – and then they have a conversation about whether or not they want to make the movie.

Do you have a favourite of the films that you've written?

Well, there are a couple that are nearest and dearest to my heart. I have a tremendous fondness for Shattered Glass (2003), because it was the first time I ever directed – and I'm really proud of that movie; it's had legs that none of us anticipated. Obviously, I'm grateful for Hunger Games (2012) and Sunrise On The Reaping (releasing November 2026). I'm enormously grateful for Captain Phillips (2013), because it got me an Oscar nomination, which was so important to me. But I also have a special place in my heart for Richard Jewel (2019), because I feel like… of all the movies I ever worked on, it was the one that really didn't get its due, for a number of reasons. We had some terrible publicity that just crashed our opening, and made it hard for the movie to get out to the audience. But I'm very, very proud of that movie and feel like it's one of the children of mine that deserved better.

I was gonna ask you about Shattered Glass, as your directorial debut – I watched it in preparation and I really enjoyed it. I was wondering what it was like directing for the first time. And, being critiqued by someone like Roger Ebert, which I imagine must have been quite scary!

Everything about show-business is scary, and we do it despite the terror. It is the sort of job where, if you fail, you fail publicly and you have to be okay with that; Whether you're okay with it or not, you have to just keep doing your job.

Shattered Glass was a script in which I had total faith. I really believed that we were telling that story the right way because I had done the work of a journalist; I had interviewed everybody, except Stephen Glass himself, and I knew we had our facts right. So, I had tremendous confidence that we were that we were supported by the truth. And then it was a question of, could you get performance out of your actors? Could you capture a tone? And I had a brilliant cast and I had brilliant crew around me – and they just wouldn't let me fail.

You tend to deviate towards films with the political through-line. I was wondering why you have such an affiliation for that genre.

I seem to be interested in movies that reflect America back to itself; that's the majority of the work that I've done. And, since Trump, I don't have patience for any stories that don't do that. I just feel we're at a moment in my country's history, in which we need a rigorous self-examination at all times. And even if I'm telling a story like Burn The Water, which is set 400 years from now in another country, it still has something to say about where we are now, because I am obsessed with that. I have two children and I want to make sure that the world that I leave behind for them is better than the one we're in right now.

Going back to directing as a process, how does that differ from writing and do you think that you'll direct again at some point?

I'm counting on it. Directing is a lot more fun than writing. I love being around people, I love trying to bring out the ultimate expression of their talent, so that they can help me tell my story – it's a joy. How many jobs are there, where you want the work day to be longer? Almost none. But, every time you're directing every day, you're saying, “Oh God, I wish I had a half hour more, I wish I could get one more shot, done. That's a pretty inspiring job.

I know we kind of spoke about Captain Phillips (2013), before which I also watched today and really, really enjoyed.

You can thank your fellow countryman, Paul Greengrass, for that. I really got him at his best, and Tom Hanks at his best, and a brilliant editor, Chris Rouse. They made my screenplay seem more spare than it was – I was very, very lucky there.

I mean, the combination of your screenplay, and Paul Greengrass is directing, and Tom Hanks in that final scene – I was completely gone by the end of it. It was harrowing but in an energetic way.

But you were nominated for the Academy Award for that. Can you describe what that moment was like for you?

It was such a mountain-top for me. There are very few ways in which writers can measure themselves against the great writers that preceded them. One of the few ways is Oscars. William Goldman won two, Alvin Sargent won two, Paul Goldman won two, Paddy Chayefsky won three. So, I have a lot of work to do. And to even get in that game, you have to be nominated. So, it was deeply, deeply meaningful to me and I'm hoping to have that experience again.

Speaking on the power of cinema, my editor recently sent me a video of Nicole Kidman on the Jimmy Fallon show, talking about you! I know you wrote the AMC advert that was in cinemas in 2021 – and is still really famous. How important was it for you to convey the power of cinema, at that time when Covid had shut down so many cinemas? And what was your inspiration was for the writing of that?

Well, to be honest with you, the inspiration was Nicole. I knew her, and she reached out to me, and said she'd been asked to do an advert for AMC – but she didn't love the copy they had written – she asked if I would help. And so I came in and it just became about my feelings when seeing movies in a theatre. And, there are very, very few times in a writer's career in which you write a line and, you know it's going to work; most of the time you're hoping. But, the second my fingers typed “Somehow, heartbreak feels good in a place like this,” I thought, ‘Yeah, that's gonna work.’

I didn't know that it was going to work to the level that it did – none of us anticipated that that thing was going to be seen in theatre by millions people, and then even more online. It took off in such a spectacular fashion, for which I believe we have to thank the gay community. It was really the gay community that first embraced that ad, and started shouting the words back at the screen, and then it sort of took off. But that's where it started – and thank God!

Off the back of that, everyone I interview, I ask for three film recommendations and the questions are different every time. So…

In your AMC advert, you wrote a line for Nicole Kidman which says that cinema is a place “where we can be not just entertained, but somehow reborn” Which film both entertains you and gives you a kind of rebirth

The Wizard of Oz (1939)

A film that you can watch on a summer’s evening.

Bull Durham (1988)

A film that gives you hope for the world.

Rocky (1976)

By the way, none of those, to me, are the greatest movie ever made. The greatest movie ever made is The Godfather (1972), and there's no argument about that. It just is the greatest movie ever made. But these movies scratch a specific itch.

What advice do you have for young writers, who are struggling with rejection?

Failure is part of this. It is a part of the process –  and it's a necessary part of the process. And you have to embrace it. The best advice I ever heard about writing was in an interview given by Paddy Chayefsky – he of the three Oscars. He said, ‘Don't think of it as art, think of it as work.’ Because if a writer is stuck, and he or she calls in a second writer to help, that second writer doesn't say, ‘What's the art problem?’ That second writer says, ‘What's not working?’ And they get under the hood, and they fix it.

If you were a mechanic, you wouldn't go to Starbucks for two hours and wait for your muse to land on your shoulder to fix the brakes. You just fix the brakes. We are mechanics. 95% of writing is problem solving – you've got a character that's at Point A, and you've got to arc them to point Z. How do you do it? All I do, all day, is try to make the engine run right. And as Chayefsky would say, if you think of it as work, at the end of the day, you'll be able to say, ‘I did my job today.’ And if you are an artist, it'll come out as art anyway. Don't put that pressure on yourself, don't mythologize writing. It's just a job.

What are we seeing next from you?I know you've got a film with Ben Affleck, coming to Netflix this year.

So, the film is called animals – Ben directed it and stars in it. And that, I believe is being released in October. And then, Sunrise On The Reaping is November. And then, the sequel to my book, Burn The Water, is next year – I just don't know when.

BellaWatchesFilms




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Lillian, at only 27, has set career precedents that I marvel at. Her growing portfolio, filled with pieces for some of the biggest publications currently working, is statuesque. But, what really strikes me – and which is something I aim to do in these interviews – is her dedication to making change happen for autistic people, within the cultural sphere. As I’ve spoken about before, this is something I have grown up with, as my mum has dedicated her life to improving accessibility in museums. So, I am all the more impressed when I meet others like me, who have taken the creation of change into their own hands.

This chat with Lillian, alongside being a generous insight into her career with incredible advice, has given me newfound courage. It has inspired me to continue my pursuit of dreaming big – and to continue making my waves in this oceanic field of freelance writers.

You can read our full conversation below:

I was wondering where your relationship with film started.

Well, I became obsessed with Disney – I was very little the first time I saw Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937), and I loved it. My parents always liked to tell me that, when they took me to see Monsters, Inc. (2003) when I was three, I asked if there was a massive VHS tape for a screen that big, because I was already thinking about how films were shown in cinemas.

My parents love film, we’ve always watched films as a family. Mum is more interested in sci-fi and fantasy stuff – so she’s into Star Wars and Lord of the Rings. But, my dad is much more interested in grittier films, particularly British cinema, and the history of British film and television, which is what I’ve become obsessed with as I’ve gotten older. And then, I have very fond memories of going to my Nan’s house, and we would always watch James Bond films on Sunday afternoons. I had a real, intense James Bond phase when I was a child.

My favourite film was Jurassic Park (1993). I remember just being obsessed – and when I say obsessed, I really do mean obsessed. I would need everything related to that, every bit of merchandise. I would just read everything and collect things, I had to have a collection. It’s like a film didn’t really have meaning to me, until I had something tangible in relation to it.

And then, as I got a bit older, my grandmother (this is my mum’s mother), she was into world cinema and queer cinema when she was younger, and she introduced me to lots of things that I now love. Especially the films of Derek Jarman, her favourite film is Caravaggio (1986), which is one of my favourite films. And, she also introduced me to a lot of classical music and opera, which the rest of my family weren’t very interested in. So, it came from a number of different influences; someone would mention something and I’d immediately try to find it.

I started reading Empire when I was quite young and then I got a Sight and Sound subscription – and I was reading so much film criticism. And of course, in 2012, there was the last Greatest Films of All Time poll (before the most recent one) and I started working through that, and I just became increasingly obsessed with film. But, I didn’t think it was necessarily going to be something that I could actually make a career out of. I certainly didn’t realise, at the time, that it could be academic –that’s not something that I had a real reference point for. I just thought it was something that I was very interested in, in addition to my more academic interests of literature and history. And that was what I pursued. But then, once I was at university, I learned that you can use film in an historical context.

That leads me on to what I was about to ask. I know you studied History and Film at Cambridge, and you’re also known for being quite an academic.

So, I was wondering how perceiving films changed for you, when you were learning about them in such an academic way. You often hear other film critics saying, as soon as you become a critic, it’s really hard to go back to when you were just watching films for fun. It becomes very analytical.

But I think I always did that (laughs) I do sometimes wish I could switch off – but, one can’t. I started writing film reviews when I was at school. There was a school magazine where I would write silly reviews, really – I would cringe if I ever read them (laughs), but we have to start somewhere. But, that was something I then wanted to do, once I got to Cambridge.

The student publication at Cambridge is called Varsity. It’s a wonderful newspaper, and it runs its own press. I contacted their culture editor and I said, “Look, can I do anything? Review films, or whatever?’“ And he assigned me the O.J.: Made in America documentary (2016), which is eight hours long, which was quite a first commission to receive. I loved writing about that and exploring that. And then I started covering the Watersprite Film Festival which takes place in Cambridge. I interviewed Josh O’Connor, that was my first ever interview. He’s done all right! It always makes me laugh now – I remember interviewing him when he was a wee lad (laughs).

I started writing thought pieces, as well as reviews, and then I became the editor of the Film and TV section of Varsity, and I did that for a couple of years – that was in addition to academia. What I struggled with, and I think this is true of any film critic who has an academic life, is the negotiation of language, the use of critical analysis and so forth. If you were to write an academic piece about a film, you wouldn’t make qualitative judgments about the film. I mean, you can do – and I think it’s very interesting when academics do – but it’s not really the style or language.I think that’s why I leaned – and continue to lean into more – essays and thought pieces, rather than reviews. I like reviews, reviews are fun. But, if you’ve got 300-500 words for a review, there’s not really much space to properly do justice to a film.

During one of my terms, I took a paper on 20th-century European history – and that was when I really found where I thrived. One of the first essays I wrote wason inter-war Modernist culture, and I was watching German Expressionism and exploring Eisenstein and Soviet montage, and all of these things that I was vaguely aware of, but I’d never really looked at in depth. And then, I was like, “Oh my God, film can be academic, I can use film as a source in historical study.” And that became what I was keen to do, thereafter.

I proposed my Undergraduate dissertation on Ealing Studios, as I had watched those films when I was a child with my Nan and with my parents. Things like The Lavender Hill Mob (1951), The Ladykillers (1955) and Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949). These were films that were reasonably accessible because they were always on the television. It’s not like now where I can just pretty much get a hold of anything I want on the internet (laughs).

My MPhil in film was where I really developed my understanding of film as philosophy, as theory. And that was amazing, because I had the historical knowledge of film – but I didn’t necessarily have knowledge of all of the bread and butter of film theory, that anyone who studies film at university would have done as an undergraduate.

During this time, I was developing as a film critic, as well. I did an internship at Little White Lies at the end of my second year. David Jenkins (Editor at Little White Lies) liked my Varsity work and offered me a month-long internship. I was coming into London each day for a month and doing everything from transcriptions, and even writing reviews that were being published, which is amazing. It meant I could build up a little portfolio.

Little White Lies continued to commission me, after I had finished my internship, which was great – it was how I started making money from film criticism. And I started pitching everyone, being audacious, pushing my luck – I think that is what one has to do (laughs).

I think, in this job, that’s essential. You have to say, ‘I’m just gonna stick my neck out and see what happens.’

There’s no harm in dropping someone an email. The worst they can do is say no, or ignore you. Sylvia Plath used to say that, “I love my rejection slips because they show me I try.” I always think of that every time I get rejected.

I was gonna ask more about your career progression, because you’ve written for lots of publications like BBC Culture and GQ. I was wondering if you had any advice for people who want to get to that level.

David Jenkins was an amazing mentor – as was Hannah Strong and Adam Woodward, as I was working with the three of them when I did my internship. They gave me lots of really amazing advice, at that time. One of the things that David said to me was that there’s so many freelance writers, there’s so many film critics, and they all do other things as well because staff writer positions, permanent positions are very hard to come by. So what you need to be is the person that an editor goes to when they have a certain subject.

And, obviously for me, I wanted that to be British cinema because that’s my main interest. Obviously I’m interested in all parts of cinema – I’ve written about everything from Marvel films to obscure Czech films. I’m voracious and I don’t see distinct disambiguation between things like high art and low art, whatever. I mean, as far as I’m concerned, film is the low art so they’re all in it together (laughs).

Maybe it’s because I’m not emerging anymore but, when I was starting out, you had to be the identity of everything that you wrote about. This was a real trend in criticism and in writing – this sort of auto-writing, like you had to have an autobiographical element and you weren’t justified in writing about a topic, unless it was aligned with your identity – be that gender, sexuality, ethnicity, and so on. And that’s fine in some ways, and that can be very interesting, very compelling. But it can also be quite limiting.

I was starting my transition when I started at university, and I really was desperate for that not to be the thing that I was constantly asked to write about. If you look at my earlier pieces, quite a few of them are about gender and transness, because that was something that many people weren’t writing about. There are now, to my knowledge, more trans people who are film critics and who are writers. But, at the time, I certainly didn’t know of any and they weren’t within my consciousness. But, I was navigating my transition myself – my views on things are very different now, than to what they were when I was 18, 19.

I had received abuse because I’d been on University Challenge, and another couple of times when I tweeted something. So I had to have a piece that I’m the most proud of made anonymous, which is a shame. It was heartbreaking for me because it was deeply personal and I stand by it. I didn’t say to the publication, “Please delete this piece of writing.” I don’t have much of an ego and I don’t like to toot my own trumpet or anything, but I genuinely haven’t read anything about that subject that is as nuanced, since.

But that’s the kind of piece that people wanted someone like me to be writing, and I didn’t wholly feel comfortable doing so because I didn’t know what was going to happen in the future – I didn’t want to be feeling like I was in a state of transition my entire life, most certainly after I completed my transition. I would never have described myself as “trans” back then. I used to say “I’m going through a process of transition,” and if I read a piece I wrote back then, that’s the wording I use. And I do still use that wording because I do think it’s important. What I have learnt since then and now is that, actually, that’s not something that’s just going to go away. So, I have a very different relationship to it than I did.

And I’m glad because I had the self-awareness to know that, because you don’t want to write things that you come to regret later on. You have to think about that when you write something, especially if you’re writing an opinion piece, or a thought piece, or something very personal. These are important things.

What did the rest of your career progression look like?

I went back to Little White Lies during Covid – I worked as an editorial assistant with them for a few months, which was amazing. I did my first podcast on David Fincher when Mank (2020) came out. And you know, this was a time when there weren’t that many films coming out. So, it was really exciting for me to be able to do these things because I’d never done them before.

What was so exciting for me… I had written enough for Sight and Sound to be able to vote in the Greatest Films of All Time poll (2022). I’d just moved to London and I was so giddy. The atmosphere in the room when they announced that number one was Jeanne Dielman (1975) – it was just insane. I became obsessed with Chantal Akerman when I was doing my Masters and I wrote an essay on Sylvia Plath and Akerman, which was really fun – it’s something that I’m deeply passionate about.

One reason why it won was because, contrary to 2012 (the last time it was done), there was a sense that you had to have a film directed by a woman in your Top 10. And, if you didn’t, you were a bad person. And, quite frankly, that’s true. Not because you need to have a woman, but because, obviously, a film directed by a woman is one of the 10 greatest films of all time. To me, that’s just obvious. I’ve written a lot about Akerman since then but, at that point, it felt really special because something that I was passionate about had become the thing that I was associated with. In the early stage of my career, I was writing more about gender and sexuality and queerness and all this stuff that is a part of me – it’s not like I was out of my depth. But, there was a level of discomfort about it.

I wrote a piece on Wild At Heart (1990), which is probably the piece of film criticism that I’m most proud of. It was about Wild At Heart as a film about Post-Traumatic Stress and I really love that piece, I cherish that one.

You’ve read my book, I’m careful with what I say, you don’t want these things to be held against you. And I don’t know what my rights are going to be tomorrow, let alone after the next election. So I do worry about it. Let’s face it, we’re all going to be on the receiving end of discrimination – they’ve made that very clear this week. That’s not something that we should have to think about, we should be able to write with complete freedom. That’s something that I am navigating and negotiating all the time.

My views on which publications I write for change. What is a morally responsible publication? It doesn’t exist. There are certainly publications that I know, for a fact, are going to be more left-wing or left-leaning in their editorial approach. Would you write for The Telegraph if they asked you? I think about that all the time. What if they sent me an amazing commission, would I be able to turn that down? To write for a publication which is directly complicit in the removal of my rights as a trans woman. My feeling is always to cross that bridge when it comes to it.

I have been criticised for working with the BBC. I mean, my PhD is in collaboration with BBC history. And I get that and I understand why people say to me, “How can you work with these people?” But I think my approach has always been that change happens and influence happens from the inside of things. There’s almost a humour to it, actually. There’s this little revolutionary act of knowing myself and knowing my politics and my views, and the way I express things – and being able to do that within the system or the institution.

My feeling is that, if I was to take a very hard-line stance – which I perhaps did when I was younger, when I had a sort of strong idea of cancellation and boycotting and so forth – you end up just not writing anything (laughs) So, you do have to think about these things, particularly now. And people are quite right to interrogate me about that. Ask me those questions, because I’m asking them of myself. And I don’t have the right answer and it breaks my heart, if I’ve written for a physical publication, then I see something horrific. It’s my worst nightmare. But unfortunately, that’s a risk that sometimes writers have to take.

I hadn’t really thought about that. I haven’t obviously had the opportunity, yet, to write for the publications that you have. But I think that’s quite interesting and will give people a good direction to go. I think, especially in the UK, the political state is changing every other day, so it’s an important thing to keep in mind.

I do take a great deal of comfort in knowing that I am a freelancer. If a publication does something that I don’t agree with, I can always pitch to another publication. The problem is publications are dying, especially the left-wing ones which are becoming fewer and fewer – and that’s a real shame. And it’s sad to see the editorial position of publications moving further to the right – that really is tragic.

Also, there is the general dumbing-down of things. I’ve said that I try not to make my work too academic – and I think I’m quite good at disambiguating between when I’m writing an academic piece, and when I’m not – that’s a skill, and that’s a balance that we learn, which voice to use when we’re writing. Sometimes I’ll get comments from editors, and they’ll say things like, “Can you write this as though you were speaking it?” Clearly, they’ve never heard me speak (laughs).

I grew up, of my own volition, watching BBC Four documentaries, and listening to the radio – that’s how I learnt things. BBC Four is now an archive channel, so nothing new is done in those sorts of documentaries. And the problem with it being an archive channel is that it’s not diverse. There isn’t a BBC Four documentary on Chantal Akerman – and that would be a prime subject. That’d be a brilliant thing to do, and people want to know about that, people are interested.

What was so remarkable about Jeanne Dielman topping that poll is the amount of people that went to see it. People were engaging with that film, who would never have otherwise had access to it, because people would have said, “it’s out of people’s comfort zones, it’s not accessible,” which is complete nonsense. Of course it’s accessible. It’s like the arguments about opera, for example. These things are accessible, but what we do, is we put them in a category of not being accessible or being elitist. And, in doing so, we don’t introduce them to people. We don’t make them accessible. In this country, we’ve decided that these things are not for working-class people.

When I’m telling my parents about something that I love, that they’ve never heard of and they have no knowledge of, I want to express to them why I think this is interesting and why I love it. And then, I send it to my dad or my mum and, if they come back and say, “Oh, I didn’t really understand it,” I feel like I failed. That’s why I’m writing. I’m not writing for myself, it’s not because I want to keep people at arm’s length, and elevate myself above other people. It’s about sharing something. It’s about, “I love this thing, I want to share it with you.”

That’s why we’re film critics. We’ve seen something, and we want to tell people why we love that film. Or, why we hate that film.

I was gonna ask about the other half of your career, because you are a programmer and curator. That’s something that I don’t really know a lot about, so I wanted to ask what it’s like, as well as what you love about it.

I love it so much. This has become so rewarding to me, even more so than writing, I think. It’s almost like live theatre, I used to love doing live theatre, when I was younger, because you get an immediacy of response. When you write something – it used to be this way – you’d write something, and you’d put it on Twitter, and it would be great, because people would share it, people would comment on it – that’s a response, I’m doing a good job.

And what I love about programming and curating – and why I will always sit in the middle of the front row when I have programmed something – is because it’s so fun to listen to an audience’s reaction, and feel that response to something that you have put together.

I was invited onto the Autism Through Cinema podcast during Covid to talk about Amélie (2001) – it’s one of my favourite films, one of my favourite autistic films, certainly. And I then became a co-host. And, as a result of that, the BFI reached out to me (I had done some things for them before). Maggi Hurt, who used to be one of the programmers at the BFI, reached out to me and asked me to introduce a relaxed screening of Petite Maman (2021).

