We Need To Talk About Kevin

Film makers and authors alike have always enjoyed taking pot shots at the percieved facade of the suburban American family.
Ever since the mowing of the green lawns and the proping up of the white picket fences, the families that dwell within them have often been at the mercy of artists.
Whether it has been the escaped convicts of The Desperate Hours (1955) and Cape Fear (1962) that have bullied and tormented or the malfunctions of relationships portrayed in Revoultionary Road (2008) and American Beauty (1998) eroding its values, over the years suburban American families have taken a pasting.
Lynn Ramsey's 'We need to Talk About Kevin' leaves it truly in pieces, the picket fence burnt down, the green lawn torn up and Tilda Swinton's character Eva anxiously scratching red paint off the door.
'We Need To Talk About Kevin' an adaptation of Lionel Shrivers book of the same name, turns motherhood and the family base into the subject of horror. The threat does not come from relationship obstacles or escaped convicts but from the creation of a family member. Kevin (Ezra Miller) torments his mother from the pain of his birth and incessant screams of his infancy until the last time we see him.
Kevin unlike Eva is not a complex character, although there are instances in the film where his actions betray his natural behaviour, it all feels a little contrived. There are moments in the film, particuliarly during Kevin's childhood, where it seems that Kevin's eyes might turn red and his teddy bear might spontaneously combust. It is not always believable or interesting that he can be so rotten to his core when most of the film is portrayed with such arresting realism. The pantomine villany of Kevin is salvaged by the incredible performance of Tilda Swinton as Eva, a character that remains truly ambiguos throughout, her plain expressions hint at a strict coolness but her persistance and care with her son demonstrates her warmth. Swinton's character never gives too much away but the lingering menace of her son stays within her mind through out. 'We Need To Talk About Kevin' is a horror film without suspense,the horror is not impending but ever present. Eva is always immersed in the blood of her son's crimes, from her memory of the squashed tomatoes at the la tomatina festival she went to as a student to the cans of tomato soup that surround her in the supermarket, the horror stays with both Eva and the viewer.
There are several excellent shots that take seemingly pleasant or inocous moments and taints them with a sinister edge, the reflection of Eva's face in bent metal as she gives birth or the herd of ballerinas that surround her. All of this ofset by a notable soundtrack which juxtaposes itself rather than blending in. 'We Need To Talk About Kevin' is both chilling and arresting and only slightly let down by the Omen esque performance of ezra miller.

going back...

I'm going back to Korea soon... With a pinch of luck I'll be there in early January or early February but it won't be far away. In all honest, once I'm there... I don't know if I'll ever want to go home.
Korea was magic when I was there in 2010 and most of 2011... it was so different to the monotony of home... the buzzing neon signs... the tall green mountains... the beautiful girls.. the fiery food. I enjoyed every second of it, I savoured every moment... Never in my life was I happier, never in my life did I feel so good. I made wonderful friends with Koreans and foreigners alike, I started to get pretty good at the language and I was running three times a week.

Coming home.. has just confirmed my worst fears.... recession, depression, the mundane and the redundant. The fucking television that just goes on and on and on and on and on. The boring, miserable people who speak in cliche's and retired old turns of phrase. Ask them about meaning and they will look non plussed. Ask them how they are feeling after a night of drinking and their eyes light up. It's sad miserable place with nothing to do... most nights I spend in front of my laptop chewing my fingers. Telling disinterested colleagues about Korea. Only my family and friends I care about it.

Is living in Korea just putting off reality? When I moan about England am I simply throwing my hands in the air about the cards I was dealt or drew for myself ?
Alot of people in Korea (foreigners) think of Korea as a refuge point, a place where those who can't or won't fit in back home are settled. Korea is a place to run to for some folks. I met some really cool people in Korea first time round, there were some wall flowers, party animals too. There are also people in Korea who really seem like they couldn't fit in anywhere, obnoxious, oafish people that bothered everyone, even well meaning, ultra polite koreans.

I don't know where I fit in with it all and I don't know if I'm running away from somewhere or running too somewhere. I feel like I'm made to feel guilty because I feel happy. An easy life is a false life. I don't know why I feel like that, in Korea I didn't borrow any money. I didn't get a loan... I got a free apartment but that is what was offered by my work. I taught kids (which I loved) and I worked very hard for 5 days a week. It still feels like cheating.

