If there was a concise historical volume of my cinematic pilgrimage, it will probably open with the little joys of childhood transpired on a screen. The brief whir of the VHS as it loads the tape of “101 Dalmatians”, the vague memory of sitting in a theatre for the first time at around 7 years old after I pestered my mother to bring me to a screening of a local film because I liked the actress, and trips to the…

My mornings are doors that stir with the crawling light, shut each day in the arrival of the evening where the sun glints and vanishes along the cracks, and dead stars glow across the quilt of the gloaming skies. I was once an infant. I was once a child. I was once an adolescent. Today, I am still becoming myself, and thereafter will be taken by the wrinkles and the scars I bear, the fading colour of time in my…

A bleak British vivarium of social realism gritty in the trapped aimlessness it encloses a troubled teenage girl’s turbulent home life on a council estate. Thrumming with silent desperation in every frame, Mia tethers herself to the stifling sprawl of urban decay, adrift in a society that refuses to see her, her every outburst a muffled plea to be seen, to be noticed, to be looked after. Amongst unlimited sticks of cigarettes, these bottles of booze, she copes, imitating the…

Choreographed with Bakeresque style, Gia Coppola’s “The Last Showgirl” makes good stage for its revue of sincerity. However, it is rendered wanting with its narrative’s tendency to twirl around its thematic conflicts. Bathed in the sun by day and drenched in the glimmering Las Vegas lights by night, its people navigate the darkness of their circumstances along the discordant tune of work and artistic ion, of art and nudity. Consequences and regrets echo all over. In the midst of it…

the heavy snowfall in Moonlit Winter piles up along the driveway and the streets and is laboriously shovelled and cleared out the next day only to pile up again. an allusion to feelings tucked in so long ago that ebbs and flows whenever the switch of memories is flicked on and off. 

where there is vulnerability in communication through undelivered letters, words muttered in the air without a response, phrases written on paper without a reader, longing gushes ragingly amidst…

“you know, either everyone feels like this a little bit, and they're just not talking about it, or I'm completely fucking alone. which isn't fucking funny.”

my thoughts, my thoughts, my thoughts...

obviously I’m not able to catch the play at a theatre because I currently live in Narnia nor are there any screenings near me but I managed to find a copy somewhere. other than visiting a country last May I think watching the series is the only other…