THE CORK FILM FESTIVAL (1)

Cork Recently had its 50th annual Film Festival. I decided to check it out, mainly 'cause I don't have a telly. Here is a selection:

Minotauromaquia: Pablo Into The Labyrinth

This is basically Wallace and Gromit in Spanish. Except Wallace has become Pablo Picasso and Gromit is transformed into a big ‘aul friendly beast of the underworld intent on eating poor old Wallace. For ten minutes we see Wallace wander around a labyrinth where he’s confronted with images of his own artistry. The Wrong Trousers are there, as is that yoke he uses to wash windows. Except that it’s not Wallace remember? It’s Pablo Picasso and so the things he meets are big plasticine doodles
which frighten the bejaysus out of him. How could ‘magic morla’ be used in such a scary adult way? Bosco must be rolling in his grave.

Jean Luc Picard was worried when he suddenly found himself in the audition line for creature comforts


The Exorcism of Emily Rose

A trouser-soilingly good scary film. Based on a true story (probably in the same way as Braveheart was historical and Fahrenheit 9/11 was a documentary) the film focuses on the trial of Father Moore, who seems a goodly man, if only for the fact that he’s on trial for something other than playing polishing the candle-holders with the alter-boys. In a series of flashbacks, we’re told of the fate of Emily, who starts off as a mile epileptic psychotic but ends up being possessed by six demons, including Hitler, Nero and even Lucifer. Honestly, at least Regan only had the devil – six is just plain greedy. Jennifer Carpenter does a convincing and terrifying turn as the embattled Emily Rose, without any pea-soup in sight. I like a good scary film, but this one almost made me have an accident. Honestly, at particular moments, I thought my rectum would prolapse, or at least leave the mark of Flash for future generations on the Cork Opera House seats. Upon leaving, I listened to the uppity techno-bable of the seasoned movie buff around me. “I think the use of music was executed with hitchcockian perfection” uttered one velvet-jacketed poseur; another may have said “I think the lighting was inconsistent and served only to labour the point on some occasions.” And then there was me: “I think I shat my pants!” Which would have been as effective as any review.

Emily Rose:
Never playfully dollop ketchup on your girlfriend’s forehead when she’s having her monthlies:
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RID YOUR HOME OF CANADIANS OR YOUR MONEY BACK

I finally managed to oust all of the Canadian contingent of Cork. Clara had been gone for many months, Kim recently also toddled off to meet her, and Ellie – my roommate who taught me all about my ‘horny electricity’ – jetted off to sunny Bilbao to impress her whirlwind canuck-Irish temperance on an unsuspecting basque population. She’s probably one of the more explosive things to pass through that country in recent times.

The taxi-driver rapped on our door promptly at 5 a.m. on the morning of their departure, heard by everyone except Ellie and her fella Javi themselves. Not wanting to barge into her bedroom, I decided to call her by phone. I had to ring her several times, which is no mean feat considering the only way I can get reception is by pressing my face up against the third floor bathroom window or leaving the house entirely and going up to the grotto up the road where the Virgin Mary seems to be a good conduit for talking to more than just God. But she was smiling at me that day, I managed to place a call through to Ellie from our living room - and I gave Mary a thankful nod through the window from where we can see her glow in her neon-blue electric holiness. A few minutes later I heard a shuffle and a panicked ruckus, before they finally spilled out the door of 53 Ballyhooley Road for the last time. She knocked on my door to offer me an appreciative teary goodbye. She got in return a heartfelt pillow-muffled “nynnngg”.

As if clocking in for their Canadian-in-Cork shift, Clara and Kim returned just as Ellie left. It was nice to see them again though, especially Clara who had gone missing for an age and a half. It’s always interesting to hear a foreigner's take on things Irish, the absurdity of things buried in a peat-bog of multiple absudities, where oddities of our land are preserved but forgotten about.
"Your ads on T.V are crazy" Kim said with a poignant eloquence that somehow broke through her beery slurs, "every second one is for some sort of yogurt or something that helps your digestion. All the others are for loans. You guys have to stop spending money on expensive yogurts that help your digestion and then you wouldn't need loans." I was about to argue that Ireland isn't in fact obsessed with it's digestive tract when Clara kindly reminded me of that chat-up line I used on her: "Do you want to come in for a cup of tea? I've got peppermint tea, you know it's very good for your digestion..." More fool her though. The line actually worked.

Now that that double-act have again departed, Cork is more serene place. No longer is there a whiney north-American drawl to razor-blade through the silence, no longer does the beamish-and-dogshit Cork air have to carry the impossibly-loud octave of a people who must all live very far apart from one another 'cause all they seem to do is shout. And do you know what? I'm going to miss it. After spending so long bumping randomly into Canadians - after for so long not really believing it was a real country at all - the silence will be deafening.
Oh well, I've plenty of hillarious accents around me to keep me happy for a while. I do live in Cork after all.