I’d never heard of a relaxed screening at the time. It had only just started at the BFI a few years before because there was a controversy about an audience member being removed from a screening, because other audience members complained about the noises that she was making (pause). The anger that made me feel, at the time – that’s what compelled me to take an interest in this and to do this.

And then I started doing more and more of them. And I was learning more about the measures that took place in those screenings, and it was like, “Oh, what film would work, actually?” So, I did a screening of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964) – and there was such a split opinion. We have discussions after these screenings, and for that one there was such a split between people who loved it – and people who were like, “No, too much singing, too loud, too overwhelming, too much colour.” So, we have very different pools of neurodivergent people.

And that was great, I love that! Because it’s something to play with. Georgia Bradburn (co-founder of the Stims Collective) has done films like Eraserhead (1977), and we did The Fly (1986), at one point. Relaxed screenings are often done by cinemas, thinking that their audience is made of children, and that autistic people are like children. So, they’ll do Toy Story (1995) or another animated film. We wanted to do the adult version of that. It’s so interesting to see how people respond to things.

And I love doing the relaxed screenings because it doesn’t matter that I look everywhere, and I talk with my hands quite a lot.

Because no one is going to care!

Because everyone does it. When I’m introducing a ‘neurotypical screening’ (laughs), I am more conscious of gestures and how I look.

With that being said, I do love it and – I love Q&As. And that’s surprising to me, because I didn’t think that I would. And that’s become a really big part of my career, as well. That happens to a lot of critics – you start getting asked to do in-person stuff and face-to-face stuff – it’s really fun. But, it’s not for everyone, and there’s a lot of anxiety around it.

I still do the relaxed screenings at the BFI – after we founded Stims Collective, we do it every month, and we oversee the relaxed program at the BFI. It’s an amazing thing to have achieved, since starting.

The Barbican does some amazing work with young programmers and emerging curators. There is a program called Emerging Curators, which I applied for off the back of my BFI work – and I got onto it. And I learnt so much about curation, about how curation works, about distribution, about exhibition.

I programmed a screening – which is where we got our name of Stims from – which was called Stims: Towards the Neurodiverse Cinema. It was pitched as a programme of short films made by neurodivergent filmmakers. That was such a wonderful screening – to do a relaxed screening, with an original programme, all the films made by neurodivergent filmmakers, and to have those filmmakers in the room do a panel afterwards. And an audience, a sold out audience that was so diverse. And people will react, and I love the reaction. So many neurodivergent people are so responsive.

The thing that moved me the most was during the Q&A. This person said, “I’ve never been to the cinema before. I saw this screening, and I thought this is the first time that I will feel safe doing so.” They didn’t even ask a question, they just wanted to thank me. I mean, I had to hold back tears on stage. This is what I want to achieve, that’s what I want to do.

I wanted to ask about your advocacy for autistic people in the cultural world. I think it’s so incredible.

I was wondering what changes you think we need to see in the cultural world, to make it even more accessible. Because I think, like you said, relaxed screenings are an incredible step forward.

I think it’s the easiest one.

I agree with you on that.

With Stims, when we created it, we didn’t want to have ‘film’ in the name or something explicitly related to film. It’s our intention to look at other cultural spaces. I don’t like being pigeon-holed into just writing about film; I’m always aiming to write about art and classical music, opera, ballet, theatre, or literature, as well.

I did actually write a piece for Apollo Magazine, the art magazine, about gallery spaces and museums – and accessibility. I go to museums and galleries all the time – and I think about what makes it inaccessible for me. Things like lighting – the lighting is the worst in gallery spaces. It’s not just bad for the people viewing it, it’s bad for the paintings.

I remember I went to London Docklands, when I was a kid, and they had bird noises and I literally walked out. I remember being almost borderline-meltdown, with my parents outside.

They have these things now where if you step on a certain place, there’s a thing that’s above you – and it plays audio directly onto you. But they don’t think about these things. They think, ‘The technology exists, so let’s deploy it.’ That’s not going to make me leave the gallery. But, for some people, it would. It makes it inaccessible.

The most accessible thing I’ve ever been to – absolutely phenomenal – was the Museum of Transology. It wasn’t there for very long. It’s next to Queer Britain, and it’s this big gallery space. We walked in, and they had this room – and there’s headphones, and stim toys, and sensory maps. All of the things that we tell people that they should have. And I bought the catalogue, with a list of every access arrangement, and it has a list with pages and pages of things. They thought of everything. And, this was a pop-up exhibit, made with not a lot of money. But, they had taken so much care to make sure everyone could enjoy thisabsolutely vital exhibit.

It was about trans experience in this country. I’ve never been to anything like that before. And it was so bizarre, to see things like the NHS waiting list letters and medications – stuff that is so personal to me. It was so moving. It was the most profound gallery experience I’ve ever had in my life. And I was so moved by the fact that they knew that they wanted to share this with everyone – and they knew that the people that were the most in need of this exhibition were likely to require accessibility measures. And they made it possible on what must have been a very limited budget.

Galleries say, ‘It’s too expensive, we can’t.’ It is expensive. If you’re doing a film screening, and you want to have audio description, subtitles, a BSL interpreter, or live captioning, these things cost more than it does to actually get the rights to play the film. I’m very appreciative of that because I’ve had to deal with that, and I’ve had to budget screenings. But that being said, some things are easy. And this proved to me that it can be done. And I thought why, when I walk into the National Gallery or any other major museum, is it not obvious? You shouldn’t have to ask for it. You should be able to see it, and get it. I hate the need for people to constantly have to justify and explain themselves. That makes me angry because I want people to get what they need without having to ask for it.

The issue that we always have for relaxed screenings is space. It’s the way it’s designed – it’s not designed for the purpose that we want it to be. You will always have rows of chairs that are difficult to get out of. At some cinemas, that’s an absolute nightmare.

I went to this incredible exhibition at the Tate Britain of Isaac Julien’s films and there are six screening rooms. Outside the screening room, you had a screen which shows you exactly what point the film’s at, so you can come and go. There’s bean bags in all of the rooms so people can sit down. It’s kept at a reasonable level of light, the volume is low. I was like, ‘This is the cinema, this is the relaxed cinema.’ If I could build something, that’s what it would look like.

My favourite museum is the Transport Museum in London and I remember, when I was a kid – this is my claim to fame – we went in the lift and it plays a sound that makes you feel like you’re going back in time – and I had a massive freak out. I was tiny, I must have completely lost it. And now, there is a sign that says, ‘This lift makes noise.’ And it’s still there, and that was for me. That was my impact on the cultural world.

I love that.

I also wanted to ask you about your book (The Mind of the Doctor: Across the Neurodiverse Universe of Doctor Who),building off of the neurodivergent topic. I have been lucky enough to read it! And I really enjoyed it. But I was wondering what you want to be people’s biggest takeaway when they read it. I mean, I already know what I took away from it.

Well, what you said to me, when you finished reading it (laughs). It is a book, obviously, for Doctor Who fans. For me, it was about exploring what it means to look at a cultural object through a neurodivergent lens. It was almost setting out a methodology – how do we do this? Because – and, that was what was really useful about Autism Through Cinema – we used to have debates and talk all the time about, ‘Can we diagnose a character as neurodivergent?’Can we refer to a filmmaker’s films as neurodivergent? Or a story or a theme?’

Well, no, you can’t. What you can do is say, ‘I am neurodivergent and I see this thing in relation to myself in this way.’ I think that that is a framework and a methodology which can be applied to anything. I think that’s what I really learnt from doing it. And that’s why the book became a bit overwhelming, for a while. I realised that you can read every single episode of Doctor Who from a neurodivergent perspective, you can read every character from that perspective. Because everything in Doctor Who is grounded in the Doctor, everything becomes relatable in that sense. They are neurodivergent because they have a different brain from what we would define as a neurotypical brain. That is a diagnosis that I’m willing to make.

There are examples of characters in the show who are neurodivergent. But, the relatability of a Slitheen to a neurodivergent person – that’s more tongue-in-cheek. And I hope people appreciate that. But actually, to call an autistic person ‘Like a Dalek,’ is highly insulting. What I wanted to express with the chapter on robots was, ‘This is a stereotype, this is a harmful way of seeing autistic people.’ Nonetheless, it’s an exaggeration. And there are aspects – particularly in our relationships to things like emotions and the way we express ourselves – which can be equated to that. So, I hope people read it in good faith.

I enjoyed your take on that part. I liked that you took it and flipped it, from what we would normally have heard. I can’t imagine how difficult it was to walk around the Dalek and Cyberman comparisons because they’re easy to make.

Okay, so now I want to do my Three Film Recommendation question. I have been asking each of my interviewees this, but they’re different for each person.

1. A film that reminds you of femininity

I think the best film ever made about being a woman is Les rendez-vous d’Anna (1978) by Chantal Akerman. But, I mean, all of Akerman’s films are about femininity and being a woman.

Aurore Clément plays a film director called Anne Silver – and she has a number of different sexual encounters and sees various ex-lovers. I love it. There are just so many shots of her just walking or sitting on trains, smoking a cigarette. It’s the same thing that Akerman does with Jeanne Dielman – you’re just watching a woman in her most solemn, interior moments. She also meets with her mother, played by Lea Massari, and she tells her about her lesbian relationships and connects with her.

It’s about female sexuality, fluidity of sexuality, closetedness, mother-daughter relationships. And, most profoundly, I think it’s just the beauty of just seeing a woman as it’s lived. It’s the most accurate representation I’ve ever had seen – and I dress like her as well (laughs)

2. An underrated British film

It is hard to pick one. You’re torturing me.

I’m so sorry (laughs) But I know whichever one you’ll come up with will be amazing, and people will watch it.

I’m gonna go with a Basil Dearden film, because I think he is one of the most underrated film directors – he should be up there. So it’s between Pool of London (1951) and All Night Long (1962)

Pool of London is an absolutely incredible film about an international relationship – to my knowledge, it’s the first depiction of an interracial relationship in British cinema. Earl Cameron is in it, and he is one of the best, he’s the first Black man to be in Doctor Who! He’s an amazing actor. It’s a seedy thriller set in London in the early ‘50s, it’s just gorgeous.

All Night Long, which is Basil Dearden’s jazz interpretation of Othello, which has a cast including Dave Brubeck. There’s a few really famous jazz musicians, who just happened to be in town, when they were filming. People think that Whiplash (2014) is a good jazz film... I mean, give me a break. This is a jazz piece of cinema.

3. A film with a magic that no other film has

The Long Day Closes (1992), greatest film of all time. Magic, pure magic. Terence Davies is a magician. The things that he creates out of music, and image, and cinema, and family relationships… It’s just the most perfect film, and I keep going back to it. When you said the word ‘magic’, there could be no other choice.

And, the final question which I’m asking everyone is, how are you feeling, when you look ahead to the rest of 2026 in film? Especially now that we’ve had Wuthering Heights out of the way.

Yeah, I didn’t like the film – but Emerald Fennell is great. She was lovely, when I interviewed her, we had a wonderful conversation. It did make me warm to the film, perhaps a little more than some people have.

I’m very excited for The Bride – and that’s soon which is even more exciting. I don’t really know what’s coming this year. They’ll make the Cannes announcement, and some director who I thought was dead will have made a film. I’m mourning the fact that we won’t have any more Frederick Wiseman documentaries – that’s very sad, because that’s always a highlight of my year, sitting down for four hours to watch one (laughs)

What do I hope for? Well, I can’t wait for us to finally get Mia Hansen-Løve’s Mary Wollstonecraft film – that would be on my Cannes wishlist for this year. I’ve already seen some stuff – I’ve seen Miroirs No.3, directed by Christian Petzold, which I adored.

This is the first year I’ve ever looked forward to seeing a Christian Nolan film – I can’t stand Nolan. But I love Homer so much, so I am willing to watch his Odyssey. It could be Nolan’s masterpiece! That’s on the radar.

BellaWatchesFilms

I have always been proud of being autistic, since I was diagnosed at age 10. But, I never really had a figure to look up to, to show me what was possible even when the world felt confusing or strange. But, for this hour and a half conversation, I got to tell Clarisse how much it meant to me to see someone in our industry be so successful and so creative. To carve out a template for how I want to keep pursuing and building my career. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

This post is a little longer than normal as we have an important conversation around our shared neurodiversity – how more understanding and accessibility is needed, as well as the beautiful ways we express our neurodiversity. But I wanted to share that with you as a symbol of progress – the fact that two autistic film critics can discuss these changes is something I feel very proud of. And it was something I couldn’t wait to share with you.

You can read our full conversation below:

I wanted to start at the beginning and ask you where your love of films began?

I think my earliest memory is that it’s always been there for me, because it was the place that I always went to whenever I needed to feel safe. I have so many memories of just being in my bedroom with my little TV and DVDs – I don’t think it was VHS, I’m young! (laughs) – and just watching the same movies over and over again, literally inches away from the screen.

The really big moment for me, I remember, is I snuck down very late at night to watch – I think it was Film 4 or Channel 4 – which would show classics really, really late at night. And, that’s how I saw Blade Runner (1982) for the first time. I didn’t grow up in a very cinephilic household, I didn’t know what Blade Runner was.

And, in that context, seeing Blue Velvet (1986) for the first time – it felt like 2AM but it was probably just 11pm because I was younger – I remember being downstairs on the family TV, watching Blue Velvet, face basically inside the movie and having this moment of complete revelation. And this is why David Lynch is so important to me – it was like somebody in the universe reached out to me (and I didn’t know who David Lynch was), so this was like a stranger reached out to me and said ‘I see that the world is very scary and confusing. But there is also love and love will carry you through it.’ That was my first impressive of Blue Velvet, of like, ‘it’s okay to be really confused, it’s okay that this seems really overwhelming. But, there are things to hold onto.’ I think that was the moment where a lot of things clicked for me, in terms of loving film.

I love that. And how did your career path start, when you knew that you had this innate love for film?

I guess I didn’t (laughs)

Okay, fair enough! (laughs)

I also have always loved history. And I think film was not really an open path to me, when I was around GCSEs/A-Levels, deciding what to do with my life. I was told, ‘You’ve gotta pick something academic,’ and I was like, ‘Well, I love history, I’m really obsessed with ancient Egypt, I taught myself hieroglyphics (laughs)’ So they’re definitely twin loves. But I thought this was the serious thing to do so I’ll pick this one, and I did Ancient History at the University of Edinburgh. But, film was always there and I still had the same relationship with films. So, when I graduated, I wanted to be an actor and I got an agent… that’s a different story for another time (laughs). But I was sort of thinking, ‘I love history but I don’t even know how to get a job in Ancient History.’

I had written some reviews for my University newspaper so I was like, ‘Oh, that’s a thing I could try and do because I quite enjoy it?’ Not really officially deciding ‘Right, I’m going to be a film journalist,’ but ‘I don’t really know what to do with my life, let me try this!’ (laughs)

So then, I was trying to apply and reaching out to places, and I got work experience at a now defunct, gone, eradicated website called Grolsch Film Works, which was part of Vice Magazine, when Vice was super popular. So, I went to London and I stayed at a friend’s house, and I worked in an office which was weird (laughs). But I think building that was sort of the starting point. And once I had that concrete experience and that was the thing I kept getting responses to (my acting agent was not emailing me!) so I thought, ‘let me do this (laughs)’

It’s cool to hear about your past because I feel the same with how I started in my career. Sometimes it is just, ‘maybe this will work, I’ll try it out!’ And then it does lead somewhere.

But it’s led you to being the Chief Film Critic at The Independent! So, I was going to ask what it’s like, having your voice being one of the louder ones amongst film critics in the UK?

It feels crazy because there’s not that many writers who are the official critic for a large news outlet. So, sometimes I think about that and I’m like, ‘Wow! How did I get there? That’s crazy.’ I definitely kick myself sometimes.

On the flip side, I’m very conscious of the instability of the industry. I guess when you hear issues with other outlets, of things closing and people losing their jobs, you really hear about it. I think every critic, really, has an amount of pressure on them right now, if they’ve reached somewhere they’re really happy with, to go ‘Right, how do I keep this going?’

And so that turns into a lot of pressure to self-promote, which I’m very bad at. It’s interesting, you said ‘loudest in the room’ and it’s sort of true, but then when you go into the scope of the internet, it changes. And I feel like I’m a little tiny mouse going ‘Meep meep!’ (laughs) I don’t think I’m particularly skilled in the social media type of stuff – I am lucky to have the position that I have and the audience that I have. I’m very blessed because I feel like they came to find me (laughs). I think I’m not so good at going out to find people.

It is really hard. When I spoke to Amon Warmann, he was talking about his advice for young critics and how unfortunately the internet and social media play such a big role now. You don’t have to be an influencer but, you kind have to take that path which I think can be challenging because it feels like you’re scrabbling with a million other people, trying to get your voice heard.

But on the topic of you being one of the more prominent film critics, do you ever find it hard to go against what the other big critics are saying? I read your Hamnet (2025) review and I listened to Mark Kermode's review, and they were both completely different, both completely valid, but different.

It’s not difficult, I think. It’s really harder sometimes to write reviews when the whole cycle of discourse has happened, because I think that’s what I struggle with. With Hamnet, I wish I could’ve written that in a total vacuum and to have a completely honest reaction and relationship to the film itself.

But, when a discourse cycle has happened, I try to… sometimes, I often don’t really care (laughs). Everyone’s really angry and not being nuanced and I don’t like this. But, it still filters down and I think Hamnet is a great example because I was aware writing the review that it was “divisive” and people were calling it really emotionally manipulative. So I think you’re right in the sense of that. I do try and catch myself – and I think I did that in that review – of like, ‘Oh, well I have to respond to the criticism,’ because people are going to read that review and think ‘Well, I think it’s emotionally manipulative, did she not pick that up?’

I think, writing a review, especially in the way that comments increasingly will come to you – you have to write every review with the assumption that the person reading it feels actively hostile towards you. Because that’s sort of how people read stuff, there’s an implicit hostility coming into every creative discussion.

So, maybe you’re right, maybe it is difficult – but in that specific sense where it’s like, anytime I’m entering divisive waters, now I have to mount a Cicero-level argument (laughs), the ‘unbeatable argument’ that Hamnet isn’t actually emotionally manipulative. That can be tricky, I find.

I think it’s impressive because it’s really hard to not want to give into what everyone else is saying and to not pander to what everyone online is saying, because it’s the easiest – especially when you said a lot of discourse online right now is completely not nuanced. So, I think adding a nuanced take, even if it’s what the majority disagree with – that’s beneficial, for sure.

You have two types of writing, right? There’s what I described when you’re sort of writing when you’re aware of what the general feeling is about a movie. And, when you write something pre-embargoed – it doesn’t affect the writing at all, I still write what I write, but I do have the thought of… ‘Is everyone going to think I’m really uncool, if I say what I say?’ because I have been really burned before.

The story I always tell is – this was before I was writing reviews regularly – I’m a big Alien fan, so I got to go to the premiere of Alien: Covenant (2017). I had gone with my friend, who was also a big Alien fan (to the point where he reads the comics!) We had the best time of our lives – we were giggling, gasping, holding each other. And we walked out going: ‘Is this the greatest Alien movie ever? We loved this. This is going to be a box office smash, this is gonna win Oscars (laughs)’ We were genuinely 100% convinced it was going to be universally beloved.

And then moment the embargo dropped (laughs), it was like, ‘2 stars, 2 stars, 1 star and The Independent – 5 STARS!, 2 stars.’ And my stomach dropped because it was like someone had changed the material reality around me – and suddenly, Alien: Covenant was a bad movie.

But, you know what, I won in the end because everyone has come around with that movie.

You weren’t appreciated in your time but, you will be

Exactly, I was a prophet. I was the Cassandra of my time – specifically on Alien sequels.

On the topic of that, I was reading your review of Mercy (2026), which was in the majority’s opinion. I loved reading it – I love a review of a bad film. Do you find it easier to write a review of a bad film or a good film? I feel like writing a review of a bad film can be really fun, sometimes.

I think it’s more fun, specifically with something like Mercy, when it’s a really big studio product. It’s hard to say something has been made cynically, because I don’t know the people who made that movie, but when everyone isn’t particularly lovingly attached to it – they’ve just made this movie and poured ungodly amounts of money into it – then I think it’s really fun, because you can really rip into it.

You know when it’s something a lot smaller and intimate, low budget, or someone’s really personal vision – I feel like it’s less fun. I really don’t like attacking people, I’ll attack the art. To me it’s like, I don’t know those people, I don’t know why they made that movie. But when it’s something like Mercy and it’s a big studio thing and it’s just nonsense, you can make loads of silly jokes about it – that’s really fun.

But then, I just love writing a 5 star review. Because then its when you feel really in sync with the film, it’s really creatively satisfying. I think – 1 star, you get to have the most fun, 5 stars, you get to be the most creative and push yourself the most as a writer.

I know what you mean. Especially when you want to give a film 5 stars or you really love a film – you feel the pressure to convey how passionate you feel. Or at least I feel this way.

Even with star ratings, I think ‘don’t pay too much attention.’ The star rating is kind of meaningless to me, I don’t really understand it fundamentally. You go, ‘Do I like this 4 stars much or 5 stars much?’ But in reality it’s like, this film made me cry because it reminded me of this relationship I had with this person – and then you have to sit at a desk and be like, ‘But, how much cry? How much crying happened? Was it 4 stars worth crying? Or 5 stars?’ It’s just ridiculous! But, I understand why it exists but I think I struggle with it.

I’m the same, for sure.

Moving away from reviews a little bit, I know you wrote a book about Wes Anderson last year – I wanted to ask what it was about him that drew you to him, to write a book about him.

When you talk about David Lynch, that’s kind of how I feel about Wes Anderson. When times have been hard, since I was a kid through to now, I’ve always gone to his films because, even though they’re so controlled and everything is so precise, there’s always such emotion in them. I think it’s that thing of, when the world feels like a mess, I can always go to his films because I know everything is as it should be, which makes me feel like everything is in place right now.