It feels like cheating because when I watch the news I watch my country creaking over the edge, I see unemployment figures soaring and I know that with a degree and a clean criminal record, I can escape the monotony and the prospect of a painful jobless adulthood.

Maybe it's because I dont value my degree or because I don't think it's much of a challenge living on planet mars.

I want to go back to Korea and I want to do the best possible job I can.
I want to make money and save money.
I want to be there for a long time and I want to feel good about it.

FAME

Have this nagging idea about a tv series/book thing, about someone trying to get famous (Yes,I know there's a famous musical called Fame) but the series/book would have pretty dark undertones.

Two ideas that I've been fooling around with are an opening passage or piece of dialogue and an idea I had about a Comedian who kills people in order to tell tasteless jokes about their deaths.

The Opening passage/dialogue piece would go something like this

"Andy Warhol once said that everyone would be famous for 15 minutes but he didn't tell everyone what they would be famous for. I guess you don't really have a say in the matter, I mean what is it that your going to become famous for? Are you gonna be the lead singer of a band or write a children's book about a dog who can travel through time? Everyone could live with that kind of fame. I always wonder how it's going to strike me, am I gonna end up winning an Oscar? Or I am gonna get the kind of fame no-one wants, like being one of 10 poor barstards killed in an aircrash or ending up like one of those sad cunts who find a potato shaped like Mary Magdalen or do I end up living in a town with 100 people who have the share the same fucking name or some shit like that. Everyone was going to be famous at least for 15 minutes but you can be famous for walking around Sainsbury's with a shotgun, at this point in time that's not the kind of fame I wanted"

I also have amateur porn in my mind...I think there's something hilarious about amateur porn.

I would take some themes from Alain De Button's 'Status Anxiety' I think there are some excellent themes to be discussed within that work.

I would use it as an opportunity to talk about how our desire for fame is really our desire for love and attention.

I would talk about social evolution how people once known as 'unfortunates' are now known as 'tramps' or 'the homeless'

Musings

I got up at 5.30 am this morning, my body clock has been twisted up due to late finishes and an inability to go to bed.

There was a power cut around 6.00, I had been reading the "the rough guide to South Korea" before everything turned black.

It's been over 2 months since my ex-girlfriend went to Australia, I must admit I feel better, feelings of grief were replaced by feelings of loneliness which were replaced a feeling of resentment. Although my general mood is better and I dwell far less on it than I had been, I don't think I could have a normal conversation with her.

Where a week ago I would have told her how I missed her and loved her, this week I would be pretty rude. I suppose this is how one deals with loss, one just tries to apply a mind set that they are comfortable with but I must say I don't miss her much anymore.

I feel somewhat stagnant at the moment, all my studies officially ended at the end of September and the results of which were revealed at the end of November. I plan to go to Korea next year but I often find myself consumed by nagging doubts, that I can't handle living away for so long, that I'll just do a midnight run, that I'll struggle to fit in, struggle to teach, maybe normal things for any prospective English teacher.

I am working many hours over the christmas holidays, I have found that chewing gum is a great stress reliever and also stimulates the brain. I don't know if there is any evidence in these claims but I would swear by the stuff for busy shifts!

I pretty much write this blog for myself but for those who are interested I work in a bar which has been the case for around two years.

blaar

1.

I want you to remember this.

I want you to remember how this felt when you sat nested in your large black coat, drunk and tired staring at the empty branches across the road that cracked and split the sky.

I want you to remember your insides.

I want you to remember how you rocked back and forth and how you told yourself "This is hard, this is hard, this is so hard."

I want you to remember how half of you felt like it peeled off the same way the bright leaves of summer trees did.

You should know that you cried as you wrote this, you listened to Into Dust by Mazzie Star and you tried to drain yourself of every tear that was left in you.

I want you to know how fucking lonely you felt and how helpless.

2

It is 12 months from now, I am seeing my grandfather without his shirt for the first time, they have attached him to an array of wires and tubes, numbers on screens that do not make sense to me surround him.

It is 11 months from now, I am speaking to Darren in Havana and talking with him, asking him when he is due to start working where I do.

It is New Years Day, I am sat in a hotel lobby with Vicky, Jade and Darren, we are drunk and drinking tea, I insist on going home but I stay. Earlier I had asked Darren what Vicky's story was.

