I'm a big fan of deadpan but something in MQFF's closing night film, Women Who Kill, out-deadpanned me.
I didn't find enough in the "is my lover a serial killer" schtick to involve me, chemistry or comedy wise.
I didn't buy the performances by Ingrid Jungermann and Ann Carr as ex-lovers or by Sheila Vand as the (potentially murderous) object of affection.
I didn't find Jungermann's screenplay or direction at all compelling.
I didn't stay awake.
Not an auspicious way…
I've had a long held fascination with beats. I've never actually participated in their indiscriminate open air loving (not knowingly anyway) but I've spent hours watching from the sidelines. It helps that I live directly across from one, at least I did until the police locked it up. But even if I didn't, these public places where "men who have sex with men" have sex with "men who have sex with men" are pretty common. Therein lies the fascination.
A heads up for you: critical distance is going to be an issue here. As soon as the credits rolled on Xavier Dolan's (controversial) Cannes Grand Prix winning It's Only the End of the World (Juste la fin du monde) the world came crashing down. I had to bolt from the cinema. I left friends in their seats. I wrapped myself in music. I walked streets of Sydney using shaking limbs to re-erect walls to hold the flooding tears at…