Well, unfortunately, the real answer is that they asked me to write it (laughs)

Okay! (Laughs)

But I was very lucky that I got an email saying, ‘Do you want to write a book about Wes Anderson?’ And I said, ‘Absolutely, I love him,’ instead of having to fake it.

And I agree. The Life Aquatic of Steve Zissou (2004) was a really big one I watched, when I was a teenager. And that movie – and most of his films – it’s what you said. It’s kind of that sense of control, and I think his characters are often so troubled and deeply depressed, deeply dysfunctional families, very lost emotionally and mentally. And then, there’s seeking the idea of aesthetic control – they’re always joining clubs or defining themselves by certain ways. Those are the ways in which we try to control the world, when we feel really out of control. Which I think is why a lot of neurodivergent people go to Wes Anderson.

So many of his characters go through moments where they’re like, ‘I don’t know how I feel about this – can I find my feelings about it through an outward expression of art or an aesthetic or fashion?'

I’m thinking now of The Darjeeling Limited (2007) with the brothers. They don’t really know how they feel about themselves or each other. So they're like, ‘we’re gonna take this trip and we’re gonna discover how we feel on this trip.’ And they sort of discover that, actually, you can’t just go to a foreign country and use it for therapy. Their motivation is quite relatable.

It’s funny you mention The Darjeeling Limited because – it is one of my four favourites on Letterboxd – but I often cite that to people as one of the films that got me through a really hard time.

That leads me on to talk about you being autistic! I wanted to ask you about how it impacts your career.

Perfectionism has been a real struggle. I think I’m in a much better place with that now. I still have it, but I think I’m getting better at telling myself, ‘No, no! You did say this the way you wanted to say it.’ There is a lot of having to let go of things because we work on such tight deadlines. Especially if it’s like a Marvel movie – you go in the morning, you watch the movie at 10am, for some reason it will be 4 hours long (laughs), and then it will be like, ‘Great, I have two hours to write this before the deadline, maybe three hours.’ And that is so hard because there’s literally no time for that thinking. Defining coping methods to go, ‘Okay, this one’s not gonna be perfect,’ that’s what I tell myself.

I have a great therapist who always does that thing of going, ‘Well, what if it’s bad? Or, what if something goes wrong?’ And she keeps asking that question down to the point where I’m like, ‘Oh yeah, I actually I won’t lose my career if I write one review I’m not quite as proud of, as the other ones.’ That’s a big thing of catastrophizing.

With tons of watching movies, my thing with balancing is making time to both watch new movies and also, my need to watch the same movie over and over again, like once every week. The funnier side of this is Letterboxd, because I’m cataloguing everything I watch. But then some movies I can’t catalogue every time I watch, because someone would message me and ask ‘Are you alright?’ I watch X-Men: First Class (2011) every week (laughs), I don’t know why but that my movie that calms me down. If I’ve got to watch a movie again for the hundredth time, I give myself a day to just watch it. Or if I really need it… (laughs)

I used to struggle with that a lot. I found it really hard to start being like, ‘No, I really have to watch these new films!’ But I like the predictability of what’s going to happen in advance.

And then I just wondered if you had any advice for autistic people who want to go into this industry? One thing I wanted to ask about is the social side.

That’s still a thing I’m really figuring out. Learning about this stuff is still fairly new to me, in the long span of my lifetime. Long-span – I’m young, I’m a baby (laughs). But this is something I’ve been working on actively recently – just learning to say no. That’s been a huge thing because there’s such a pressure to go to every screening and go to every social event.

I’ve been trying to learn the thing of taking rest days. For example, next week, I have a crazy week – everything is Jacob Elordi related, as well. And it’s going to be really exciting, he’s great. And I’m already mentally going, ‘When am I, in the next week after, not book things?’ Knowing that there’s going to be the payback.

I think it’s learning – you want to do stuff for your career but also, what’s going to really nourish me and fulfil me and make me feel good? And be in the places I want to be, so I’m not missing out on stuff that’s going to make me really sad to miss out on.

I feel for PRs, who are really trying to get you to go to their screening – and I feel really bad. I’ve had cases in the past where I’ve said ‘Yes!’ to so many things because I want to see all the movies. And I think it’s learning that physically, I can’t do that. And I have to say no, and ask for a screening link, if they have them, which is such a benefit.

I don’t know how to vocalise this properly in an outward industry way of saying, ‘I wish there was more accessibility for screening links.’ On the neurodivergent/autistic side, I think that’s an accessibility accommodation for us. I can’t leave the house every single day, I physically cannot do that. It fluctuates week by week, but I can do a maximum amount of things. And it’s frustrating because I wish I could go to every physical screening – but I wish there was a way to be able to still do the job. I think that’s still a problem – trying to explain to people.

It’s very hard. It’s hard hearing accessibility isn’t at its best, even in this career. In some ways, screening links just make everything easier and they are often my absolute safe haven. It’s really hard having to tell people about your sensory requirements.

It’s very hard being open and honest with people as, like you said, a lot of people don’t understand. And there isn’t always that choice of being able to watch a film at home. It’s not necessarily the fairest for people to expect that you can just go out every single day, to go do these things. I mean, I love going to the cinema, but it’s a big sensory experience as well. There’s a lot of noise, it’s a lot of light. So, I think more awareness of this stuff is needed, for sure.

You’re so right in saying when you are a critic, it’s every day. And I think there’s a difference between loving the cinema experience – and thinking it’s so special to go to once a week, twice a week, three times a week (laughs) – but when it’s every single day, and sometimes there’s multiple screenings, it’s really hard to express that it takes a physical toll on the body.

Well, I think it’s good that we can talk about and make people more aware about it. Because, it’s not a conversation a lot of people have in this industry – so, I think it’s important that we just have it because more people need to know about it.

It will help other people who are autistic because I know a lot of film critics who are, and I think it will help people to think, ‘Maybe it’s okay to tell whoever I’m working for, my editor or PR, that I just need to take my own rest seriously.’ So, hopefully we can encourage more people to have this conversation because it’s important.

Everybody has really different requirements and also how far they can push themselves. I don’t want that to be a limit to who can participate in this industry or not. I think even just getting the little accommodation helps the people who need the more accommodation (laughs) And it really does feel like every screening link helps.

That should be our moral message, our campaign headline for everyone to hear (laughs)

I think as well, I worry ‘God, do they think I’m being lazy?’ I think it’s a big thing with autism, the assumption of laziness when you say ‘I can’t do this, I’m tired.’ Sometimes I think we need new words because it’s the struggle with “fatigue,” “tired,” “burnout” – these are obviously neurotypical and neurodivergent definitions of those words. Or, in terms of the experience of them – they can be really similar but I think sometimes I need to specify. That’s why I think, in my own life, I find advocating for myself quite difficult sometimes because it’s, ‘How do I communicate to this person?’ And also, I don’t like talking a ton about it – it’s that vulnerability of ‘I don’t want to tell a stranger about this.’

No, I get that. Thank you for telling me everything – it’s nice to have a safe space to talk about this stuff because it’s frightening.

But I think you touched on a good point when you said that shouldn’t stop people from wanting to give autistic film critics a job. I’m open and proud about the fact that I have autism, I put it everywhere because I think it gives me a perspective that I don’t think anyone else has. Every autistic person is different – but I know that my brain works in a completely different way and that’s always going to be an advantage to whoever wants to work with me.

I’ve had to try and explain to people my situation and how it works. And it is quite hard because neurotypical people don’t always get that and there are shared labels.

I think it’s a really tricky one but, the more we raise awareness, the more we can do to make this a bigger space

Even things like – I noticed Chloe Zhao, at industry events, wearing ear defenders. And I know that she said that she's neurodivergent – and every time I look at the photo, I’m moved by it. Because I think, ‘Oh yeah, if I’m feeling overwhelmed, I should be able to put my headphones on.’ Sometimes I just feel like I want the big, proper ear defenders.

And I’m always wearing sunglasses – and the difficulty of thinking, ‘Someone’s gonna comment!’ But every time I look at a photo of Chloe Zhao, I think ‘Yeah, it shouldn’t be a thing that people have to comment on.’ And I’m so grateful to her for being photographed with those on at really high profile industry events. It normalises it in the sense of… people don’t ask, ‘Why are you doing that?’ all the time. I think that’s a thing that’s always stopped me from accommodating for myself.

My mum works in museums and, after my diagnosis, she basically started championing accessibility within museums. So, my whole life, we’ve gone to exhibition previews and tried sensory rooms and it’s wonderful to see, in the cultural world, so many more places making the space and not making it a big deal. It’s really special.

And also, the lovely experience of being around other people who are autistic and everyone’s stimming – maybe masking or not – I think that’s a really beautiful thing. So, I think things like autism friendly screenings are a really lovely step forward.

But, I think it’s going to be a long time, unfortunately, before people don’t make a big thing or question something. It’s really hard to fully feel like yourself in public, if you’re autistic anyway. Stimming is something I never do when I’m outside the house, really.

I had a realisation at some point, last year – I got really into going to Comic Cons. And I realised it was because a lot of neurodivergent people go to them. I’ve never seen more of the sunflower lanyards, than when I’m at Comic Con. And it makes me so happy to see them. And even without that, it feels like a really safe space and I feel so much less self-conscious. Especially when I’m in cosplay and I’ve got a helmet on – Oh my God, the most comfortable! It blocks the noise, it blocks my face, so I don’t have to worry about my facial expressions. That’s why I love The Mandalorian because, I want to be him (laughs)

Sometimes I think, if we go into Mad Max ecological collapse, it’ll be really bad… but, I could wear a helmet all the time. People would think, ‘She’s so mysterious…’ No, I’m just overstimulated (laughs)

(Laughs) I think we should just start wearing helmets. I think we should patent this and do this for autistic people, it would save lives.

Going in a bit of a different direction, everyone I interview, I am asking them for three film recommendations – but the three are different each time. We’re starting in a similar place here but…

1. A film that you connect with your relationship to your autism.

Because of what we were just discussing, there’s this movie called Frank (2014), directed by Lenny Abrahamson. It’s based on a book by John Robson, loosely inspired by the time he spent touring with Frank Sidebottom – a comedian whose whole schtick was wearing a big papier-mâché head. He’s not a comedian in the movie, he’s a musician touring with an indie band. And I really relate it to my experience with autism.

Domhnall Gleeson is the main character – we see it through his point of view – and he’s somebody who really wants to be a creative genius. But, you get the impression that it doesn’t come naturally to him.

And there’s a band that’s visiting called The Soronprfbs, and he’s really enamoured by them because they seem so eccentric. And the main singer is this guy who wear a big papier-mâché on his head at all times – he will not take it off. Which I relate to heavily (laughs). Watching it, he feels very autistic-coded to me – the head is very comforting to him, he repeats things, when he gets nervous he stims.

There’s a point where it describes a lot of my relationships with people, where I’ve had issues with the ‘It’s the exciting, eccentric part of autism, where I’m really imaginative and say weird shit all the time, haha!’ And then they get exposed to the real stuff and the real struggles and the stuff that is not pleasant to be around so much.

I think that, while the character is never explicitly described as autistic, they talk about it more in terms of depression in the movie. I think a lot of autistic people have depression. But, I think I’m very much able to read into that film that he is autistic and has become depressed out of it, and that’s why he always wants to be in the head.

It’s very funny but I find that element of it really moving and it always makes me want to cry. That would be my answer, because I really relate to Frank a lot.

2. A film that you can only watch once, but it’s an incredibly experience when you do watch it.

It had such an effect on me when I watched it the first time – Mother! (2017). In terms of expressing a panic attack on film – and now that I’m thinking about it, I think I was having a panic attack during the movie. I don’t know if I can go back to that soon, it really stressed me out (laughs)

The stuff I don’t return to – either the subject matter is so overwhelmingly upsetting that it’s too hard for me to return to again and the other might be sensory-wise.

I know we’re not meant to be watching films on a little screen but for Mother!… little screen.

3. A film that gets your heart racing

My brain immediately went to more romance, than adventure. One that was quite pivotal is the French New-Wave film Jules et Jim (1962), about a ménage à trois (laughs). These two guys are friends and they meet the most beautiful woman in the world – and she’s absolutely enchanting, very depressed. And they enter this very weird threesome relationship.

I think it gets my heart racing because I was thinking about this in relation to Withering Heights yesterday, about romance. Because there’s a real big distinction between movies that are what I would like to feel – but then there’s movies that I think are really romantic because they describe the reality of what it feels like to feel those emotions. I would say Withering Heights – I haven’t seen the movie yet – but the book, I don’t want that situation, but it expresses how it feels. I think it’s very similar to Jules et Jim in that way – I think it’s such an expression of how love can drive you absolutely mad and can feel almost like a disease.

And I have another one – Age of Innocence (1993), directed by Martin Scorsese. Maybe my favourite book ever written, but I think it’s a perfect adaptation. Obsessed with the fact that Martin Scorsese always calls it his most violent film. Because he’s so right (laughs).

I always think of the scene with Daniel Day-Lewis, where he collapses to his knees, gripping to Michelle Pfeiffer’s skirts and sobbing. That gets my heart racing, that is so romantic to me.

A man crying just gets the heart racing (laughs)

3. And my final question – how are you feeling when you look ahead to the rest of the year in film?

Just existing now, everything is surrounded by a cloud of dread. But, I think 2025 was a brilliant year for movies. Because, whatever happens industry-wise, world-wise, what’s beautiful is you can’t silence artists – and artists will always find a way together stories out there. There will never be a lack of creativity and ingenuity. I’m thinking of Sinners (2025) and One Battle After Another (2025) – those directors took those opportunities, those budgets, and put it out there. And, whether or not people like those movies, that is an artist’s vision on a huge budget and that’s great (laughs)

I don’t know if we really have it in 2026 that much. I was looking at the release schedule and going, ‘Gosh, that’s a lot of sequels.’ A lot of the big movies, I was looking at and realising it’s very franchise-y. But then I think, that’s what it always what it feels like at the beginning of the year. I’m excited for the stuff I haven’t heard about yet.

I’m very excited for Mother Mary, the David Lowery film. I’m also excited for Werwulf, just because it’s called the Werwulf – I’m in, Robert Eggers. And we’ll see stuff come out at the festivals that will be great. I’m excited for the things that are gonna come out of nowhere and ruin my life (laughs).

BellaWatchesFilms

Like the title of this post, there are so many things in our lives that can soothe, save and scuffle with our nervous systems. Breathing, bathing, singing, sleeping, eating, crying, running, fighting, shouting. Countless daily activities, impacting that wiry framework with splatters of colour or vinegar.

A lot has happened recently that has required me to tend to my nervous system. Over the last month or so, we have had two family members go to A&E (both of whom are recovering now). And like I always seem to do when times turn tough, I returned to the warm bed of my cinema room for some normality. Whilst upheaval and change is hard for anyone, it is staggeringly complex for an autistic person. It drives me to seek solace, somewhere dark and quiet, where touch feels soft and my body isn’t contorted by expectation.

And, during this particularly unpredictable period, I spent December and January nestled away under a navy blanket, bathing in filmic light and sound. Here are the three films I found to have soothed, saved and scuffled with me:

1. ‘HIM’ (2025), directed by Justin Tipping – Soothed.

   

I feel like I can hear the skepticism for this one already. Let me explain this before I lose all credibility as a film critic.

Christmas had just passed as Christmas always does – quickly and lovingly. This Christmas was particularly hard, as it had been bookmarked by appointments and absences at the dinner table. Usually, I need a few days after Christmas to recover from its wreath-covered extravagance. But, this was not to be in 2025. As somehow, after planning a full month in advance, I had organised for most of my gang to come to my house for game night.

I should preface this by saying that ‘most of my gang’ meant about 10 people. A mish-mash of friends, all poured into my cinema room on a cold December night. And after a spirited round of games, we settled with boxes of pizza to watch HIM. I had accidentally gotten myself into a tricky spot after campaigning for a horror film – somehow neglecting the fact that most horror films send me into midnight catatonia. But, knowing that HIM was somewhat poorly received, I figured I could stomach a silly romp through the bloody rituals of sport.

The film itself was an imperfect vision of a gore-soaked metaphor. Muscles heaved, men were pushed to the brink, working with only sweat and uppers. It turned weird, which some found hilarious, and others absolutely baffling. The ludicrous nature of what we were all watching seemed to wrap around us, feeling foreign and hazy. At points, the film delved outside of time, outside of reason, with transitions blurring the days and nights of our forsaken main character. But somehow, this was identical to how I was feeling right there and then.

It was about halfway through the film when it hit me. All of that struggle that had unfolded so harshly over Christmas was melting away. It was seeping from my mind, leaving its stain pooled in a past memory, a different life. Nothing existed outside of this room, where friends gathered on floor, sofa and beanbag, so bunched up we were sitting on laps, heart to heart. Sitting on my boyfriend’s lap, I munched on my pizza slice and felt myself getting drunk on the warmth of shared laughter. It spread from the roof, to the darkness of my bedroom where so many frightened nights had been spent. It drifted and cleared. Protected and vowed.

So, as silly as it sounds to say, HIM soothed me in a way a horror film shouldn’t, couldn’t! It reminded me of a simple fact – enduring hard times is always worth it because moments like these are on the other side. Sharing art with the people you care about, no matter how bad or ludicrous or insane it may be, is probably one of the best things you can do. After weeks of holding a nervous system that slunk low inside my flesh, I felt it pinging and panging with ripples of relief, of love, of joy.

2. ‘I Swear’ (2025), directed by Kirk Jones – Saved

   

I feel like I knew what I was getting into when I started this one. The only thing I really knew about this was the bare bones of the plot – and that it had made my mum cry at the cinema, when she saw it.

I watched this about 5 days ago. Things had begun to calm down at this point – and after weeks of grinding through a growing pile of work – I wanted to return to a film once more. I don’t think I intended to pick out one that would affect me greatly in any way. At this point, I could feel a great sadness brewing inside of me, a byproduct of hormones, tiredness and the let-down effect of a lot of worry; but now wasn’t the right time to let that out. Or so I thought.

Initially, I was going to watch ‘The Mist’ (2007), in preparation for a podcast appearance later this year. Something unsentimental, a thriller of supernatural, terrifying proportions; something to get the blood pumping, to replace the melancholia with exhilaration. But, I found my fingers guiding the controller towards I Swear without conscious thought. It was as if my shivering nervous system knew what was best for me, knew what I really wanted. This wasn’t burying my sadness with monsters and aliens and guns and fear. It was confronting it with parallels, to enact the highest form of emotional resurrection – letting the tears fall.

Retelling the real-life story of Tourette’s advocate John Davidson, I Swear is unflinching in its depiction of the disability. It commits to showing you every facet of John’s life – the unstable home life, the fear of not knowing what’s wrong, the intensity of John’s tics, both physical and verbal. The film is two-sided, with two contrasting shades on each half of its face. At parts, it’s a celebration of the willingness to accept. It’s golden, filled with piping hot meals, kindling friendship. And, on the other side, it’s a depiction of how hard life with a disability can be. It’s as blue as John’s tracksuit, with a bullied and bruised tone.

Oh, how the tears fell. It didn’t take long but, within the first twenty minutes, the cry count was at around an eight. At first, they fell as beaded drops of sadness; John’s childhood memories reminded me of some of my own. But, these dark clouds framing my cheeks soon parted, making way for something fresher – happy tears. Tears that fell like golden particles of sunlight, seeping into my system to make it glow. Watching John come to terms with himself, to begin to educate the world around him, to help children find out who they really are – it reminded me to be proud of who I was. To be proud of something as silly as these tears. Of the fact that I stim. Of every single particle of my autism. Because for all of my experiences, good and bad, living with an invisible disability – I’m still me.

I Swear saved my nervous system in two ways. One, it gave me the ultimate saving grace it needed – the shuddering relief of tears. Granted, I was crying about an entirely different subject. But sometimes a film doesn’t care about that – it just wants you to let go. And two, it reminded me to remember who I am, what I have overcome. Perhaps I didn’t expect to identify so much with John’s story. Perhaps it was an inevitable wash of empathy. Or perhaps I was simply letting myself feel everything I had tried to put off. But it gave me the framing to set the most wonderful release of feeling in motion.

3. ‘Sentimental Value’ (2025), directed by Joachim Trier – Scuffled

   

This was one I watched three days ago, following the release of the Oscar nominations. I had been meaning to for a while, but this was the push I needed.

I think part of me was subconsciously brought to this film, because of everything that had recently happened to me. Family has very much been on my brain every day, in both good and bad ways. Maybe I knew that I needed to connect with that more. That my nervous system was longing to see family presented on the big screen, daubed with violet and periwinkle lights, and the melting sound of a piano score. What I didn’t expect, however, was how this picture would grapple with me.

Trier’s film deals in the mixed emotions of family life; sometimes murky, sometimes crystal clear, he explores the spoken and the unspoken. We follow the Borg family unit, through childhood and into the complexities of later life. Two sisters, Nora and Agnes, struggle to reconnect with their father Gustav, as he arrives after their mother’s funeral. It’s a snow-globe of elements – a sprinkling of incoherent childhood memories, a dash of bleak grudges, a smattering of compounded emotions. The intermixing of family traits leads to uncomfortable parallels, clashing perspectives and a rejection of what was once so dear. It discusses what it is like to feel estranged – yet desperate at the same time, as your DNA hankers for connection.

Sentimental Value reminded me of the dangers of withholding emotion – and a sharp remembrance of the past. If you take a look at your wrist right now, what do you see? I see veins, containing waves of bloodlines and heritage and history. The rich fluid that courses through you, has coursed through countless great-great-great grand-relatives, be it shop-owners or mayors, railway workers or travellers. Would they want you to withhold everything from those you love? Or would they want you to look fondly back on your past, to embrace everything you have around you?