It is January, I am at the beach staring out at wind turbines, it is late in the evening.

It is 5 weeks ago I am sitting in my room, and I am crying over her for the first time.

now February, she will tell me how she feels in ways that I will not be able to comprehend, we will kiss for the first time.

We will agree that it is weird. We will not stop.

March and we make love for the first time, she tells me how comfortable she is with me. I feel the same.

It is a month from now and I am telling her I will never speak to her again, she is crying.

It is May and we are in London, we are lost.

we are in Norwich walking around with neon sunglasses. I fall in love with her.

It is September we are sitting on the train she is giving me my birthday gifts, I know she is leaving soon.

It is yesterday I am rocking back and forth on a wall telling myself how hard this feels.

THING

It started like so many nights before , 6 maybe 7 pints of lager , 5 vodka tonics and I have no idea how many cigarettes.
I left the pub under the thick lashes of winter rain and promptly found myself spinning over the mirrored kerb and tussling with my pockets.
I knew I had a few ciggies left , I knew that because I had bought 16 for about £8,
I knew that because I had bought 16 for about £8, 16 for £8, Malboro maybe , I don't know, 16 for £8.
I remember the grey tint of the clubs and the people I passed , the long slow blur of the night. I remember going on about those fags, I remember my lonely mumur and hissing.
I remember looking in the mirror and seeing a tragedy , a puffed up drunk face, tired red eyes and a distant expression.
I suppose of all of it , it was the expression that I think of most now , a long resigned stare, not surprised at the mess it saw before it.
By the time I got to the bus stop , I had found my cigarettes and sat slumped against the glass.
I remember an old muslim lady sat across from me , I remember how strictly she stared out into the road , bunched up and frail, putting on a brave face.
I thought about saying hello , about telling her not to worry , about telling her I was alright. Then I thought, why lie ? I wasn't alright , I was a cunt , pissed again, on my own, on a fucking wednesday at 35.You only get to this point when you've kept pushing away at people.
I think I probably slept on the bus, because a chunk of it is a blank, I was so pissed though I probably went and gave the old woman a load of abuse or sat at the back of the bus and sung the national anthem.
I remember coming home and pissing in the hedge , I remember that because a light upstairs went on and pretty soon after I had piss all over my trouser leg.
After that I don't really remember.



The class room this morning is busy, it's the first week back from term, like a gym in January, full of the misplaced optimism of people who will never change. I expect a third of these faces will attend every lecture I give maybe another third will go to over half of the lectures and the others I won't see until after Easter.
I couldn't say now that I didn't care, I didn't use to, the money was the same and so were the hours but the job had taken a hold of me. I had taken an interest in what

short story (edp)

this is a short story , I entered for the EDP short story competition , I listened to alot of zero 7 and air when I was writing the summer idyll bits and mars by gustav holt for the parts in itallic. The theme of the competiton was "Norfolk : a county of stories" , I hate the title massively.




The Poppies Of Aylsham
Warm air breathed through the sunny reeds of grass, the little emerald stems of grass dancing with childhood abandon. Above only the blue sky, those long vast acres of distant heaven that not the Saxons, the Vikings nor the Normans had ever seized. Distant erratic sounds gently appeared and then fluttered away basking in the beauty of a rural scene. Along with the thin clean air Reg breathed it in, he would also breathe in the dignity of the tall old oaks that lined the fields, the useless twittering swallows that darted around with seemingly no essential purpose and the serenity of being home.

Lost in all its empty beauty Reg could see Tom and Jack hiding in the grass, buried within the rough . Jiggling with laughter they pushed their stubby little digits against their mouths and hissed at each other to hush as not to be found. Their poor tiny legs did them no good as they tried to stand, falling over their clumsy young stumps hoping that Reg would not see them.

Reg looked a little more, allowing them to suspend their illusion of invisibility , he turned his head slowly, furrowing his brow, every part of his face was a caricature , his thin lips screwed up and his eyes intensely sharpened. The more confused he looked, the more the long grass would giggle, the more a patch of it would wriggle and shake.

"Now wherever could they be ?" he asked aloud

There you were sat in the pub, the golden light of a summer evening falling through the window, drinking ale with the boys , talking about how you would miss old Aylsham but you would be back soon with tales of all the things you had done, serving king and country. How you loved those boys as if they were your brothers, singing and laughing, your blood and theirs . When Christmas came you'd all be back as heroes, how you felt you would be young forever.

