Articles

While a triumph in visual pleasure, Filipe Matzembacher ’s and Marcio Reolon ’s Night Stage  left much to be desired on the narrative front. It had potential to go much further, tipping towards something I hoped would leave me thrilled and satisfied, yet moments of brilliance seemed to only exist as glimpses, fizzling out into an ending that - while bold - still left me wanting more. Night Stage  centres on theatre performer Mateo (Gabriel Faryas). While competing against h

Growing up surrounded by religion, alongside the stark objection to it, I have struggled all of my life with my relationship with what God is, and what faith is. Constantly fighting against myself, trying to force belief, and then picking away at whatever belief I thought I had. Most people I know attended religious schools, and although that religion was different to the one I was raised in, the ideals of God, traditions, and teachings were always there for everyone, lurking

Director Lynne Ramsay has never been deterred by challenging material, and her adaptation of Ariana Harwicz’s novel Die, My Love is no exception. I was lucky enough to view an early screening of the highly anticipated film at Leeds International Film Festival (LIFF) and, despite the mixed commercial reception, I found myself siding with the contrastingly positive view taken by critics. Ramsay’s consistent and bold direction makes Die My Love an immersive experience that deman

I feel like I’m in a constant waiting game. Waiting for you to let me in Waiting to see you again Waiting for, forever. Time is suspended. Miles stretch like elastic Sound won't echo Foundations remain scaffolding and Everyone knows your name. The phantom I’ve framed my future around, Framed it for— Like a piece of unknown artwork, with an unwilling muse. Still, you hang on the interior of my mind. Is this a requited feeling? Do they know the artist or have I remained a frame

Pressed into my hands without consolation, already hemmed and labelled, size only guessed at. I learned its limits the way you know the seams of a borrowed coat: the stabbing pinch high in the underarm when I reach too far, the sudden gape when I bend, the slow drag across my back when I turn away. It comes with me regardless, clinging along my shoulders, cupping the base of my skull, settling over me with the dull inevitability of weather. Some days it is almost indifferent;

Nobody likes being lied to, especially in music. We want to believe that the artists we connect with understand our experiences, or at least speak from a place of truth. And because of that, nothing feels worse than discovering an artist is faking it. Rick Ross rapping about being a drug kingpin while actually working as a correctional officer is a classic example. But the real question is: who feels betrayed when these lies surface? There are two types of listeners: the ingr