The film opens with the narrator, talking about how Nora felt about her childhood home. “She remembered wondering if the house preferred to be light and empty or full and heavy.” After finishing the film, I enter my own home, which I have lived in for 20 years of my life. I watch the sunlight spill out across the kitchen floor, keep a watchful eye on the white walls, traced the plaster of the door frame. I then enter my brother’s room, which my sister and I used to share, to look at the door of his game’s cupboard. The side is marked with my and my sibling’s heights, matched with accompanying dates. I look down to see 3 year-old Bella, who would barely reach my hip. I imagine what it would be like to have her standing in front of me. What it would be like to reach out and hold her.

Sentimental Value scuffled with me because it confronted me with uncomfortable realities. It reminded me that no good comes of trying to squash my feelings down into paste – when sometimes, they’re made to be heard. It reminded me that family is the most important thing in my life – a scary thought when two members had recently been in hospital. I often look to films to help me understand how I’m feeling, because that often doesn’t make sense to me. But as challenging as it was to react to Sentimental Value, it allowed me to feel nostalgia. To feel love. To feel the fear that had come over the last few months. And to feel all of these things understood by someone, even if that someone was just a film.

So, I guess it’s true that films can soothe, save and scuffle with us, all in one go. That is the power of cinematic language; it can wrap itself around the words we say, incite rebellion or resolution with a mere lift of the camera. I wanted to share these examples with you, to remind you that your nervous system is very much an active part of you – and one that we forget all too often. I’m not saying films will work for everyone in the way they do for me. But, maybe every once in a while, it wouldn’t hurt to put on a film and give yourself a listening ear.

Happy new year,

BellaWatchesFilms

1. A Catch-Up

I have watched so many films I have wanted to tell you about. I think back to the previous incarnation of BellaWatchesFilms, who sat at this very desk, writing about her journeys through cities, mountains, galaxies. Through timeless romances, devastating murders and (on one very odd occasion), through jungle adventures with Brendan Fraser and his comedic stylings. But, reader, this year I have watched films that have done wondrous things for me.

In an attempt to speed up my cinematic education, I have consumed the slow-roasted feasts of cinema’s greatest and most flavoursome classics.

Through slashers, I have discovered Myers, Voorhees, Krueger – those ghost-like figures who knife through our cinema screens as if they were paper. Sleepy domestic settings awoken by the contorted nighttime shadows of the imagination… or are they your imagination? And incredibly, I have discovered that these types of horror films don’t scare me. I’m very grateful for their considerable lack of demons, exorcisms and general maligned spirits. Although walking back from my cinema room in the garden at night after The Texas Chain Saw Massacre did unnerve me. I am telling you, that bush moved!

More magically still, I have found a new cinematic love in the form of Guillermo Del Toro. I cannot tell you how much of a delight it has been, to find adoration in a director so profound, so meticulous and so creative. He possesses the power to shatter the line between our realm and fantasy; its as if his films have painted themselves across the cinema walls, as if you have left your earthly threshold and crossed into the pages of your favourite storybook. Outside of time, of boundary, of difficulty, Del Toro transports you to steampunk realms of Gothic realism, where religion and authority are dwarfed by nature and the unknown. I have danced with Pan, swam with fish creatures, met ghosts whose names I’ve only heard whispers of, attempted to reconciled with creation. I owe a debt to Del Toro this year – he has once again reminded me that our differences are what make us most important. Not fear-worthy; important. We must remember such a statement.

I have also donned sunglasses, threw the car’s hood down and taken a trip through the sunny yolk-dripping planes of Tarantino’s mind. Django Unchained offered coolness, offered slick, fever-infusing pandemonium and victory. Inglourious Basterds offered satisfying revenge, a concerto of bloodied stories rising up to harmonise as one. It is impossible to watch his films and not feel a sudden urge to become as nonchalant as possible, ride out to arid Albuquerque and throw on some classic rock tunes. I have to say, maybe the film bros were right about this one. Tarantino’s efforts are effortless (if pretentious… justice for Paul Dano), streaked with the mementos of his most prized movie references.

But it was Andy Dufresne and Mozart, the most unlikely pairing, that stuck with me as teachers, mentors educating me on the voracity of the human spirit. The Shawshank Redemption reminded me that, even in the prisons of our lives there is freedom, there is choice. Music, friendship, culture – all of it, blazing, roaring kindling for the soul. And Amadeus only made it its mission to confirm this. A symphony of frou-frou powdered wigs, powered egos and multitudes of notes; a concerto of the human experience. This film is laced with vibrant energy, a rampaging, never-stopping ball of passion. It reminds us to chase those operas written within the chest, to reach in and to play them out and make something marvellous. Mozart works himself to insane levels, yearning, pursuing, dreaming. But most importantly, creating. I would be lying if I didn’t resonate with his ever-present urge to top his last feature.

All of these films exist within me now. Like the core memories we return to in times of crisis, they make me strong. They make me passionate. And, in some recent cases, they make me feel strange things. They make me want to stop strangers on the street, to say to them ‘I just watched The Shawshank Redemption and it changed my life!’ They make me cry, with the joys of a woman who found her calling at 19 and is blissfully, inexorably, ineffably in love with the movies. And the way they make her heart sing, and bleed, and laugh. Or maybe it was just my period, who knows.

2. A Reverie:

I have recently been meditating on the Guillermo Del Toro’s latest release, Frankenstein. After watching it twice, I was lucky enough to hear Del Toro speak last Sunday at the British Library, with rising star Jacob Elordi. It is impossible not to be moved when Del Toro speaks; his language drips of experience, of religion, of love, of a life lived by a man who has learnt many lessons. He is so at ease with who he is, what he has experienced, the forces he has reckoned with that lay inside of himself. As any good art and its master should do, I felt as if everything he said was meant solely for me. Everything in the warm comforts of my living room melted away; all I could hear and feel was the parable and scripture etched within his words. Like those who practice their faith, I keep his words close to me like a protective psalm.

When discussing the final scene in the film, Del Toro talks about one of the darkest times in his life – his father’s kidnapping in Mexico. He states that the thing he hated most during that moment was the sun, that no matter how cantankerous his misery was, the sun would continue to rise. He would question its unrelenting burn, question how it would dare to show its face to the world when he could barely show his. But, still it must rise. And, still misery must gnaw on. Yet, he still lived in spite of this.

I’m going to be honest with you, reader: I have had a hard few months. And, somehow that image of The Creature – beholden to the flat, icy plains of his tumbling future, staring up at our Creator, the sun – has refused to leave my mind. There have been times, like Del Toro, where I want to curse the sun, puncture it like some daft balloon until I’m plunged into the release of night. Why should something so joyous keep showing up when nothing feels right? Give up, I want to tell it, shine your light on someone else who wants to feel it. There is nothing for you to illuminate within me. But, I have learnt that there is something to illuminate within me.

Just like it has always done, since the first time I wrote to you from this very desk, passion has stirred me here. Passion for those films I have watched – for the oceans I have seen, prisons I have escaped from, melodies I have conducted. Passion for my words – I cannot move on without every word hitting its stride. I want them to move within you as they move within me, exciting, writhing balls of kinetic emotion. Passion for my reader – who has remained by my side for this journey of discovery, of understanding. I wake up now and I see the sun. I see it raise its hand of promise, of perseverance. And I raise it every fibre of passion within me, for each strand to be set alight once more. To put it simply, dawn is our invitation to show up. To walk that next mile. It is down to you to accept it.

An ending

This year, much like a film, is coming to a close. And, once you finish a film, you are changed. You are reborn with its principles, its closing message of warning or contentment or motivation. And, it is where you, the viewer, are presented with a choice. When you finish that film, you will walk free, you will walk tall to the nearest mirror. You will look at your face, its wisdom, its forbearers, its current lines and contours. And, when you stare at yourself, bathing in the film’s after-glow, you will ask – who should I be now?

Like Django, will you become a rebel? Will you break your chains, right their wrongs and take justice for your own? Like Mozart, will you become a devotee? Will you hone your craft, dedicate yourself to divine, aching creation? Or, like The Creature, will you become a forgiver? Will you cleanse yourself of self-hated, hated of maker, to birth yourself anew?

So, as this year reaches its denouement, its resounding third act, look in the mirror. What avatar will you take? What mask will you don? What parts will you pepper within yourself? Who are you going to be? I know my answer. Maybe it’s time you found yours.

Thank you once again, my reader, for returning to this space and to grant me your listening ear. My journey up through the ranks of the film journalism world is steep and winding – but momentum is gathering in ways 19 year old me wouldn’t have believed possible. If you would like to read my work work, you can indulge yourself by reading my portfolio. But, I am forever grateful that I have this space just to be me. To be a girl, with a laptop and a toppling tower of words, and replicate my passion in words as best as I can, for you.

On my whiteboard in front of me, I have written the mantra: ‘Another story must begin” Lifted from the lofty heights of Les Misérables, I repeat it into my mind as December begins to drain away. What story do I want to begin in 2026? What story do you want to begin?

Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year,

BellaWatchesFilms

I have been a fan of the Empire podcast for just under a year; I never miss a week of bantering, trivia and captivating reviews. And, after researching Helen to find out just how intriguing her journey into journalism was, I knew I had to speak with her.

I have had the recent pleasure of interviewing many inspirational women over the last few weeks – and Helen O’Hara tops my list. Helen is outspoken, passionate, interesting – everything I aspire to be as a film critic. And, just as she talks about her female role models when she began at Empire, I can certainly say she is one of mine. You can read our full conversation below:

I wanted to start out with the beginning of your career. I was really intrigued to see that you started out doing a law degree at Oxford and then, when you qualified to be a barrister, you didn’t really feel like you gelled with that career – and then you became an intern at Empire.

I was wondering what inspired that move?

I was kind of always a film fan. I’d kind of gone through the phase in my teens of making an effort to see the big films, to watch the canon and to educate myself a bit on film, because I was already reading Empire and other magazines in those days – mostly Empire. And I wanted to understand the picture and the way things worked. So, I had that in me and I loved the idea of being a film journalist – but it didn’t seem realistic. I mean, I’m from Northern Ireland, it’s not exactly like there’s a big journalism industry there. There’s a bit – my aunt was actually a journalist at the BBC but in proper news, not like films and stuff.

I was also just quite a sensible teenager (I’m much less sensible now). But, I was thinking ‘I want to have enough money, I want to have a nice life,’ so I was going for law. I like bits of law, I like the arguing about ideas, I like trying to figure out the best way through things – I like all of that. But, sitting with a giant pile of documents every day for the rest of your life was not fun. And, the way that you have to argue in a very specific, very mannered format – I find incredibly boring and frustrating. And I kept sticking with it because my friends kept telling me “It gets better, it’s really good, you’ll really enjoy when you do your bar qualification course, when you come and do pupilage’ and I still hated it, but I was trying to be sensible.

So, long story short, after I finished pupilage and I didn’t get taken on (thank god!), an internship came up at Empire and I was like, ‘I have to give it a go. This is the time in my life where I could potentially give it a go and they probably won’t take me and it will be fair enough. But I have to give it a try.’ And luckily, I think they genuinely lost my CV and that might not have hurt me. But I knew the stuff that mattered to them because I’d been reading the magazine obsessively, I’d been reading the website obsessively since that had been set up. I knew the Empire style. So I think that’s what got me the job.

And there’s huge privilege in that because I didn’t have the kind of student fees that your generation has and I was very lucky in that way. Mum and dad had helped me out with living costs in University – so I had some debt but I didn’t have anything crazy. I worked my way through, I wasn’t rich, but I was much better off than a lot of people nowadays. So I know that’s not necessarily something that applies to everyone.

And what did you learn from your law degree which you then applied to journalism?

I think it is that idea of arguing. Friends would say, ‘yes Helen, we know.’ But, I do think a review – at the end of the day, you are trying to convince someone that your opinion is worth listening to. So, your review is actually making an argument: ‘This film is good or bad or indifferent and here is why. Let me present my case for why this film is good, bad or indifferent.’ So, you are laying out the facts and making a case for your opinion being… if not right, at least worth listening to. That’s the big crossover.

That makes a lot of sense. I really admire that you took a kind of unconventional route because that’s similar to what I’ve done.

I also just wanted you to tell me a bit about your journey at Empire because it’s such a big journey.

It’s a long list of things. Journey-wise, I was very lucky to start on the website at a time when we had a website staff. I was there, as some variety of intern, for 22 months. But also, the editor at that time was Catherine Thurtle, there was James Dyer (who's still there) as her deputy and Amar who designed and built the site. So, there were four of us to begin with – that team expanded a bit. At one point, Chris Hewitt came over to the website, we had Phil De Semlyn whose now at Time Out, we had Ali Plum, he’s now at Radio One – we had a fairly big staff at some points during the time.

I worked on the website for those first couple of years, then I was on primarily the magazine for a couple of years. And then I went back to the website for the last 6, 7 years – I was on staff at Empire. So, I worked across both which was really good because there are different priorities between print and online. Online is more about speed and immediacy and getting the story up quick.

I personally, and this was my own benchmark that I set myself (nobody was checking on me!), I personally like to have the list of BAFTA and Oscar nominations up before the BBC did. And, obviously it’s not a fair race because they have way more levels of fact checking than I did. But, if I could type fast enough, I could get a pretty good list up before they did.

But, working across both was really helpful because I got much more of a sense of the slightly different voices – the same overall brand because it’s Empire – but there was a slight difference when you’re writing for something for posterity in the magazine versus a blog for online, you can be a bit more personal, a bit more discursive. So it was a good training, in that sense.

I learned a lot, just from the people I worked with. You know, the level of casual film knowledge that someone like Chris Hewitt or Ian Freer has, is off the charts. They can name you the third guy in the background of that 1980s action movie and tell you three other movies he was in. That really made me raise my game.

What did you learn that could help other aspiring film critics?

My big thing coming from law – and I think this is true of many people coming from academia – is that I was used to very long sentences. Lawyers write super long sentences, right? And I had to start chopping those up. You can, of course, have long sentences but they should not all be long sentences, there should be short ones and some mediums ones – you should mix it up. It’s one of those things that gives your writing pace and rhythm. That kind of thing was a big learning curve.

And, then just learning not to write academically, to write for a general audience, to figure out what knowledge you can assume and what knowledge you shouldn’t assume. So, you might assume an Empire reader knows who Christopher Nolan is, I don’t necessarily have to list all of his films. But if I’m writing about Jan Švankmajer, then it might be helpful to list a couple of films or say a couple of words about what kind of director he is. So you’re always trying to calibrate what you write for the audience – not in the sense of changing your opinions or being dishonest – but in the sense of figuring out what information people need to understand what you’re trying to say.

But also, being edited is really helpful, actually. It will make you a better writer in the long term, even if it’s really painful in the short-term.

It really can be, especially since editors have different editing styles. Sometimes you get a full page of feedback and it can be quite scary.

You’ve spoken about your experience, starting out at Empire, being one of their only full-time, female film critics. And, I know you’ve spoken about how women film critics get more flack than men for being vocal – I was wondering what advice you would give to young women who are starting out in this industry, because its not an easy thing to start out into.

No, it’s not. I was quite lucky that when I started out, Catherine was still editing the website. Because, that gave me a model of how it worked and how it behaved. And also, Empire had had a female editor briefly, which again, was a model for me of ‘okay, this can be done.’ So, I’m not saying that I was a pioneer or anything – but, for most of the time I was there, I was the only one on staff. It is beginning to change – Empire is very much looking out for women nowadays. You know, Sophie Butcher and Beth Webb, who have been there recently, are fantastic writers and fantastic opinion havers! They really make their voices heard and it’s super good to see.

In terms of the feedback and stuff online, I think you have to know it’s going to come. It will come for everyone, it’s not just women, but it is particularly women and even more so, women of colour and so on. But you also have to just ignore them, to a degree.

I’ve always found that advice quite unhelpful because, for a long time on the internet, I have argued back with people and I have had some success doing that. You can do that; there are people who you can argue back with and you can point out the problems in what they’ve said. And some people, to be fair to them, may have said something… frankly, dickish or rude to begin with, and then actually, when you call them out on it, go ‘oh yes, well I didn’t express that very well, I see your point.’ And if you think that’s what happened, sometimes it can be good to push back.

You don’t, however, want to get into a circular argument with a bunch of bots or trolls, because that’s just a waste of everyone’s time. It can be fun sometimes… (laughs). I spent a weekend arguing about Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016), trying to use just two GIFs, and it worked really, really well. So, I’m not saying don’t argue back ever, but it can be good for the soul sometimes, just to argue back a little bit. But, probably better to block and move on is better advice, in most cases.

I do think there’s a limit of how outraged you can be. If your job is criticising other people and critiquing other people – you have to be okay with being critiqued yourself. And that goes for working with an editor, but that also goes with people from the public telling you that you’re wrong.

I think picking your battles is such a hard thing. I remember when I started out, you’d always get some man saying something. I remember making a video and some guy was just like, ‘I don’t think you’re a very good film critic.’ And I was just like, ‘That’s your opinion, moving on!’

I also think speaking about feminism in films can be really hard. People don’t like that. I think people speaking about how women are shown in film can be so divisive. A lot of people have a lot of criticism for how Christopher Nolan has written his female characters. And, if you bring that up, men are like, ‘No! Don’t want to hear it!’ There is validity in some things that are argued about, definitely.

Yeah, 100%. Look, I like Christopher Nolan, I like his films. But I also think it’s absolutely legitimate and, to be honest, quite necessary, to say ‘Hey, but, his women, as a rule, suck!’ And even the women he has slaved over and sees as the protagonist of the film, like Anne Hathaway in Interstellar (2014) also suck, and if anything, suck worse. I feel like that’s okay to say.

Definitely.

I was wondering if you could talk about your favourite part of being a film journalist?

I mean, it’s the films really.

I think that’s the right answer for everyone!

(Laughs) That sounds really facile but it is the films. I love going to the cinema and watching films. And I will admit, that there is not the spring in my step, as I go to see Sonic the Hedgehog 4 (although it is my nephew’s favourite series of films) as I do for the latest Spielberg, the latest Scorsese, Barbie (2023), Avenger’s Endgame (2019). But, as a general rule, it is watching the films – that is the most joyful thing.

I do really sometimes enjoy interviewing the people I love, I think that’s wonderful. Sometimes it’s such a privilege, it’s so great to be able to do. But obviously there’s a little bit more stress there because, when you are going to do an interview, you don’t want to embarrass yourself, you may have something you need them to talk about for the feature you’re going to write, you may have something you need answers on. So there is just a little bit more stress involved, a little more preparation and things like that.

But, just watching films is a joy, I mean, my god it’s great!

It’s funny because, I started listening to the Empire podcast in February of this year and I’m always so baffled that you can say something like ‘And, this week, I interviewed Steven Spielberg!’ I’m always thinking, ‘How can you do something with such a calmness?’

It’s a really weird thing and it changes over time. If we see minor celebrities walking past the street in Soho, we’ll be much more starstruck than when we go into a room where we know that an A-lister is waiting. There is an element of, you are physically and mentally prepared for it, to a degree and, therefore it feels like a less big deal. Having said that, sometimes you think you’re prepared and then you walk into the room and you lose your mind – now, than can happen.

The one where that very much happened to me was walking into the room for the first time with Keanu Reeves. And it was literally a 5 minute video spot, so these are not the satisfying interviews for either journalist or subject, right? Because you can’t really get into anything. It was for a film that was okay – it was The Day The Earth Stood Still remake (2008). So, I was not, super excited. I was like, ‘Oh, it is nice that I’m finally talking to Keanu, this is cool!’ And then I walked into the room and my mind went mad. I was like, ‘Holy shit! Holy shit, that is Ted. Oh my god that is Johnny Utah, that is Neo.’ I kept it together (I think) on the outside but inside, I was fully losing my mind. So, it can surprise you that way, you can feel like you’re prepared and then just totally not be.

Some of them are wildly charismatic and when you meet that kind of charisma, it can knock you over and can really throw you off your beat. I’ve never been a Robert Pattinson stan, I didn’t fancy him, I was not the age to fancy Cedric Diggory – but, when I went in to interview him for the Twilight movies, I’m like, ‘Oh my god, he’s very handsome.’ And not even in the sense of, ‘I fancy him!’ but it is distracting looking at him.

So, there’s things like that as well. You’re just not always necessarily prepared for these people and some of them genuinely do have an ‘it,’ a star quality, and it is quite a lot to negotiate. But, not in a bad way, it can be cool. And some of them are just delightful human beings who are a pleasure to talk to. But, it can be pretty intense sometimes.

Do you have a standout memory, alongside Keanu Reeves, of a person you’ve interviewed?

Talking to Robert Duvall – it was one of his more recent movies but I’m sitting there going, ‘you’re in To Kill A Mockingbird (1962),’ this is like, six degrees of separation away from Gregory Peck! But again, he was just a lovely man and he was being very charming and everything but I was like, ‘This is Robert Duval! This is more than half a century of film history that I am talking to.’

On one occasion, way earlier in my career, it was just a stand-up interview at the Empire awards (which is something we used to have) I did three, four minutes with Tony Curtis. And, I’m like ‘You worked with Marilyn Monroe, you worked with Jack Lemmon, are you kidding me?’ It just doesn’t stop. So, that kind of thing was really, really amazing. Jane Fonda as well, I was like ‘Holy shit, I’m in the room with Jane Fonda.’

Again, I just don’t know how you do that, it blows my mind every time I listen to the podcast.

When I was researching you, I found out you interviewed Kermit the Frog! Even that would throw me so much.

They came in and the people – let’s call them Kermit’s helper and Pepé the Prawn’s helper – said ‘Do you actually need to see them, because this is audio?’ and me and James looked stricken. We really wanted to meet them. And then they took videos and did the whole thing in character – and you do find yourself talking to Kermit, and not the man behind it.

That is amazing (laughs)

More into that side of your career – I’ve seen that you’ve visited a lot of film sets. Which one were you most blown away by?

Just for sheer scale and dazzle, I’ve been very very lucky – I’ve been on the set of Harry Potters which are mega; I was in the Room of Requirement while it was burning. I was on the set of Dune (2021) and I spent a full hour just in the props department, just Crysknives and the Pain Box – I could just live there, it was incredible. And the sets were the size of football fields, they were unbelievable.