Reg walked a little closer , deliberate in the pantomime of his walk , slowly and steadily pacing around the grass.

"sshhh… shhh… be quiet, he's gorta find us" he heard little Jack say
" I am being quiet" Tom gasped.

As Reg heard the laughing stop , he darted for them both, his hands outstretched yet only finding more field. Perhaps there was more in the minds of these young boys than Reg had thought, he was underestimating the wily little cubs.

Sitting upon the earth, somewhat tired, Reg thought he would leave the boys until they tired a little or it at least until it grew darker.

The sodden black dust threw up again, those long piercing screams whistling through the air and then coming violently at the ground. You had never seen a look in a man's face like that before, the crippling fear choked him dumb. Under your feet you felt the lice and the earth, under your feet you felt it waiting, coming like a promise.

After a while, Reg picked himself up and decided to walk home , knowing little peeps of laughter would follow him to the village. Taking them by invisible reins he walked toward the village , where he could share the burden of responsibility for the boys.

Little Tom Feek and little Jack Yaxley, effervescing in a summer orb, where time gently passes and things were slowing down, they tumbled around and screamed with laughter.

It comforted Reg to hear them happy, it helped him make sense of why he went away and for whom he had gone away.

Tom, the older of the two boys, would often decide what they would do, his days seemed to be spent in tireless pursuit , he enjoyed the simple things of childhood the most, were it running , hiding or playing sport , they were skills he took to with ease.

Reg noticed how Tom seemed to enjoy the beautiful triviality of these things and he also noticed how in Tom there was a nature that people could often draw from, people would often seek to see themselves in him, to relive their past.

How all of this county and all of this country seemed to be open for Tom, Reg often thought, how anything the boy wanted he could have.

Sucked up by the damn mud and ground, he held his trembling hands up, screaming for his mother. Screaming for her to take him from here, this land of twisted steel, this land of vile dirt and wailing skies. You were supposed to come home with him, that's what you had promised to his mother. You had heard him drawing sharp and panicked breaths crying himself to sleep, they had never told you or the boy. You went back for him and held his grip, you can not forget the way that bony, trembling white thing felt against your skin, you can not forget the promises he made you keep through his shortened breath, you will not let yourself forget.

Jack was not so fortunate , early on in his life he had been troubled by the obstacles handed down to him from his short sighted mother and clumsy father. He would amble and lag behind when the two lads played together and often when they hid it was Jack's feet or his arms Reg would see sticking out from the grass or behind a tree. Even at the age of 8 he seemed to wobble precariously over the earth , slowly and carefully chasing his young friend.

There was a sensibility in Jack that Tom admired , even in their young years Tom could never bring himself to tease Jack were he unable to climb as high as him , or stopped to breathe when they had been running as poor Jack often did. Tom loved his friend Jack because it was Jack who had nursed Tom's grazed knee when he had fallen , it was Jack who never rose to anger or being unkind . There was a safety in Jack's presence that Tom felt he could bathe himself in, a feeling that he would always have his friend around if anything bad were to happen.

You would have told him if he had lived that poor snivelling boy, no use to anyone in this hell, go home lad, you thought to yourself. If you shoot yourself in the foot, they'll let you go, they won't waste much time over a clumsy lad who couldn't hold his gun for the trembling. Sometimes you would look over at him staring in the distance, his gaze held at the empty grey skies wondering how soon he would be dead.
That's what bites at you the most , that nags and will not end its choke, the faces of those that were afraid, those who could not kick a stone in anger let alone kill a man , forced out here, in this scorched terrain.

Reg walked toward St. Michael's and the boys were now ahead, the old cobbled house of god before them, how stiff and straight it looked. The gravestones were another matter , age had bent the old grey planks crooked , their crumbling faces no longer bearing names.

The cenotaph , they had cared for well, it's dignity had not been worn by the crashing tides of time and against its concrete spine were the poppies, little red darlings, nestling safely against the stone.

Safe is what they would always be now , safe in the small green field of St. Michael's church , safe at home again.

Reg looked at the cenotaph again and saw the names of TOM FEEK and JACK YAXLEY , hearing the boys laughing again , he thought he would leave them here a while , wishing he had time to stay.