Some of the Marvel sets – I was on set of Captain America: Civil War (2016), Captain America: The First Avenger (2011), The Guardians of The Galaxy (2014) and Black Widow (2021). Those were all just great sets, they’ve got scale, the dazzle.

I was on the set of a not-terribly talked about film called 30 Days of Night (2007) which involved flying to New Zealand. And they had vampires on fire, jumping out of a burning building into fake snow and I’m like, ‘This is what a set is supposed to be! Vampires, fire, fake snow – yes! (laughs)’ So, that kind of stuff was really special.

I wanted to ask you about a book you wrote in the past – Women Vs Hollywood: The Fall And Rise of Women In Film – and I was wondering what you’ve been struck most by, in terms of how women’s role within the film industry have changed.

I kind of knew the outline before I started the book; I had to pitch the book before I started the research and some of the numbers were still pretty horrifying. Knowing how many female writers and directors and producers there were in the early silent era, before the studio system came in and build up, and how thoroughly they were pushed out was quite astonishing.

Obviously, I knew that the situation nowadays – it’s like, under 10% of directors most years of the big films are women – I knew it was going to be low numbers. But, it was literally like well-under 0.1% of directors for most of the studio era. I thought there were a couple who were still managing to make films – but it was a couple across a forty-year period. It was so, so, bad. And putting some of those numbers together was quite sobering.The fact that 50% of scenario writers, again in the silent era, were women and were not anywhere close to that now – and that’s writing. That is that something that anybody can do with a typewriter, it should not be gendered.

Camera departments always argued that the reason there are fewer female cinematographers (and they’re around 4-6%) is because, in your early days in the camera departments, you’re doing a lot of heavy lifting and only manly men can do that. Even though manly men shouldn’t maybe be doing that because they’re putting their knees out and their backs out, and they should be lifting with other people. So women would be totally fine to do that. But, there’s an argument that at least has been made and it’s becoming less and less relevant with lighter cameras – but it exists, it’s an argument, I can respect that there’s something there to be dealt with and to be addressed.

But then you look at something like animation and you literally have Walt Disney arguing that women can’t animate because they don’t have the right sense of rhythm. And like, that’s clearly ridiculous, isn’t it? So, it begins to look like sexism across the board and I think that’s the stuff that really stuck with me.

Also some of the numbers – again, I had a sense of the pay gap in Hollywood already, just from being a person in the world and writing about film. But, the level of difference between the top male and top female stars is startling today, never mind thirty, forty years ago.

I think it is shocking. There are some ways we are seeing a move towards a better direction – like, I even think about something like intimacy co-ordinators. That’s good for both men and women but if you think of Emilia Clarke’s experience on Game of Thrones when she started out, and then you look at now when you have this option available. There are a lot of ways in which things have improved but there’s definitely still a long way to go – especially in terms of the pay gap.

On a more specific film question, because I know you love the classics – if you were stuck in the world of a black and white classic for a day, which one would you pick?

It would be His Girl Friday (1940) just because Hildy Johnson is such an incredible character, especially for those of us who want to be journalists, right? I mean, she’s a proper hard news journalist – she’s not writing about films, but she is just the absolute epitome of cool, lady journalist, it is such a great role. She is so funny, she is so sharp, she’s bantering with Cary Grant. She improvised a bunch of lines with her brother to sharpen up and extend her lines in the script and then would come in every day and just throw them at the director. And the pace of the talking and thinking in that movie is so much faster than virtually anything else.

So, I would pick that. Not even to steal Cary Grant for myself – literally just to hang out and watch him and Rosalind Russell’s Hildy Johnson work together because they’re incredible.

And then, another specific film question – I need three film recommendations.

1. In the F1 movie (2025), Brad Pitt describes a moment where he feels like he’s in a flow state, and the car is an extension of his body and he feels like he’s outside of time. Which film has a moment that feels like that for you?

That's a good question. I just watched ET (1982) with my small niece and nephew and the bit when the bike takes off and the John Williams score comes up – you just feel like you’re in good hands with Steven Spielberg and John Williams. You know everything is going to be amazing, right? And you can just sort of relax into the film and not think about anything.

2. The perfect film that you would want to watch with a cup of tea on a cold day

One of my go-to’s is Captain America: The First Avenger (laughs). Not a cool answer perhaps but it’s so classic Hollywood while also being Marvel-y and up-to-date. But I just feel like it has the heart and the sincerity. And again, just the classic way it's made of the movies I remember from the 80s but also the movies that I’ve gone back and watched from the 40s and 50s – it just feels very of its time and I love that character at its best, I think that character is tip top.

A film that will change someone’s perspective on what a film is

I guess it’s ones that play with the format a little bit – I’m not into deeply experimental films really, I’ll watch them and sometimes appreciate them.

I remember once I was at the Zurich Film Festival a few years ago, and I saw a film that is literally composed only of 360 degree shots (Walden 2018) – like, as in the camera rotates very slowly – of first a forest, then a tree being cut down, and then that tree being carried on a truck and then that truck travelling across Europe, and then that tree being packed onto a ship and then that ship going to, weirdly South America and Brazil and, Amazonia and being used to build things there. And it’s so bare bones and meditative and experimental that I thought was really, weirdly fascinating.

But also, depending on where people are starting from, a Terrence Malick might be the one to expand their minds and show you the benefitting of sitting in silence with grass (laughs). By which I mean the plants, not the drug… but literally just sitting in a field watching the grass blow. The Thin Red Line (1998), the first time I saw that just completely blew my mind – that was my first Terrence Malick and I just found it so meditative and beautiful and moving.

Another one that comes to mind now, and maybe this is a better answer, is Patterson (2016). I went to see that with my sister and just before it started, I leaned over and go ‘Look, just FYI because I don’t think you’ve seen any of his films before, this is a Jim Jarmusch so nothing’s going to happen but, it’s going to not happen in a really interesting way.’ And we got to the end of the film and she was like, ‘Oh yeah, you were right, I see now.’ So, nothing happens in that film – it’s a guy who has a completely normal routine that he does over and over again through the film, and his normal routine could not be more normal. And there’s a tiny bit of what you might charitably call drama at the end, but it’s not that dramatic. But I love it so much, I think it’s wonderful

So, I think things like that can show you that it’s not just (as much as I love, and you know I love Marvel movies and big spectacle and all of this), I do think there’s a lot to be said for these completely stripped-down, almost silent movies. I think they’re amazing.

And my final question is, what are your thoughts on film in 2025, as it stands right now?

It’s really weird because I think we’ve ended up with some incredible films this year. So, things like Sinners and One Battle After Another and Hamnet are incredible. And, there have been some good big movies as well, I thought Fantastic Four was a real return to form for Marvel, I’m really excited by the new Avatar, all this kind of stuff.

So, we have great stuff happening but, at the same time, I think the industry is facing a massive crisis that is mostly of its own making. And, when I say ‘mostly of its own making,’ I mean the executives in charge of the studios. Because I don’t think we’ve ever had a worse bunch of executives in charge of studios. I think they are so beholden to the market and not making good cinema – which is ultimately the best way to make money long-term in Hollywood, is by making good films. And they think, all they can do is make the same thing over and over again. And I think that’s a hugely damaging thing to do and I think, long-term, that is the only thing that is doomed to fail. And I think we’re beginning to see that.

I think that’s one of the reasons people aren’t going to the cinemas much as they used to, because they have been conditioned to expect only remakes, sequels, prequels, reboots. And there is other stuff there! But because people have been trained out of going, people are missing the good stuff and that’s reinforcing this narrative that there’s only these types of films that get bums on seats.

So, I think there’s a crisis of trying to get the word out to people and advertising, I think there’s a crisis of bravery and commissioning films at the highest levels, I think films probably cost too much and we probably need to bring the prices down. But, we do that by tackling salaries of executives and not by making more VFX artists work through the night for 50p. I don’t know how to do that – but that does need to happen. So, there is a kind of low-key bubbling crisis and that’s before we introduce AI to the mix.

But, at the same time, I genuinely believe we have a better crop of filmmakers than ever in Hollywood history. I think the people working today are off-the-charts. I would put the Rian Johnson’s and the Paul Thomas Anderson’s and the Scorsese’s up against Howards Hawks and Howard Hughes and all the rest, any day of the week. I feel like they're absolutely up there with the John Fords and everyone else and I just want them to have the chance to make those movies, you know? So, it’s a bit of a mixed bag, let’s say.

That was all of the questions I had for you so thank you so much for your time today!

After only hearing his voice on the Empire podcast, I had no idea what to expect. I was shaking with nerves at the prospect of speaking to someone so successful in our industry. But, my nerves were quelled instantly. His stories of success, the leaps of faith he has taken in his life, how he has found strength in adversity – I couldn’t help but lean in as I listened.

After bantering about Amon’s multitude of name-drops and debating which Spider-Verse film was the greatest – I had an incredible time talking to someone so inspirational. You can read our full interview below:

My first question for you is: what is your earliest memory of falling in love with film?

My earliest memory of film… that’s a good question. I distinctly remember seeing The Prince of Egypt (1998) in the cinema with my mum. I remember the parting of the Red Sea in that film and reacting to that, that was quite early. Beyond this film, me and my family used to watch all the Disney films – we had all the Disney VHS’s. So, The Lion King (1994), The Little Mermaid (1989), Aladdin (1992), 101 Dalmatians (1996), The Aristocats (1970) – we had them all. So that was a big thing.

Coming To America (1988) is still my favourite comedy of all time. I’m pretty sure me and my family are in the high, triple figures on that film. And, whenever we watch it, it’ll be like we’re watching it for the first time because we’re laughing just as hard.

Then, when I went to boarding school, the love continued. Every weekend, somebody would go down with a teacher to Blockbuster (which is a thing that existed way back when!) to pick out a film for the rest of the house to go and watch that weekend. And, more often than not, that person was me. All of those helped fan the flames of my love of film, I think.

Was there any kind of TV show as well? I think TV is a bit harder, especially when you’re a kid.

It’s hard because TV, especially over the last decade, has gone onto have a metamorphosis, in terms of the quality of it and how much of it there is to consume. And, as you may have gleaned, I’m a big Batman fan, I’m a big animated fan. And, Batman: The Animated Series (1992-5) is one of the greatest TV shows of all time, I grew up with that. And, then Smallville (2001-11) – I was a huge fan, grew up with that. Game Of Thrones (2011–) until the final season which… let’s not speak of it!

Breaking Bad (2008–2013). That was a big one for me, in terms of changing my view on what a prestige TV show could do. That was the one that showed me, ‘Oh! There’s a changing of the guard happening here!’

I think that was definitely the same for me because I think it’s TV that starts to feel cinematic, it starts to feel like a film. I remember it was Anthony Hopkins who said that Breaking Bad was ‘Shakespearean’ which I think is so true.

I also just wanted to know – when did you know that this was the career for you? And then how did you start out as a film critic and as a journalist?

It’s interesting. So, after I finished boarding school, I went to University straight away – I thought I wanted to become a teacher. And, I was very sporty, I was the third fastest person at my school, I was known for that. So, I went to Brunel University and if you don’t know, it’s one the three big sporting universities in the UK. And I went from being the third fastest person in my school to being the non-fastest person of nothing! My classmates, to put it into perspective, were training with Usain Bolt. That was the level things were on. And I was not on that level! So I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do, after graduating.

One of my older brothers, he had a friend who used to run this website called Yin and Yang, which is now sadly defunct. But, they were looking for somebody to write reviews. So I thought, ‘Okay, I’ll just go to my local cinema, pay for tickets and write reviews.” Couple of months into that, the manager tells me ‘Amon, you know that there’s screenings and PRs and things in London you can go to?’ – and he sent me a whole list of PRs to get into contact with. And, about a week or so into that was when I knew that this was what I wanted to do. Not only for the prestige of it – going to see very highly anticipated films, for free, in a big London cinema will never get old.

But also – and this was the crucial thing – this was like, ‘Oh, I’ve found my people.’ And, when you feel that, that’s a game-changing, life-changing thing. There’s a number of young critics I’ve spoken to – I’m one of the lead mentors for the London Film Festival mentorship scheme – and they basically told me several different versions of what I’m about to say.

When I was in my own circles before I joined this community, I’d be the one talking about films all the time and people would almost get irritated. (The way you’re nodding makes me think you know exactly what I’m talking about!) So, when you find a community of people, where it’s like, ‘oh, these guys are as passionate about what I love as I am and are on the level I’m currently at’ is game-changing. And, when I discovered that and started to go into screenings and see the same people and build networks and contacts, it became clear that this is what I want to do. There was nothing that ignited the fire and the passion within me like this did. Once that became clear, it became clear that I had found the path.

That makes a lot of sense and I relate to that a lot – it’s like that weird thing of, you don’t always know if something is right for you. You kind of just start getting that gut feeling. But I think that’s a really lovely sentiment.

Moving on a bit, I wondered what it was like writing for Empire and founding your own Black In Focus column for Empire?

I am a contributing editor with Empire – I think I’m the only person of colour to be granted any editor title within Empire, which is quite big. Terri White, who was the previous editor in chief, she elevated me to the ‘Contributing Editor’ title and I pitched her the ‘Black In Focus’ column because this came around the murder of George Floyd. I was feeling quite helpless and I was trying to figure out how I could contribute to the world in some way. And, one of the things I was thinking of was this column where I could focus on black issues within entertainment and media and put my own lens on it. So, pitched it to her in the meeting and she green-lit it on the spot. And, that does not happen!

But, Terri, I’ve got a lot of respect for her. She believed in me and really valued me. She played a big role in me getting to where I’m currently at in my career. But, after she green-lit it on the spot, it ran for a couple of issues and I’ve got some really good feedback on it. I got to comment on some really deep, interesting stuff. It just felt really cool and good to be given three quarters of a page in every issue of the magazine with my picture very much there on the page.

I got to have this space where I could talk about black issues that a lot of people in the film community and a lot of people in the black film community were talking about. You don’t get to have those kind of spaces on these kinds of platforms very often, it does not happen. So, to have that for as long as I had it – I don’t take it for granted.

That’s really powerful – often, words can be some of the most game-changing things. I think that’s really amazing.

Although this is now going back some time, I was wondering if you had a favourite film from the Black Movie archives that you would want people to watch, maybe one people haven’t heard about?

One of my recommendations, I believe, was Drumline (2002) which I really love. I actually re-watched it fairly recently – it holds up. Not only for the drumming and the musicality of it which I love, but just the lessons it teaches you about leadership in many different forms. It stayed with me.

I think Life (1999) is a very underrated Eddie Murphy and Martin Lawrence flick. I remember watching it for the first time and just being deeply affected by it.

I kind of wanted to get into the interview side of your career – you’ve moderated a lot of events and you’ve conducted a lot of interviews throughout your career. I was wondering if you’ve had many standout memories from those?

In terms of moderating stuff, my biggest career achievement is when I did the intro and Q&A for Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018) live at the Hammersmith Apollo. That was a huge moment for me in ways that are both obvious and quite personal, which not many people know about – but I’ll tell you.

Obviously Into the Spider-Verse means a whole lot to me – the ‘Leap of Faith’ sequence is one of my favourite things I’ve ever watched in my life. And, anytime I watch it, I feel like I can do anything. And, I had done a number of Q&As before that gig – but all them had been in cinemas with either people in the audience that I knew. It was a very familiar environment for me because it’s a cinema, I know what I’m doing and I’ve done enough of them to get into performance mode easily without sweating.

That gig was 5,000 strong, I’d never done anything that size. And, it wasn’t just film critics and whatnot – it was complete strangers going completely nuts, orchestra behind me, 5,000 people screaming their heads off and everywhere is black, except the stage which has lights on. It was interesting and kind of serendipitous and beautiful in that it was my own ‘leap of faith’ moment – I thought that I could do it, but I hadn’t done anything to that size before. So, for the first time in a while, I felt goosebumps, I felt the nerves.

One thing I will say about that ‘leap of faith’ moment is that: it’s the ultimate, ‘you don’t know, until you know’ moment. And so, the moment came, the lights darkened, stage-light came on, I’m given a mic – ‘Okay, Amon, here you go.’ And if you watch the footage back, I put my left hand in my pocket because it was shaking – my right hand has the mic. My voice has never sounded louder or cleaner on a microphone ever! And I can’t see anything, obviously. Within 10 seconds, I’m fine and comfortable and you can tell because the left hand goes out of my pocket. That was my own ‘leap of faith’ moment.’ To have that, with that film, in that time, was pretty special.

The Denzel Washington in-person interview was really special – I consider him to be the greatest actor of all time. I had interviewed him in a couple of guises before that, but not to that degree, not in-person, not for that amount of time. And, I’m very rarely the guy to give people flowers. Not that they don’t deserve that! But I’m very rarely the guy to interview that way. For Denzel – you make an exception.

I always try to do my best to find a question (or two or three) that will get the talent off auto-pilot. Anytime you manage to succeed at that, and you can tell that they’re appreciative of that – that always feels good. I had a few of those with Gary Oldman way back when for Robocop (2014). Another really proud moment when it came to that was my Elizabeth Moss interview for the Pilot TV podcast – which was for The Shining Girls (2022). I’m very hard on myself generally – but when you know that you’ve nailed something, you just want to bask in the joy of that.

With interviews, you can do everything to prepare on your side – but it’s a tennis match, and if they didn’t come to play ball, it’s not going to work. But when they do, and you’re vibing, and they love the questions, it’s just harmony. It’s beautiful.

Thank you for sharing that with me – I think that Spider-Verse story is so beautiful because there are those films that sometimes just make us feel like we can do anything. I re-watched The Shawshank Redemption (1994) the other day, and it’s just one of those ones that really does that.

I was also wondering what advice you have for people who want to get started in this industry? Because it’s a very hard industry to break into.

That is true. I’ll say two things – one, be sure that you love this, before you get into it. Part of the reason that I’m still here, year fifteen, is because I do love it. There’s been many ups and there’s been many downs – but if you don’t love this, you’re not going to want to deal with the downs too much, you’re not going to want to stay in this. Number two – the industry has evolved and it continues to evolve in interesting ways, with the advancement of technology, with the rise of influencers, which I’m sure you’re very familiar with. The path that I took to get to where I have gotten – it is still there but it’s not the one that I’d recommend.

To back-track a little bit, when I first started going to screenings – you did all your networking, you started writing for one website and then another and another, you pulled up your portfolio, you pitched to other websites – all that sort of thing. What I’d recommend to people now is do that sort of stuff, especially if it can lead to paid work – it should. But the thing that I tell people now is do as much of it yourself. Build up your own brand because, more and more, that is where this industry is leading to.

The people with the keys to what we all want (which is access to screenings and to talent) the PRs, they are paying more attention to your follower count, like count, than who you are writing for. You are fighting with a pool of writers to all get the same thing – but if you build up your own brand and make sure you know what you’re talking about, you diversify what you’re talking about and how you’re talking about it to build a nice portfolio – it’s not like you’re one writer against a sea of writers and the editor has to pick you. All of the stuff is coming directly to you. That’s what the next stage is for me, actually, so I can combine that with all this experience I have.

I often talk about ‘the media triangle’ – this is the Know Who, which is the PRs and whatnot which will come through time and screenings. There’s Know How, which is you need to know what you’re talking about. If you’re a writer, you need to be good at writing, if you’re an interviewer, you need to be good at interviewing. Some of that you’ll get through research and refining your craft. And there’s The Reach. If you combine the three of those, you can sit in front of any PR and say, ‘Bang, bang, bang, give me what I want’

I work on all of those things, especially The Reach, because that’s the most important one, unfortunately. It didn’t use to be that way – but there’s a lot of people who have gotten into the most exclusive rooms more so because of their reach than their know-how, which is frustrating for a person like me because I pride myself on the Know-How. But, it has become the most important thing for young people trying to enter this industry. So, I’d be aware of that but also try to work on the Know-How because, if you combine those three things, you will be ahead of the game.

I think that’s really helpful advice because being an influencer is definitely on the rise for careers like this and I think it can be definitely be frustrating but that is the nature of the game. It can be as frustrating to try and get into the algorithm as it is pitching yourself to a million different people.

I wanted to do a kind of Letterboxd top-four question – but I’m going to do something slightly different, for the sake of individuality! I want three film recommendations.

Number one, a film that you would watch with your friends.

I will never get bored of Gladiator (2000), which is one of my favourite films of all time. There are few things that I enjoy watching on screen more than good leadership and good battlefield leadership as well. And, when I think of the greatest battlefield leaders of cinema, the line forms behind one Maximus Decimus Meridius. From the first two minutes on, you know you would go into the gates of hell for Maximus which is why I’ve got issues with Gladiator II (2024) because at no point in the film are you like, ‘I’m gonna fight for you, Paul Mescal!’

I feel that.

Number two, you would watch with a partner.

I don’t have a partner right now but, if I had a partner – my favourite release of last year was Hit Man (2024). Glen Powell and Adria Arjona… hot feels like too small of a word. It’s also so much fun and the best use of Glen Powell that we’ve gotten – it’s the whole reason why my stock is so high in Glen Powell.

I was lucky enough to watch that in a cinema because it was LFF. There was one particular scene which had critics clapping and laughing for an extended thirty seconds at 8pm in the morning. That does not happen – unless it’s something really special.

It will go to the top of my watchlist.

And finally, number three, a film that you would watch by yourself.

I mean, Into the Spider-Verse is the easy answer there. But, I love the Mask of Zorro (1998). I’m also a big animated Batman fan – Kevin Conroy is the best Batman of all time, I will not take ifs, buts or maybes! So, Batman: Mask of the Phantasm (1993) or Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker (2000). I love anything sort of hero-adjacent – that’s my sweet spot, that’s my happy place.

The final question I have for you (and it’s a pretty big question) – what are your thoughts on film in 2025?

I think this year in film has been really good. The things that are at the very, very tippy top have been excellent, like Sinners is my film of the year. I think because of this film, anytime Ryan Cooler’s name is attached to something, you’re immediately interested just because it’s him. That’s the level he’s now attained. Then you have One Battle After Another, The Ballad of Wallis Island which I thought were great.

The reason why I’m saying this year in film is ‘good’ as opposed to ‘really good’ is I just remember half-way, three-quarters of the way through the year, thinking about how many bangers there had been on the TV side. Just in terms of the level of quality across the board, TV was outpacing film in a major way this year. I think of Paradise, I think of Severance, I’ve not watched Pluribus yet but I’m hearing incredible things about that. There’s been so much TV, it’s incredible, amazing, awesome.

I’m hoping, as I always do, for there to be more of the really good stuff that enters the zeitgeist and stays there. That’s probably why the reason why Sinners is so special – I don’t know that any other film has been discussed to that level this year. And, the vast majority of releases, some of which are very good, within a week or two we’ve moved on. But, as is always the case year-to-year, week-to-week, there is at least one film that I would recommend.

The Fade to Black podcast, which I co-host with a couple of others every Saturday – we discuss some small releases every now and then. And, we often say to screen at least one of those. Just because they’re small and don’t get the coverage that others do, doesn’t mean they aren’t very good films or aren’t worth seeking out. It’s just a matter of finding the critics that you like who you can follow and who can point this stuff out to you, so you’re well-informed enough to seek these things out.

That was all the questions I had so, thank you very much for your time today, I really appreciate it!

My mum, a woman whose brilliant work has been inspiring me to write my whole life, wrote a beautiful piece I’ve been thinking of recently. Divined from a trip to the Freud Museum in 2024, she wrote a contemplative piece, inspired by her mum and memories. Her mum, my nan, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and Vascular Dementia some time ago last year. And, ever since it began to take hold of her words, I’ve noticed that mine have changed too. It took watching A Real Pain for it to fully surface, though.

When I think back to when I watched A Real Pain for the first time at the beginning of the year, I felt certain shifts occur within me – pieces of my grief, fitting and connecting with the grief of the characters. The film follows cousins Benji and David, two opposite forces who unite for a Jewish heritage tour of Poland, to honour the recent passing of their Grandmother. Writer and director Jesse Eisenberg takes great care in showing how each acts differently, when dealing with such strife.

David (played by Eisenberg) has distanced himself, from his cousin and from his loss all together. Tucked away in a cold city, Benji believes David has lost the emotion and life he possessed as a child. Existential and troubled, he only lets the blood flow when pressed.

Benji is an extremely interesting character. Bouncy, confrontational and unafraid of making his thoughts known, it feels dangerous watching him on screen. He embodies of denial, burying himself in bubble-wrap layers of extroversion. But he walks the fine line between false happiness and the emotion he hides from. Suddenly, little moments become significant dramas, as he overcompensates time and time again. To David, Benji is fragile, clinging desperately to moments passed to find some sort of solace against his agony.

Grief rears its head in a different, weighty form for each of the characters – depression, mourning the lost past, mourning humanity’s tragedies, others losses we can’t appease. However, they are all united by their troubles. Like a common cold, it appears similar in some and, at the same time, vastly different in others. For a few, it’s a sneeze – sudden, abrupt, rupturing. For others, it’s an all-over malaise – unassailable, undefined, unbearable. For me, it was the latter. I didn’t realise until it hit me, and when it did, it wiped my words, past and present, clean from the slate of my mouth.

One scene has rung in my ears for some time, for its depiction of grief. David, forced to discuss his troubled cousin after another outburst, unburdens a repressed wave of emotion onto the other tourists at dinner. Like members of his conscience, the tourists question him as he babbles, unfiltered, for several minutes. At one point, acknowledging the reason for which they are all there, David says “I know that my pain is unexceptional.” And I haven’t stopped thinking about that since.

Why do my troubled words matter, when my Nan can’t remember hers?

When I call my nan now, it’s “I just told you…” and “I promise I’ll see you soon,” “I hope you feel better soon” and, perhaps most painfully, “remember?” As my nan has worsened, my words have softened, become simplistic and even a little unemotional. I can’t talk to her in the ways I might have done several years ago, with vivid detail and with the safe knowledge that we could pick up this conversation anywhere, the next time I saw her. In fact, that was something I just never used to worry about at all. It’s sometimes hard to remember how I could used to talk to her. There are splatters of words, spoken with joviality and with energy. But, I have been keeping those tucked away, from her and maybe even from myself. It was watching A Real Pain that unearthed them from within me.

At one point in the movie, an enigmatic Benji rouses the group to stand in front of the Warsaw Uprising Monument, to reenact the Uprising. Each person goes to stand before the statue, playing their chosen role, raising the past with each word. David watches, embarrassed at Benji’s brazenness. It reminds me that, though the past is frozen and unbreakably sculpted by time, it still stands.

My nan’s words will always stay standing. Every time she has comforted me, played with me or just chatted with me, it still exists within me, my mind, my words to others. And sometimes, they flicker back to me when I see her. And even though her words now may be etched with misunderstandings and confusion, like the monument, her past words to me stay still and true. There for me to remember, stand beside and feel.

Thank you to Jesse Eisenberg for giving something to me I never knew I had buried within me – a grief that needed to be seen. A Real Beautiful Pain.

As I wrote in my LetterBoxd review:

BellaWatchesFilms

With my still-limited experience of the genre, I still never know how I’m going to react to a horror film. Sometimes it’s an experience I can brave, can recount to my family as ‘barely rattled the cage!’ Sometimes it’s a night of tossing and turning, fully convinced my chair is some spawn of another world. But, often the worst of it all is the horror film that lingers. The one that hovers just beyond the fringes of your subconscious, that seems to cling to your every move. Like a harsh sentence, it crops up weeks later and taunts you. And, since my viewing, Picnic At Hanging Rock and its ghosts have wandered through me like icy wind.

Picnic At Hanging Rock (1975), directed by Peter Weir, was based on a novel inspired by a nightmare. Set in Australia in 1900, all the girls of private school Appleyard College set-off for a picnic on St Valentine’s Day, except one; Sara (played by Margaret Nelson) has to stay behind with the headmistress. They are travelling to Hanging Rock, a real-life rock formation and former volcano. Students Marion (Jane Vallis), Miranda (Anne-Louis Lambert), Irma (Karen Robson) and Edith (Christine Schuler) go off to explore the rock and fall asleep. As Edith awakes, she finds the 3 girls in a trance and they ignore her screams, disappearing around the rock. As the rest of the students arrive home, the 3 girls and one teacher have gone missing. A search party groups together, including 2 boys called Michael (Dominic Guard) and Albert (John Jarratt), but the mystery grows - what happened to those innocent girls?

Picnic At Hanging Rock is the mist that hangs over a twilight lake - neither vapour or steam, tangible or a phantom, its ambiguous nature unsettles us. It’s a drama of David Lynchian proportions, with an ethereal atmosphere similar to Terrence Malick’s 1973 crime-drama Badlands; it’s a plot, grounded in reality, but is seemingly conducted in a dreamscape. This lack of rigidity or consistency is what chills us to the bone, as the film throws us no clues or safety harness. It lures us in with soft visions of girl’s reading poems, combing their hair and rejoicing the Saint Valentine. Only to bite us with its visions of blood, unspoken truths and horrors of our own creation. It is a world filled with contrast - and director Weir uses this to his advantage.

Horror is a genre which depends upon juxtaposition - good versus evil, light versus dark, grounded versus far-out. Picnic At Hanging Rock is a masterclass of this. Director Peter Weir gives great focus to the girls and their sugar-drop world; the opening shots linger on their angel-spun hair, shimmering eyes and blushed cheeks. He actually created this softened effect by placing bridal veils over the camera lenses. Contrast this with the harsh oranges and sun-drowned plants of the Australian plains and things already begin to feel out of place. Weir even deploys echoes of the romance genre, exemplified by Sara’s innocent love for her friend Miranda. Juxtaposed with the strong sense of mystery in the film and, yet again, we are lulled into a false world. It is like we are lingering amongst the sonnets of Shakespeare when, just beyond it is Dante’s inferno.

Cinematographer Russell Boyd frames the infamous Hanging Rock like a painter sketches their muse. Often shot from below, the Rock towers over us, dwarfing the girls and amplifying the mystery, almost like a physical being in its own right. It begins to feel as mystical as Stone Henge, with long shots allowing the audience to lift images from its cracked surface. Weir transcribes the impeccable symbolism from Joan Lindsay’s novel by leaving such attention on the Rock. As the figures of the girl’s walk amongst its clutches, the metaphorical subtext burns in bright colours. The girls, encased in white frilly dresses of innocence, linger amongst a Rock which encases years of repressed magma. In their Victorian society and discussions of romance, it is easy to interpret the film as an ode to the shamed, sexual desires of women.

As the film progresses, its haunting nature clings to us. The film is well-paced, introducing intriguing clues and way-paths which are later dashed and crossed-out. For instance, Michael enters the Rock on his search, only to be found days later, twitching with wide eyes. The film never explains what horrors he saw, and we are left only with the image of his tortured face. Weir plays with the age-old tool of horror - the viewers' imagination. He gives us clues - a teacher found just in her underwear or an ominous red cloud - which are only discussed, not seen, to set us in motion. Even though we don’t get any true resolve to the story, or any notion of a ‘threat,’ we weave cursed answers in our minds, more cursed than any image in the film itself.

What already feels so far beyond our grasp is pushed further by the vagueness of the screenplay. In one of the first lines of the film Miranda says “What we see and what we seem are but a dream, a dream within a dream.” This is only heightened by the music choices, ranging from the mystical sound of panpipes to classical piano pieces. Unsure of what we are going to get, the film yet again never tells us what it is or what will be.

In a rather obvious fashion, some of the girl’s lines are dubbed over by voice actors. This was because Peter Weir chose most of the girls for their demure appearances, as opposed to acting ability. Whilst you could argue that their detachment works perfectly, it instead adds an unneeded stiffness. There are many moments where the fates of the characters seemed to be etched on their faces, chiefly when Miranda says her last goodbye to the group. This works well, effectively making us the oracle with foresight into the oncoming devastation. But, these moments are fleeting and are diminished by rougher acting choices later on.

Picnic At Hanging Rock is a story of many threads, both supernatural and harshly real. What it fails to do successfully is find some way of sewing these together. The first act is solely dedicated to the picnic and its events, the second, the search. It begins to feel a little repetitive even in the middle stages, with people returning to the rock with that same eerie music, same eerie shots and little to no outcome.

But, come the third act and it feels as though we’ve moved on entirely. Less time is spent at the Rock itself, press arrive and leave in one whole sequence and Sara’s life is finally explored. This last section feels as though it could’ve been a whole separate film, as we find out that Albert, a coachman currently at the Rock, is Sara’s adopted brother. This gives way to more supernatural doings which are, yet again, genuinely disturbing. But, when we isolate this ending, it feels worlds away from where we started. So, for these reasons, Picnic At Hanging Rock gets 3 1/2 stars.

The BFI recently heralded Picnic At Hanging Rock by showing a 4K re-release for its 50th anniversary. And, for as hard to grasp as it was, I get why it was celebrated this way. Before I even hit play, I could feel the film’s atmosphere penetrate my space. Much like the unresolved crimes that linger in countries and in homes, I could feel the journey before I even set out on it. By the end, I was grasping at straws to find some logical answer to the picnic’s events. Frantically googling, I explored the possibilities of rape, of suicide and murder and of UFOs. But, nowhere bore fruit. This is truly the epitome of the horror film, if you think about it. It isn’t the ghostly echoes you hear at night, which send your imagination whirring. It’s the knowledge that some part of you remains at that picnic, tracing that rock for any answers it may yield.

PS:

I know I mentioned big news in my last post and then didn’t really do a follow up. If you follow me anywhere on social media, you will probably already know this but, I am working with film publication Film East as assistant editor! It’s a big role that I will talk about more later down the line but it’s been a ball. I’m only about 2-and-a-bit months in and I love it. Getting to work with a wonderful staff and so many new writers with brilliant ideas is amazing work. I am also growing my own editing skills which hopefully you have seen in this piece. Although I know that won’t have been on your mind when reading it, it would’ve been weird if you had. Anyway!

Until next time,

BellaWatchesFilms

You've been there, too. Sitting in that room, forgetting that anything beyond it even exists. And, when you do leave, it’s as if the end credits are queueing the start of your own picture. Walking away, almost in slow-motion, you feel the very chemistry of your body altered by the cinema’s projected light.

Going to the cinema alone helped me lose my mind and body to time, surrendering myself to the low lights and booming sounds. I bested my anxieties and left the cinema, alone but fulfilled. And, after my regular place of work had closed down, it was exactly the push that I needed.

No longer having The Film Magazine, a place where I had been an assignment writer for 9 months, felt akin to a personal grief. It is where I had been given a chance by an editor I now call a wonderful friend. It is where I honed my craft. It is where I found true, unadulterated passion. It is where I found my place when I didn’t know where I would fit.

Recently, many independent publications like The Film Magazine have sadly been forced to close. Whether the motivation is time, money or new beginnings, it can happen. I by no means have any resentment or anger towards The Film Magazine, only warmth for the time I spent there. It was a kind, nurturing environment with creative powerhouses running it behind the scenes. It had been my home for many months and helped to bring something out in me I was certain it had gone out. But, at the same time, I knew that this was my sign. And, whilst I felt a great deal of shock, I also felt this resounding sense of momentum. This is my time.

I have grown so accustomed to the process of getting a piece published. Research the publication. Write the pitch. Wait for the email back. Rewatch the film. Take the notes. Research the film. Organise my thoughts. Make a plan. Write the piece. Wait for feedback. Give the all-clear. Wait for publication. Promote and share. Repeat. The click of the keyboard beneath my fingers. The ink-stains on the side of my pinkie finger. The hands scraping through my hair. The sleek cutting down of the dead-weight words. The rhythm of it all runs through my whole body, placing me in a flow-state unlike no other I’ve ever experienced. It feels like art to me. It’s power. It’s something I never want to lose.

I often receive many messages from people asking me, “How do you do it? Where do you even start with trying to get published?” And my answer is always annoy people. Take up space, email that place (even if you don’t think you’ll hear back), push for your right to tell your story. And, as January 1st hit, I set to work. With the late night ringing in my ears, I laid foundations and researched. I created lists of places to go to, each with their requests and their promises. I felt like something important was just about to knock on the door. And I got a job within a week of 2025. You will soon hear what exactly this job is. I am currently going through the training process of shadowing which is all very exciting. But, in the meantime, if you want to read all of my work, click here for my Linktree account, which has everything I've gotten published.

A recent quote from Lewis Hamilton is brought to mind, where he directly addressed those expecting change in 2025. He said we should “embrace the change” and to remember that “reinvention is powerful.” Sometimes we can feel in our bodies when it’s time for change. Whether we want to accept it or not is irrelevant. You will feel it flicker and shake you, that unavoidable urge to peer into the future’s unknown. It is there and it will take us to new heights, new people, new places. And, just like I used to feel it in 2023, I can feel it again now. That promise of greatness, if you only keep up the momentum and the hustle. The click-clack of the keys, the swoosh of the pen, the rush of your lungs. It all counts. It all means something.

I want to thank you again for returning back to me and this space. If you want to keep in touch, head over to my Instagram (@bellawatchesfilms). And, though The Film Magazine may be over, their articles remain on the website for you to read. But, until our next check-in, remember this - it all counts. It’s all right there before you. You’ve just got to reach out to it and don’t let that arm drop.

Oh, and a little hint about my future work announcement: just make sure to keep your eye on the east…

Until next time,

Bellawatchesfilms.

I fidget, unsatisfied - if only I could understand what he really means! Why does it feel like it was meant for me to hear!

When I was in Primary School, I won a ‘Wow Writer’ award during the end of Year 6 celebrations my class held. I was presented with a laminated, cartoonish certificate for being the class’s “aspiring author.” After retaking my spot on the carpet, I could feel my palms sweating, heart racing, mind already leaping to the moment where I could see the pride on my mum’s face. It was that day I discovered that I could be the best in something, that there was something for me to be the best in. Now, I’ve never been one for boasting, a fact that was proved when, upon receiving this award, I did not show it off. I did not jump around, beaming into my classmate’s faces to remark, “Look at me! Look at me! Instead I sat there, unable to look at anything other than that sweat-slick, laminated proof in my hands. Proof that I had something.

No matter how my relationship with writing has changed, it has always come back to one simple fact - I always want to write to reach people. I wanted to reach someone, anyone, so they can feel seen, heard, connected through my words. And, if I could do that for just one person, then I can feel proud. This fact truly came to life when, in that same year of school, I undertook writing what was to be my first novel.

After breaking my arm in clumsy circumstances, I was to remain at school when my class left for their PGL trip. With nothing to do, I returned to that new-found, fizz of potential that kindled in my hands. It was one of the first times in my life that I felt that other-worldly energy take over - the beautiful frenzy of drawing up words and constructing them into universes of language. And, fresh off of my autism diagnosis, I decided to look within to find my inspiration. I was given a yellow exercise book, free use of a printer and a computer, and began writing with the simple title: ‘Autism: By Isabella Madge.”

Plastered with printed images, motivating the reader to ‘Keep Calm and Love Autism,’ I crafted this self-help book. “Dedicated to everyone with autism and everyone who has been helping me cope. Also mum and dad. I love you guys,” is childishly inscribed inside the cover, in the vain hope that future readers would marvel at the put-together child I was. In the next pages, I write of ‘symptoms,’ (in this context, not a word I would choose to use nowadays) ‘my story,’ and ‘ideas to help you relax.’ I have held onto the original copy, although I am told that a separate one hangs in the Special Educational Needs office at my Primary School.

As my life expanded and filled with the daunting buildings of secondary school, my writing took on a darker tone. Inspired by my exploration of the Gothic Horror genre in Year 8 English classes, I found a notebook and began to write my second novel, “Please Don’t Scream…” Subtitled by the vague yet threatening line “just when you think you are alone…” this represented my longest piece yet. Spanning 14 chapters and set in the Victorian era, it featured the horrific tale of Violet Higgins and her Shining-esque night in a deserted ballroom. With symbols that could’ve been taken straight from The Zodiac Killer, I far and away believed my magnum opus was before me. But, let’s face it, you don’t write your magnum opus as stealthily as you can in the middle of science class until it gets taken off of you.

The late-teenage years, spent studying the flowery verses of Fitzgerald and Byron, culminated in a plastic folder worth of poetry, and a 23 page novel. The poems were verdant, airy and verbose; elongated by natural imagery, shortened by their intimate meanings, they were the words of a girl becoming a woman. My secrets, my beautiful tragedies and desperate wounds, packed the stanzas until they burst at the seams. In one particular poem, entitled “Ill-fit,” I write,

"You, who live in that cold city,
That’s bustling, busy,
Where you brim with a potential,
That I must have had once"

Oh, to go back to her and to tell her that that potential never left her. Never left her and on its wings now, she soars.

The novel, affectionately titled “The Train That Only Travelled West” is one I would like to keep to myself. It is a relic, inspired by times gone and words past. Its origins lay in my regular walk to a nearby train bridge; feeling its metal fingers cradle me, I could see the horizon bleed out before me, my own picture gallery. Carriages, housing story upon story, swept my thoughts away, carrying them to a place I never knew. When creating the last chapter, I write,

"But she was changing. Blossoming. And life had seemed to open itself up to her in unimaginable ways. "

And now, when looking at my writing today, I realise this may be truer than ever.

At age 19, I started a blog. After leaving school prematurely, I was meandering, looking for a job, a person, a memory, a sign. And, in the darkness of a cinema room, that little ‘aspiring author’ awoke. I felt her sweat-slick hands as I typed up a new entry, her pounding heart as I clicked the ‘publish’ button. I showed her that we could do anything and everything. But, most importantly, we had found our something.

Films have came and films have went, jungles and airports, parties and grief, revolutionaries and shop assistants - they told me their stories and my ink stained fingers listened. Composing anecdotes, analysing elements, layering praise and fine-tuning critique - each piece, with a part of myself attached to it. Every moment spent at my laptop writing has gifted me more life than I’ve ever known. I have discovered more about myself than ever, at the same desk I write to you from now.

And that’s why, on the 29th of August 2024, I sat here, happy-crying at the place where I’ve made my dream happen. After months of pitching and drafting and editing, my first professional piece was placed on my screen before me. My paid piece, my Little White Lies article, and, to the left in bold lettering read “Words - Bella Madge.”

Making my way downstairs, stumbling under the weight of my immense journey, I found myself crumpled in my boyfriend’s arms. My phone was plastered to my palm, the screen baring, and only baring, the tiny print of a big moment. Suddenly, it was irrepressible. Memories of my journey flooded back to me - the turmoil, the graft, the floods of words, the anxiety, the joy, the moments where I had stood before my family and said “I just can’t do it." And, with my forehead pressed to my boyfriend’s chest, his whispered "I’m so proud of you’s” mixed with my relieved breaths, I realise I have done it. And then I start beaming.

This is not the end of this blog’s journey. Our time together, from review to review, is quite simply what started it all. And I owe most of that to myself but a great deal of that to you. To those of you who were there from page 1, to those who have just joined me now, thank you. From the child writing self-help books, to the adult who is now a published critic, thank you. It has been an honour and a privilege. So, whilst I may continue to seek out publications in search of reviews, you can trust that I will always return to this place, and to you. If you would like to see these extra pieces, all my work is on my Instagram. But, for now, time to move on to the next cinematic realm that awaits us. And whatever you do, don’t forget to save me a ticket;)

It’s April 2024, I am 19 and on a walk, ‘Life On Mars’ blaring in my headphones. I think back to that time with my dad, sat before lyrics that I felt so close to unlocking. I think of my life and what it has become. As I turn the corner, a wind seems to guide me around it, old leaves brushing me forwards, onwards. I suddenly realise I don’t have to pay close attention to the song anymore, I just feel it instead. And then it hits me.

Why was ‘Life On Mars’ always meant for me? Because it’s about a girl who was always looking for answers. And she found those in the movies.

BellaWatchesFilms

When in a difficult moment, we are not ourselves. We spit, scream, hate, freeze. We close our blinds to the world because, in those moments it is easy to say that everything is ‘out to get you.’ It is easier to believe that you’re the victim of some gross injustice when an argument has simply rubbed you the wrong way. You lie in bed, waiting for someone to open the door to the monster you are and say, ‘I’m so sorry for everything I’ve ever done to you, I’m to blame for everything you’re feeling.’ But, that’s not what you really want. That’s not what you really need. And sometimes, instead of lying in that squalor of self-pity, it is better to seek joy. So, when I was feeling hard done-by, I sought what I call ‘silly cinema.’ And, without even realising, I was scooped into the glittering arms of The Birdcage. And, without even realising it, it cradled me.

The Birdcage (1996), directed by Mike Nichols, gets its name from the film’s primary location, a drag club in Florida. It is owned by Armand Goldman (played by Robin Williams), whose partner Albert Goldman (Nathan Lane) is the headlining drag queen, Starina. They live above the club, with their housekeeper Agador (Hank Azaria). Their world is thrown into chaos when Armand’s 20 year old son Val (Dan Futterman) announces his engagement to Barbara Keeley (Calista Flockheart). Barbara’s father, Senator Kevin Keeley (Gene Hackman) is a right-wing politician looking to escape an outrageous scandal. Her mother Louise (Dianne Wiest) sees the engagement as a positive solution for her husband’s sticky situation. So, as the families are set to meet, Armand and Albert are forced to pretend to be straight to please the Keeley’s.

The Birdcage resides at the often-neglected intersection between silliness and heart. It’s a sequinned comedy of errors, a sister to 1993’s Mrs Doubtfire. With shaded palms and cool Floridian waters, it’s a resort of the campiest proportions. However, it’s spicy with the fluorescent lights of a nightclub strip and the puffed wigs of a drag queen. It’s the very essence of joie de vivre; its scenery bursts with conga music, thrumming with soul and life. It’s trashy and exposed, with the gaudiest furnishing. But, it possess a kind of softened elegance, crafted to complement the leading characters relationship. In particular, Armand and Albert are often surrounded by very 60s inspired pastel sets.

The sets themselves, however, are also an excellent example of the film’s ingrained comedy. Armand and Albert’s apartment feature statues with prominent phallic shapes. Or, to put it less lightly, there are penises all around them. Even their eating utensils, as outrageous as it seems, are covered with depictions of gay sex. This makes a delightful contrast with the Keeley family. Their buttoned-down reservedness and traditional suburban home look practically bare and boring in comparison.

What really shines beyond all else is how the co-stars drive this playful sense of comedy forward. Nathan Lane’s effeminate affectations, stepping in or out of drag, are an unexpected delight. He dons girlish pinks, he shrieks, he’s vulnerable to a fault, he’s melodramatic - he’s the prancing diva to Armand’s stern businessman. You can tell that Lane commits 100%, creating a character that could’ve tripped from the stages of a broadway show.

Robin William’s Armand is much more reserved in comparison, with a smaller persona. Sporting a 70’s porn-tache and a bushy nest of chest hair, he resembles something of a pimp. He runs a tight ship, attending to the club, keeping his house in order and looking after his son. RW’s comedy is very understated here, outside from his iconic improvisations. He allows Azaria and Lane to take the comedy spotlight, for the film’s benefit. But, it allows for a certain sentimentality and nuance to melt through; we truly get the sense that Armand has learned to blend in, to mask his societal identity.

The duo share some raucous moments on screen, ranging from the family meeting to their attempts to appear more ‘straight.’ And their entertaining dynamics are aided further by the wonderful efforts of Hank Azaria as Agador. As their housekeeper (and wannabe drag queen), he steals the scene with his played up accent and physical comedy. But, just as he enhances the film’s frivolity, RW’s and NL’s chemistry do so for the sentimental moments. Whether it’s Armand calming down Albert during a dramatic episode or Albert mothering Armand’s son, our affections toward them are effortless.

These dynamics are effortlessly extended by the power of The Birdcage’s script. It gifts Nathan Lane moments of real vulnerability, suddenly transforming the film into a one-woman play. But, it also aids his sassiness, especially when telling Val not to waste his life on ‘some dormitory slut.’ It kneads an even greater layer of comedy into the film, making it accessible from every angle. But, the film wants to remind you that there is an age-old partnership here. And so, it ensure that its softer moments are gentle and rewarding. Yes, we are watching this film to see frivolity and humour. But, there is a surprisingly sweeter nature at play, a reminder that where we love is where we call home.

The contrasting Keeley family and their values are introduced to us early on. Gene Hackman’s performance as the gruff Republican Senator strengthens the film’s funny bone. Rather than dwelling on his harsh views, the film stays true to its lighthearted demeanour by poking fun at him. We don’t get big, raging arguments over what’s right or wrong - we just have Gene Hackman dressed up in drag by the film’s end, to really give him a taste of his own medicine. And similarly, Diane Wiest’s performance as the senator’s wife is simpering enough to ensure the Keeley duo as painfully boring. But, when the Goldman partners have a chemistry this joyful, it’s hard to move away from it.

The film suffers for its Keeley side-plot, the scandal that the Senator faces. Instead of dancing a conga-line with the Goldmans, we’re back discussing media tactics in the boardroom. Yes, their boring nature is essential to the film’s pantomime effect. But, their screen-time could’ve been largely reduced to truly give the audience what they came for. This criticism extends into the film’s other romance, Val and Barbara. The focus on their relationship and the Keeley’s themselves mean that our beloved Goldmans don’t get the attention they deserve by the film’s end. As they entered the film bickering, they leave it in tears at Val’s wedding - we don’t know where they stand after the events of the film itself.

Because RW and NL are so very spectacular, my aforementioned issues with the film merely bleed into the side characters. Dan Futterman gives a relatively bland, unmemorable performance as Val. But, his outrageous attempts to conceal his family’s identity really sour the mouth. Little of an arc is achieved by him too; come the film’s end, he seems more exasperated to reveal who his family is, as opposed to proud. So, overall, a night at The Birdcage had to be given 3 1/2 out of 5.

This film isn’t just a slapstick footnote in Robin Williams’ filmography. It isn’t just a camp take on the politics of modern America. It does indeed concern itself with politics, but not how you would expect. The Birdcage is about the politics of family, love, emotions and, most importantly, of identity. In the dinner party sequence, every time Armand or Albert lie about who they are, something goes wrong. This is a clear lesson to us, the viewer, that says, ‘look what happens when we aren’t true to who we are!’ So, to refer to this post’s beginning, we are all going to have shit days. Days where we don’t know what to do with ourselves, days where the simple act of talking feels oppressive. But, what we can take from The Birdcage is simple - we must let ourselves feel these things. We must because it is then, and only then, can the party really start.

BellaWatchesFilms

My new work for those who are interested:

My published pieces for The Film Magazine

My guest appearance on the 'Aaron at The Movies' podcast

My guest appearance on the 'That's Cinema' podcast, talking about The Philadelphia Story

My Instagram, where you can follow all my work/updates on the film journey

I have been an F1 fan for almost a year now. Before my boyfriend and I got together, we had apprehensively formed a compromise; I was to watch the F1 Netflix show Drive to Survive, and he, Drag Race. And, we are now fans of both. Before this, I had always assumed things about the cars and the tracks, the teams and the drivers. But, now, what was once a nuisance had become my drug of choice. Now, every Sunday, I take my place before the front room’s TV to watch men cheat death.

You never quite know what you’re going to get on race day. Somedays, it’s a carnival of fiery sparks and glistening champagne. It’s a celebration of colour, a festival of passion. It tastes of life, leaves you high on the wins and podiums. But, somedays, it’s a colosseum. Cars battle, like gaudy shields, with intricately planned strategies controlling their every move. Fuelled by aggression and a desire for dominance, a crimson-streaked drama plays out before you. And, behind one singular car, is a garage full of intellects, muscles and dreamers.

I also came to realise that, behind those abbreviated driver names, came powerful stories. Sure, they’re living the high life, securing them masses of interest. But, it’s their beelines to the sport that form intense connections. It’s their struggles, both within the sport and their lives, that add such a wealth to F1. I had never been one to nestle amongst a sporting team, in order to support them. But, that all changed when I was introduced to Ferrari. Ferrari are sleek with an expensive passion, fuelled by their crimson brand and age-old ties to the sport. Supporting them almost feels like belonging to one family, bearing the name with pride and honour. And, I can tell you, there was nothing like watching Carlos Sainz take first at the 2023 Singapore Grand Prix.

Now, I can promise that all of the waffling above has happened for a reason. Watching Rush caused a sort of chain reaction within me; it reinvigorated the love I so dearly hold for the sport, the kind that is begging to spill from you. The words I could dedicate to the sport swirled around my mind without end. Combining my two devotions was a unique and fiery experience. However, as I was getting my fix, I could feel something fighting within me. My sharp, writer’s tongue, attempting to poke, analyse and conclude. My jittery, pounding heart, chasing each car for that familiar sense of adrenaline. My inner film critic and my inner F1 fan, colliding and fighting for prevalence. Which was it that Rush pleased more?

Rush (2013), directed by Ron Howard, is a biographical retelling of one of Formula’s One’s biggest rivalries: the battle between James Hunt and Niki Lauda. Set in the 1970s, or the Golden Age of Formula 1, the two enter the scene. The arrogant James Hunt (played by Chris Hemsworth) is slick with confidence. After joining Hesketh Racing, his hedonistic lifestyle overtakes him. Meanwhile, the Austrian Niki Lauda (Daniel Brühl) only has eyes for his career. After taking out a loan, he joins BRM racing. The two are watched on by Hunt’s ex-partner Suzy (Olivia Wilde) and Lauda’s wife Marlene (Alexandra Maria Lara). However, after Niki joins Ferrari, the battles between the drivers become perilous. Thus, as the 1976 season draws to a close, will Hunt and Lauda manage to see it through?

Rush is fuelled by elation and style, soaring on the wings of summer and testosterone. The narrative is easily told through its colour-grading; the glory days of Hunt and Lauda are set against a sea of reds, whites and blues. The 70s atmosphere is heady, yet laid-back, all cigarettes, booze and pit-girls. Drenched in gold light and petrol, it imparts a distinct feeling of coolness upon the viewer; for hours after, I walked about as if I was taking a track-side stroll. The pacing makes us one of the drivers, allowing us no time to breathe as we zip from corner to corner. The sounds of the track serve to amplify this experience. Radios, fluttering with anticipation, the natterings of the crowd, the scruffy 70s rock-n-roll - all of these sounds, grinding and shifting together, landing you perfectly at a day at the races. It allows the rudimentary days of F1 blow through your hair like a breeze.

Racing sequences are imperative to a film like Rush; the cars must pulse like fresh blood through the picture’s sinewy veins. And, it is clear to see that Howard made these segments his focal point. It massively works to the film’s advantage, as the driving force of our entertainment. Cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle captures these magnificent mechanical beasts with a skilled hand; they become blurs of a colour palette, dodging and weaving for our delight. Hemsworth and Brühl are kitted out in body-worked F3 cars, to maintain this visual spectacle. This is further preserved by inclusions of real footage, to add believability to the magic on our screens.

It is not just the fizzing delirium of F1 that Howard wishes to capture, but its sickening call of danger too. When watching a race sequence unfold, we are made to swallow its entirety. Every angle is included, from the crowd’s, to the driver’s eye, and to the front wing of the car itself. This holds us to the knife’s edge, tantalising us with the prospect of fate. The duality of risk versus reward is heightened by Hans Zimmer’s legendary conducting hands; he raises the sport’s stakes with staccato strings. This siren’s call of peril is further signified by the film’s use of green. A sickly, mossy mist falls over the Japanese and German circuits, punctuating the film’s once boisterous tone. Suddenly, the cars’ pumping pistons feel like a kiss of death.

Chris Hemsworth’s performance as the show pony James Hunt is addictive to watch. The ‘Superstar,’ as nicknamed by his manager, is superimposed with depth from Hemsworth. Throughout the film, Hunt’s aura glistens with the narcotics of self-confidence. Peacock-like, he absorbs all the fun that his lifestyle affords. Hemsworth plays him with a sort of lurid charm, often seen parading with many blonde models. However, the moments that he sheds this façade are where we grow attached. Although buried under an identity, Hunt vomits up his emotions before every race. He struggles in private, juggling marital issues with sponsorship deals. Suddenly, we see him as a broken man, whose self-worth leans on his career. Hemsworth displays this loss of confidence well, showing vulnerability after Hunt’s divorce and Lauda’s crash. It adds character to the man who could so easily be defined by his penchant for fun.

Niki Lauda, as played by Daniel Brühl, is the yin to Hunt’s yang. Nicknamed ‘The Rat’ by his rival, Lauda is armoured by his determination. Unlike Hunt, Lauda is business-driven, by use of his scrappy intellect. He often chastises Hunt for his endless pursuit of fun, causing the most explosive of mixes. Brühl is sensational as Lauda, capturing both his physicality and distinct Austrian accent. His refusal of his own heart forges a concrete wall around his character. And, like Hunt, when Lauda allows cracks to form, we are drawn in like water to a sponge. After his marriage, Lauda is haunted by the happiness he now possesses, as he has something to lose. And, after his 1976 crash, Lauda’s resounding perseverance brings viewer and character ever closer; although he resembles a completely new man after his gruelling treatment, his clinical conviction continues.

Hemsworth and Brühl were aided by the film’s documentary style, as it added an excellent sense of character. It has narration from both of them, allowing their POV’s to filter through. It is, however, very gutsy to begin a film with the line: ‘Twenty five drivers start every season in Formula One, and each year two of us die.’ But, Rush is the kind of film that needs these guts. To match the intensity of F1, your scenery should be painted with drama and tension. So, giving Lauda that first line not only sets the right tone, but it also establishes his serious nature. This is perfectly contrasted by the light-hearted nature of Hunt’s lines, with references to his car as a ‘little coffin.’ Their rivalry shifts and moulds with the film, slowly changing into more of a camaraderie by the conclusion.

Due to production choices, Rush starts to feel too glossy. There is a certain level of Hollywood saturation present, causing a disconnect to the film’s story. The arcs of the characters are doused with a layer of predictability; Hunt and Lauda become much less than real figures, as the thawed out over-compensator and the sad clown. Creative licensing only served to worsen this effect. For instance, Lauda watching Hunt rack up racing points as he has his lungs vacuumed. Even the final scene was spoilt by an enforced message. With Lauda and Hunt spoon-feeding the overall message of, ‘hey, we’re rivals but we both could learn something from each other about our careers,’ you simply want to roll your eyes. It becomes pervasive, with scenes that feel much too on the nose and saccharine

With these creative decisions dominating the narrative, it means important details are largely skidded over. Moments where we may need to pause and reflect are dashed off our screens before we can blink. Take Hunt’s marriage to Suzy - the scene in which they get married is preceded by their first ever meeting. The same can be applied to Lauda’s life, whose move to Ferrari is minimised by the film. Similarly, Lauda’s crash is the crux of the story, with the film opening just before his fateful race. However, come the incident itself, no time is given to absorb its impact. Even the rivalry itself starts to become inconsistent with the pacing. We are raced through the driver’s lives like hungry children, who lick their plates before the table is fully seated. Therefore, I must give Rush a 3 1/2 out of 5.

When watching Rush as a critic, I thought ‘this is messy, this is over-produced and this is a blur.’ But, as a F1 fan? Rush was high-stakes, Rush was life or death, Rush was a blinding white thrill. Formula 1 will always be something I return to, with expectations of relentless drama and unwavering stakes. And, Rush will always be a remembrance of that. It did what every sports movie should: it left me front and centre to one of the greatest spectacles in the world. It left me eye-to-eye with two of the most passionate drivers the sport will ever see. And it shall forever clasp the wheel of their story with strong, guiding fingertips.

BellaWatchesFilms

For months, I had been pushed (and was pushing myself) into spaces that didn’t quite fit. Studies, people, work - all of their edges rubbed against mine. And suddenly, with that first press of Substack’s ‘publish’ button, there was a click. I felt the dryness of sweat on my fingertips and an electric hum in my chest - the welcoming of untapped potential. I have recently realised that the movies are owed a lot of credit for who I’ve become. I mean, they triggered a metamorphosis so powerful that, looking back, I cannot recognise the girl I was. And I don’t resent her either. In fact, I celebrate her. She took a risk, doing something she had never tried before. And boy, oh boy did it pay off.

I have always been unsettled by the most minutest of changes. Even at the air’s changing scent at the approach of a season. I’m not kidding, either. So, the sheer volume of pathways that arose for me last year practically uprooted me. I took on a role at the Picturehouse, I ended my long-term relationship, I was scouted to be a model, I developed feelings for someone new, I dyed my hair, I began another relationship. All of these events circled around me, but you know what gave me the power to navigate them all? Our journey together, here. And, throughout our journey, I rediscovered passion. I rediscovered hope. I rediscovered life. I rediscovered love. And I have never been the same since.

To put it simply, cinema helped me to recapture a voice once lost. I would take my place, my labelled place, before the silver screen. I would watch characters like Donnie Darko, Frank N Furter, Klara Novak, George Bailey and I would drink from them. They made me realise that my life’s power didn’t lay in another’s words, another’s schedule, or another’s expectations. They raised my 19-year-old self’s chin in celebration, and I would let them. Sure, tears fell on dark, confused nights but I could always return to my North Star - the glistening poetry that I owed to these characters.

You may have noticed my recent hiatus across the beginning of February to the end of March. Please know that I never stopped thinking about our time together. I was practically itching to tell you all that I watched, all that I wished to analyse. I had to hold it close, had to let it whir around my brain and infuse into my palms. And they were restless. However, they soon found their place amongst a pyramid of work. The Film Magazine asked me for another article, I was approached for a review of the short film, The Interpreter and I have another Fresh Takes review coming out soon as well. My career suddenly seemed to inflate and glow a sunrise’s hues. I have gotten to share the sweet fruits of my labour with myself and others.

I don’t often relish in the warm, heavy glow of progress. Maybe it’s because its freshness always fades too fast for me. But, it is fair to say that I have definitely worked my arse off and I am proud of it. This even extends to the wrangling of my own personal life, which is similarly draining but equally gratifying. However, all of this work was not without the joys of play. My boyfriend and I had our first date where the bubblegum tones of Barbie serenaded us. Although greatly underwhelmed by its treacly faux-feminism, we had a wonderful time together, both sporting our pink outfits. Our further inductions into each other’s families include my boyfriend’s watches of the animated Barbie films and a list of Cary Grant films, given to me by his mum.

So, as I sit down to write this, another great change has befallen me. I turned 20 several days ago and its stain hasn't quite washed off. Usually, I am only slightly perturbed by my changing age; I will usually wear it for a day or so until it washes out. I spent weeks dreading this day. As I recently explained to my boyfriend, being teenaged feels like a shield; when you’re in your adolescence, nobody blames you for the misgivings and the misdirection. Films have always told me that, when you’re 20, you need to start figuring out the hard stuff. What you want to be, who you want to love, where you want to live, who you should choose to be. And that is terrifying. You cannot hide behind the guise of, ‘I’m just a kid, I didn’t know any better’ any longer.

I know how silly this may sound and I know you may be thinking to yourself, ‘Bella, you’re only 20, stop acting as if you’ve hit 50.’ It’s not that I don’t appreciate my youth. But tell me you don’t wish to hold that younger part of you that you scarcely even recall. I digress - I was anticipating this change and I was in desperate need of a way to channel it. So, what did I do, you ask? Well, I bought a ticket to the movies. 6 tickets, to be exact. I reached out to 5 people in my life and asked them for the perfect film to watch before you turn 20 (plus an addition of my own). So, as the unspoken spirits of time gather around us, let me share the final list with you:

The 6 movies I watched before turning 20 and how they helped me accept my age:

1. Wonder Boys - Edward Lovelace’s Choice

Wonder Boys (2000), directed by Curtis Hanson, follows the life of English Professor Grady Tripp (played by Michael Douglas). As he works through his divorce, he is met with mountainous news: Sara (Frances McDormand), who he is having an affair with, is pregnant. Unsure of his next move, he also begins to get more and more involved in the life of his student, James (Tobey Maguire). Tripp realises James’ potential as a writer but he also becomes aware of how troubled he is. Taking him under his wing proves difficult as Tripp is also attempting to finish a novel. His pushy and sexually ambiguous editor, Terry (Robert Downey Jr) adds extra pressure to his incomplete life’s work.

It was a privilege to open this mini experience with a recommendation from my former interviewee, Edward. He actually gave me a list of 5 films but my time could only accommodate the one. The turn of the month was fast approaching, from March’s uncertainty to April’s endeavour; change was running her fingers through my hair. I was looking to this film to set the scene; I searched every corner of its sage ends to find some guidance, some worldly truths to adopt. And what I found scratched that itch.

Brimming with warmth and hints of yuletide, Wonder Boys felt like a hot chocolate. What I was unprepared for was its depth. In this misguided student/parental teacher dynamic, there was real heartache. Instead of troubled boy, knowing man, we are given troubled boy, troubled man; we see that the universality of human suffering is overturned by our need for passion. In retrospect, this film greatly reminded me of my dad. It’s not necessarily a film I associate with him, but more who he is. He has always been the figure in my life to deliver a movie-monologue. As champion of the phrase ‘you’ll be grand,’ he has always been unafraid to preach of life’s realities. And, I was grateful for a reminder of these tough, yet fundamental discussions; it was a film that simply said, ‘in spite of it all, this is what human beings survive on, by getting on with it.’

Quote that struck me:

‘Why did you keep writing this book if you didn’t even know what it was about?’

‘I couldn’t stop’

2. Petite Maman - My Choice

Petite Maman (2021), directed by Celine Sciamma, is a short film that commences in the throes of bereavement. Eight year old Nelly (played by Josephine Sanz) has just lost her grandmother and she has returned to her mother’s childhood home to clean it. Her mother (Nina Meurisse) is quietly tormented with grief and leaves Nelly with her father (Stephane Varupenne) to finish the tidying. However, as Nelly ventures into the nearby forest, she discovers a girl building a den. She goes back to the girl’s house and is startled at what she finds: the other girl, Marion (Gabrielle Sanz) is the eight year old version of her mother.

A watch that was never planned for this post, Sciamma’s short film caught me off guard. It was late March and I was craving nostalgia. I was craving it like a child craves an ice lolly’s summery shimmer. I spend a lot of my time thinking about my past, as a result of therapy. I have been encouraged to find any way I can to process our work; therefore, I naturally gravitated myself to works surrounding the inner child. Swaddled in a cradle of autumn leaves and swirling soup, I found her, the younger me. She sat beside me, tiny fingers reaching for mine, choppy hair framing inexperienced youth. And, as I left my cinema room at the film’s end, I saw my first butterfly of the year.

There is always a bond of trust, formed between film and viewer. A viewer must trust that the narrative will take them somewhere, the film must deliver. Sciamma’s short film is a framed petal, a dated matchbox, a speck of dust; it is slow, languid and quiet. But, when we trust it, it reveals its secret to us - our inner child is never exempt from who we are. As trees and buildings started to tower around me at my oncoming age, this film steadied me. It took me by the hand, to remind me that our past is our locket, bound to our ever-beating chests. It held me like an adult, it soothed me like a child. It told me that there will be people in your lives who peel back the rings of age and they will see that little you. And we should let them. They are the people we should love.

Quote that struck me:

‘Did you want to have me?’

‘Yes’

‘I’m not surprised. Because I’m already thinking of you.’

3. Good Will Hunting - Naim’s Choice

Good Will Hunting (1997), directed by Gus Van Sant, stars Matt Damon as Will Hunting, a janitor at Harvard. However, he isn’t just a janitor; he possess an expansive intellect, especially in mathematics. After solving a complex theorem, he gains the attention of Professor Gerald Lambeau (played by Stellan Skasgård). However, Lambeau’s road to making Will a student has one main difficulty - Will’s emotional issues. Often seen causing brawls with his friends, Will ends up in court, to be sent to jail. Lambeau intervenes with the promise of an education but with one catch, that he must attend therapy. After Will torments each therapist he is given, Lambeau chases one final option, his old college roommate Sean Maguire (Robin Williams). He agrees to take Will on and soon discovers just how troubled the boy is.

One of my good friends Naim gave me several choices too. From the range of The Iron Giant to The Dark Knight, my eye fell somewhere in the middle. Good Will Hunting is one of those films that I credit with getting me into film. I watched it many years ago, after my first dealing with Covid and I was eager for a rewatch. The day that I watched it spearheaded an intensely difficult weekend for me. I was required to take something of a leap of faith, and to prove myself to those around me. And so, Van Sant’s picture met me like a mentor and it empowered me like a firework.

There were times where I felt Robin Williams’ Sean address me directly. My own experiences in my life have taught me enough to know that words have power. And I can tell you that as a writer too. But, to sit there, and to hear him say ‘You’ll have bad times, but it’ll always wake you up to the good stuff you weren’t paying attention to’ really got to me. It so gently burrowed into me that all I could do was gather fear in my hands and stare at it. I could feel the spring’s breeze and the electric buzz of the unknown. I met it, head on and I let it rest its brow on my chest. That truly is the power of cinema. Because I went onto smash that weekend, to prove what I can achieve. And, I owe so much of that to a therapy session with Sean and Will.

Quote that struck me:

‘You’re always afraid to take the first step because all you see is every negative thing ten miles down the road. But, you can do anything you want, you are bound by nothing.’

4. West Side Story - Grandad’s Choice

West Side Story (1961), directed by Jerome Robbins and Robert Wise, spins out to a modern twist on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Deep in the heart of 1950s Manhattan resides two rival gangs: The Jets and The Sharks. The Jets, a Polish-American group, are aiming to keep the Sharks, Puerto-Rican migrants, off their turf. However, this is all thrown into chaos by the discovery of forbidden love. Former Jet Tony (played by Richard Beymer) falls deeply in love with Maria (Natalie Wood), the sister of the Shark’s leader.

There is a lovely duality within my Grandad - one part of him is all war films, horse racing and football. The other, a gentle passion for music. Calling him up to talk films was a lovely experience that we had never really shared before. I got to hear him talk about the first time he watched Seven Samurai, just after he had turned 20 and just before he married my Nan. But, when mentioning I had never seen the original West Side Story, his disbelief made me intent on watching it. I knew his music tastes were very particular so this truly had to possess some magic.

Much like my viewing of Rocky Horror, West Side Story sent sparks of life shivering through me. There were times where my whole body erupted into goosebumps, a rhythmic samba beating against my skin. The slow descent into dancerly heaven gave me a beaming smile. Each and every emotion crescendos to attain a big, brassy bash - the love of Tony and Maria, the antagonistic relationship of the Jets and the Sharks, the flourish of the multicoloured skirts, the despair of the brawls. But, in the film’s outrageousness hisses a universal truth: they’re just kids, they don’t know any better. When their approaching future calls their name, they combat it with bare fists and infantile outbursts. As the adults around them attempt to civilise them, cool them off, they stand tall as a symbol of adolescent innocence.

Quote that struck me:

‘When do you kids stop? You make this world lousy!’

‘We didn't make it, Doc.’

5. Thelma & Louise - Anna’s Choice

Thelma & Louise (1991), directed by Ridley Scott, is a female buddy movie that boasts a rollercoaster of a narrative. Waitress Louise (played by Susan Sarandon) is trying to get her best friend Thelma (Geena Davis) to take a holiday with her. Both have issues with their respective partners and decide to hit the road together. After stopping at a bar for drinks and a dance, jeopardy ensues. After Thelma is almost raped, Louise shoots the offender. They are suddenly forced to go on the run, which triggers a number of issues. After a run in with the suave J.D. (Brad Pitt), their money is stolen. Soon after, their oblivious attempts at fun are soon soured as the FBI gets on their case.

This was a recommendation from a fellow critic, Anna Smith. I find it very inspirational, to see just how far freelance writers can make it. When I mentioned this list to my mum, she was particularly eager to revisit this film with me. Just before we put it on, she told me that the first time she watched, she was my age. It was then that I realised that I wasn’t just watching a film; I was living out a cyclical moment. Suddenly, I was just a 19 year old girl on the eve of her 20th birthday. Suddenly, all I wanted was to meet my mum the day before she turned 20. So, clearly it was naive of me to assume that the pre-birthday-existential-crisis stopped there.

Watching this with someone else, when you are at completely different stages in life, was extremely thought-provoking. Sure, you can look at this film as just a ‘female buddy movie.’ But, if you look closer, you see a sun-stained, open-road ode to womanhood. It is a unique reminder that the female experience isn’t all tragedy, grace and repression - because, in spite of an attempted rape, these women remain carefree. They continue to chase fun and they continue to let the wind race through their hair. In the faces of slobbish and unfeeling men, they choose the wide open planes of the unknown. It is testament to one of the strongest alliances ever forged - the untouchable vow between a girl and her best friend.

Quote that struck me:

‘Something’s, like, crossed over in me and I can’t go back.’

6. A Matter Of Life and Death - Dad’s choice

A Matter Of Life and Death (1946), directed by Emeric Pressburger and Michael Powell, is rooted in deep post-war overtones. It opens with RAF pilot Peter Carter (played by David Niven) talking to radio operator June (Kim Hunter), before jumping from his burning plane. When he awakes, he meets June once more and the two fall in love. Their peace fails to last as Peter is visited by Conductor 71 (Marius Goring), informing him that an error was made and he must be taken to The Other World. After explaining that he is in love, Peter makes the decision to appeal his case.

My dad always has a knowing air about him when he knows he’s recommended something like this. He knows it’s going to be an experience and so, he remains quiet. I had never actually heard him mention this film to me before; we are always talking about films so this surprised me. I was perhaps the most excited to see his choice as my dad is a very wise man. He’s one of those people who has a deep conversation ready to hand, like loose change rattling deep in a pocket. So, I knew his pick was the perfect way to see off my 19 year old self.

I have to be honest, this took me several attempts to see through. After deciding that overtired nights were not for heavily philosophical plots, an earlier time was decided. And, suddenly, the twilight I was lost in, cleared. A Matter Of Life and Death was made in the hopes of reconciling relations, relations that had been barricaded off and bombed. However, A Matter Of Life and Death shines in its celebrations of life and love. Watching this with my boyfriend strengthened this message for me; it gave me the space to cradle our love tightly to my chest. It preaches of life over death, love over hate, feeling over logic and the ineffable resilience of the human spirit. For yes, we are but small, dwindling marbles, running and tripping from place to place. But, in spite of all we do not know, we know this: warmth, intimacy, reunion and joy - these are the things we continue to run and trip towards.

Quote that struck me:

‘Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, and men below, and saints above; For Love is heaven, and heaven is Love.’

So, as I draw this post to a close, I would like to thank you, my reader. I truly cannot believe a year has befallen us. I often revisit my past reviews, to slide back into the skin of its former writer. She truly was someone new every single time, and her words have changed with mine. It is interesting to see how rough around the edges she used to be; unrestrained by structure and motivated by the seedlings of finding her feet. Much like the changing seasons, I have gathered the leaves she dropped to hang them anew. But, even as this transformation took hold, you have remained here. You have observed it all and I’m sure, if you also look back, you will find a different person staring at you. Make sure you are holding them close, too.

I truly hope you have gained something from my findings. Each of these films represent something we all must cling too: wisdom, the past, vulnerability, joy, friendship and love. I try to live by these things, not as if they were guidelines but as if they were ornamental rings. I can adorn my fingers with them, and they will glisten against my skin with their binding promise. It makes turning 20 much simpler, this way. It is a tale as old as time, sealed to the wrinkles of our skin - time will march ahead and us, with it. There is no other version of this tale. However, it is what we do with this time that is so vital. I believe we must always chase that thing deep inside of us, that thing that hums when you pick up a pen or a camera or a needle and thread.

So, to finally conclude, I wish to leave you with two songs. One I enjoyed in the summer I started this blog, the other is from now. And to quote Anaïs Ninn: ‘I know what my crime is: what human beings only dream, I acted out. I obeyed the dream.’

1. 'Let It Happen’ - Tame Impala

2. 'Touch' - Daft Punk

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In the meantime, I would like to make this post in honour of the recently passed International Women’s Day. To celebrate this, I am delighted to touch on the works of writer and producer Yasmine Alice. I am fortunate enough to be part of the Women In Film community; this is a space where women working in the industry can share support, job opportunities and general advice. It has been a brilliant place to occupy, as I was warmly welcomed by dedicated and inspirational women. In an industry that is so male-dominated, it is rewarding to carve out our markings piece by piece. This is where Yas and I first came into contact and subsequently, where I became aware of her short film.

As the BellaWatchesFilm journey has yet to touch on shorter films, I was eager to view The Interpreter. I have come to realise through this experience just how exciting short films can be. They are tiny morsels of extravagant creativity. To see a director or writer’s earliest visions for their work is immensely thrilling, especially at their birth. I felt privileged, getting to witness the fruitful seeds of inspiration being sown. And, with a myriad of potent meanings at its helm, The Interpreter is awash with marvellous potential.

The Interpreter (2024), directed by Andrea M. Catinella, stars Yasmine Alice as Belma, a Turkish interpreter for the NHS. In the throes of a breakup, she is forced to go to a hospital to meet two patients. The first is a woman with severe schizophrenia, Kamelya (played by Eda Çatalcam). Dr Aashvi (Rushika Jain), Kamelya’s supervising doctor, seems jaded and irritable at their meeting. After harrowing consequences ensue, Belma is rushed to her next appointment. Here, she meets Melahat (Nilgün Direncay), a deeply sick woman with Alzheimers. Belma must interpret for Melahat’s husband Ahmet (Oscar Reed) and she is forced to deliver unbearable news. Melahat’s doctor Dr Kofi (Mensah Bediako) seems fatigued and buried deep by the weights of his patient’s struggles. How will Belma cope with the onslaught of disturbing experiences, coupled with her personal issues?

Rooted in real-life experiences, The Interpreter is jarringly raw, and as honest as a diary entry. It is practically ghostly, as we drift from ward to ward to stare at the lost eyes of numbered patients. Every cinematographic touch is executed with a detailed hand; it is engineered to hollow deep into your bones. The sea-sickened greens, the melancholy blues and the granite greys allow the harshness of The Interpreter’s reality to swallow you whole. This is accentuated by the direction of Catinella, who seeks to place us firmly within Belma’s shoes. He creates a clear divide between the first and second patient, with the uses of the Dutch Angle and close-ups. The first, highlights the almost surreal struggle of a doctor’s daily life. The second, positioning us in the fore-front of love’s battle against Alzheimer’s. Although two distinct flavours are presented, they harmonise to remind us of universal suffering.

Alice’s writing creates an inescapably intense atmosphere for the viewer, but it is dialled back to provide emotional charges at the right times. For instance, Kamelya’s dialogue is profanity-infused and full of venom. It highlights the trauma Belma’s capacity to cope with her environment and the reality of Kamelya’s condition. This later develops into desperate emotion that rings true to the state of Britain’s healthcare. Dr Kofi’s line ‘trust me, I need support’ hits with a resounding thud against your chest. Alice doesn’t want to leave any space for the viewer; she is forcing you to confront an experience she has lived. Coupled with the soundtrack’s solitary piano notes, a portrait of candid suffering is created.

Flooded with message upon message, The Interpreter stands tall as a beacon of defiance. With over 300,000 Turkish speakers in Greater London alone, the film depicts a rarely-acknowledged community. Through its biggest asset, its brutal honesty, a message of outrage is delivered. It speaks to the broader issues in the British healthcare system, as Turkish interpreters are often recruited with little training. Additionally, they are given sparse aftercare to deal with the difficulties they face. Alice’s experience as an interpreter provides the backbone for this message. Films like this are integral to understanding and learning from experiences we hear so little about. The fractured communication, the desperation to help, the short time given to establish trust - this is a bold ode to the strength of these interpreters.

The life stories that inspired The Interpreter are clear to see in each performance. Alice’s performance as Belma was all within her eyes. Down-turned, dark and darting constantly around, her deep unease is imbued within us. At times, it doesn’t just feel like a matter of acting; Belma’s character feels like a vehicle of unheard tragedy. The surrounding performances of the various doctors and patient help to expand upon this. Eda Çatalcam gives a deeply harrowing portrayal of schizophrenia, eliciting deep reactions of despair from her audience. Again, the wider comment on the state of mental health support is powerfully felt here. Similarly, the performance of Mensah Bediako as Dr Kofi cuts close to the bone; when he performs, it feels as though we are watching through a hospital window, rather than a screen. It also adds further depth to the film, showing us the often-over-looked struggles of NHS doctors.

It is hard not to be impressed at the sheer truth that comes hand in hand with this picture. The messages of love in all forms do feel a little lost at times, the overall backbone of the film brims with volume. I have always perched my love of films upon the stand of human perspective; no two films will ever have the same lens over a certain experience. This short film is a reminder that each picture you see is a window into a certain corner of the world. Sometimes that corner is flourishing and bright, and sometimes that corner is dark, quiet. Every corner is a necessary viewing to remind us of the totality of our humanness. I highly encourage you to seek out films like these, for those reasons. So, The Interpreter has received a 4/5 from me.

You can catch the world premiere at the London Independent Film Festival on the 24th of April and the North American premiere at Sunscreen Film Festival from the 25th-28th of April.

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As you can probably tell, All Of Us Strangers is a film that has made me very reflective; much like Aftersun (2022), it is of the heaviest, fullest kind of sorrow. It’s easy to then imagine my surprise at its lack of Oscar nominations, especially for its performances. But, if we look at the general and critical reactions, we see something different. We can see that its light has poured itself into so many souls that it almost drowns them. Cinemagoers have walked into screenings, to leave hand-in-hand with their 8 or 9 year old selves. So, as the credits rolled and I dried my eyes, I found myself returning to my notepad. And, I felt a marvellous sense of poetical remembrance swallow me whole.

Also, as I know this is a new release, please read at your own risk. There will be spoilers ahead.

All Of Us Strangers (2023), directed by Andrew Haigh, tells several tales that blur and blend, like watercolour stains. Adam (played by Andrew Scott), is a writer who lives in a lonely apartment block in London. One night, a drunken Henry (Paul Mescal) shows up at his door for a very flirty exchange. Adam politely turns him away, but their encounter causes a dramatic change to his life. As they begin to see more of each other, Adam is taken back to his family home and to his parents. However, these are not ordinary visits. We learn that his parents died 30 years ago and that, whenever he visits them, their home and mannerisms are frozen in time. So, will Adam work through his grief? And, how will his newfound relationship with Henry grow in conjunction?

Much like the faltering promises of an aged postcard, All Of Us Strangers is magnetically tragic. It occupies a space that cannot be charted on any map, a sea of memory and fragile reality. Haigh drenches every scene in colour, and the narrative blushes and burns with it. The scenes from the present - volatile blues, liquid lavenders, all punctuated by a blood red sun. Adam can often be seen keeping one eye on the sky, as if it were a warning. The scenes from the 80s are lit dimly, like a child’s bedroom. We come to realise, through the colour grading, how garish Adam’s present is. The score reflects this further, with an intertwining mix of moody tones and potent 80s hits; the echoing refrains of Frankie Goes to Hollywood and The Pet Shop Boys are nostalgically haunting. This duality gives way to mystery; deliciously unsettled by its atmosphere, we feel the tectonic plates of reality forever shifting.

Any director who has the courage to portray fiercely emotional topics should be celebrated and Andrew Haigh is no exception. The film does not shy away from the difficulties of coming out to a relative. Frozen in time, Adam’s mum has little comprehension of how far society has progressed. There is a cutting disconnect, as Adam has to explain the concept of same-sex marriage to her. However, what resonated with me was the portrayal of Adam’s inner child. Throughout the film, there are whispers of his younger self. Then, there are screams. In one deeply moving scene, Adam embraces the suspended memory of his father. In a mirrored reflection, we then see Adam, as a child, hugging his father. I quickly put my fingertips to my neck to feel tears claim my skin. It was beautiful, to share a moment with this film. To grieve what we had lost.

Andrew Scott’s performance as Adam should be heralded as a masterclass in vulnerability. His scenes in Adam’s childhood home were the standouts; wrapped in a blanket of grief and 80s memorabilia, he is lost to a siege of memories. His eyes are gentle, quietly brimming with tears as he clings to his parent’s memories. Even as he represses his inner child, we can always see him, hidden in the lines of his face. Scott elicits a desperation from the audience, to protect and save. In particular, his attempts to connect with his parents are almost unwatchable. It is a layered performance, consisting of withheld grief, of unprocessed memories. He staggers from clubs to his parent’s bed in a drunken haze; we lose all comprehension of reality alongside him but his tentative air is never abandoned.

Mescal and Scott’s chemistry is unreservedly passionate. There is a sense of divinity between them, and every word they exchange, a prayer. Mescal plays Henry with a mysteriousness and with a nurturing softness. As their relationship blossoms and as Adam deteriorates, Henry is there to soothe him. But, Mescal doesn’t simply play this role as the giver; he is seemingly haunted by ghosts from which he also needs saving. As Scott’s counterpart, Mescal’s performances serves to enhance the trials endured by Adam. He creates space for Scott, allowing us to cherish the moments where Adam bares his soul.

Similarly, Claire Foy and Jamie Bell’s performances filled the picture out, shading it with emotional nuance. There is an unnatural discordance that surrounds them; it is as if they had been plucked from a photo-album. Like a Dickensian-illusion, they are bound by the constraints of life, of time. It is deeply tragic to try and watch Adam’s parents fight against this. Foy’s performance felt other-worldly; her wide eyes are beset with tears, as she tries to find her little boy in Adam. And, when this becomes too difficult, she will go back to tucking him in, changing his clothes. Bell’s performance as Adam’s laddish father poses us an unanswerable question: is it ever okay to name the cracks in how we were raised? His veil of cigarette smoke and vinyl music is broken by this question; all he wants, is to go back and comfort the little boy he would tune out.

As the plot progressed, the film seems to slide from your grip. As Adam’s grief tightens its hold, his days run on, his evenings heaving against one another; it becomes hard to know what we are even seeing. As a consequence, scenes started to feel muddled and long-winded, like the club sequence. Everything feels so surreal, so liminal, that we are unable to anchor ourselves to the impending conclusion. This then leaked into the final act itself, leaving it rushed and abrupt. Henry’s suicide and the parent’s departure dropped like weighty bombs in the chest - but, they failed to leave a lasting impact. Each disrupted the gravity of the other, undermining the intensity that the film had cultivated. So, I have decided to give All Of Us Strangers a 4/5 stars.

I have found that, for the first time in this blog, emotion has seized my every word. With each scene I recalled, a point of connection could be found. Tucked away in the corner of a room, in the shadow of a photograph, in the comfort of the Christmas lights - all contained reminders of something I am trying to run from. Without sharing too much detail, I have been going through an experience that requires me to dig back through my past. I have been running the lines of my 19 year old fingertips over snapshots of childish memories. I have spent days wondering to myself: can she feel this? can she feel me searching for her?

It was in this place, that I found my thoughts constantly drifting back to All Of Us Strangers. It seemed to meet me, just at the right time; it met me like an old friend waiting at a coffee shop. It provided me the greatest service that a movie can: it pressed its palm to my chest and uttered the words: ‘I can feel this too.’ So, to circle back to this blog’s subtitle, it will always be the vulnerable directors, those unafraid to depict pain, that will be the most rewarded. Why? Because they give us shelter. They give us space to feel. So, as I leave this slice of catharsis here, I will depart from you with a lyric that has spun around my mind. As Freddie Mercury once sang,

‘Can’t we give ourselves one more chance?

‘Why can’t we give love that one more chance?’

- “Under Pressure,” Queen and David Bowie.

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