No Glorious Embraces

A few years ago, I saw a film called 'The Future is Unwritten', a documentary about Joe Strummer, lead singer of The Clash. I knew of The Clash already, 'London Calling' was one of my favourite albums at the time (and still is), but I wasn't fully aware of Strummer's charisma, both as a performer and as an ordinary person. The film, directed by Julien Temple, has a mesmeric feel to it, particularly moments in which Joe Strummer narrated the film (excerpts taken from shows on BBC Radio he hosted) but even if it had been the most straight-forward style of filmmaking, it would have still been captivating because of Strummer. He was someone you just couldn't take your eyes off, no matter he was saying.

After I watched the film, I bought a biography of The Clash, 'Passion is a Fashion: The Real Story of The Clash' by Pat Gilbert, intent on discovering much more about the iconic band. It's a great read as Gilbert traces the paths of each member of the band all the way from childhood to their collective fame and the repercussions thereafter. Yet while each band-member's lifestory is intriguing in its own right, Strummer's is by the most enthralling of them all. You can feel Gilbert's own fascination with his subject as he recounts stories Strummer told him in their numerous conversations together.

Spurred on by the book and the film, I decided to make my own short documentary about Joe Strummer, exploring how important a figure he still is today. It was mostly going to be interview-based, so finding the right people to talk to was going to be important. Miraculously enough, I found out that my next door neighbour had been a roadie for The Clash and had known Strummer intimately; she told me that Strummer even used to write songs with her 5-year old daughter. Not a bad start, I thought. With an interview like that in the bag, I thought I should find a more journalistic one to complement it. So I went after Gilbert himself. It was surprisingly easy to get in contact with him, he was the editor at Mojo (a music magazine) at the time and he was more than happy to see me. Unfortunately, after I got the two interviews, the project stagnated a bit for various reasons. I never did complete it, which is a great shame; maybe one day I will, but for now it's in the drawer. Truth be told, I haven't thought about this in a long time and it was only while getting rid of excess files on my computer that I came across the interview with Gilbert that I had transcribed. And since it may be a while until I open that drawer again, I thought I could at least take advantage of the interview and put it here for all to read.

What would you say initially got you into the world of music journalism?
It was the Clash, oddly enough. They were the kind of band who really inspired a generation of people to get off their arses really and pursue their dreams. There was a kind of do-it-yourself ethic attached to punk rock which basically said that no one’s going to come along and give you anything, you’ve got to make stuff happen yourself. And I was always fascinated by the Clash, I always wanted to write a book about them, write about the music and understand the kinds of stories and personalities behind it all. So yeah, Joe Strummer probably had a big hand in all of it for me.

Did you see look up to Joe Strummer, as an idol perhaps?
Well, one of the things about Joe, and it’s the same for a lot of people of my age-group, is that he was an idol. All the stuff we know about the band now, the personal stuff and what was going on behind the scenes, people didn’t know that in ’77, ’78, ’79, you know, they were just mythologizing in the press and they sort of bought into their own mythology and amplified it all. They were these really cool rock star guys, banging on about changing the world, they looked really smart and they looked really tough. It was more like a Hollywood war film in a funny sort of way, it seemed to be coming from that kind of place; Hollywood idols of the ’50s in military gear, like ‘From Here to Eternity’ but talking about stuff that was relevant in the late ’70s. I saw Joe as that public person and it’s very difficult sometimes; that relationship I had with that picture on my wall I had as a 13 or 14 year-old kid. It was such a powerful image and the mythology was so powerful, I don’t think the real person could ever live up to that.

Did you find that was the case when you first met him?
Yeah, I mean I was probably in my mid-thirties when I started getting to know the Clash as people, by which time they were in their mid-forties. So I was a bit older and wiser at the point, but still… As soon as you met them, you realised they were human beings, just complicated humans really. They were still really cool, still spoke really cool and still made really cool music. But you did see there were other dimensions to them. There was a lot of confusion about the ideology and the message of the Clash, it was very straight-down-the-line and you realised that outside of that they all thought of things in very different ways. Joe particularly was always searching; a common thing people say about Joe was that he didn’t really know what he felt because he always exploring his thoughts, he never arrived at a set of values or answers that he was happy with. You always got that sense when you talked to him that he was sort of… I don’t know. He’d get very passionate and roused about stuff one minute, and then the next minute he’d probably completely contradict himself. They didn’t have a well-thought theory behind it all, and that was difficult as well. On a day that I did fairly substantial interview with him, it was the day of the general election in 2000, 2001 maybe, and he hadn’t voted. And one of the key things the Clash would always bang about was the vote being important, you’re never going to change the political system by being idle, you’ve got to smash it. And I asked him if he voted and he said no, it wouldn’t make any difference in his constituency out in the country. And I was kind of uncomfortable with that but he’s absolutely right, I live in the country now and I don’t think I voted in the last general election. But then I’m not Joe Strummer, you expect something of him. Sometimes people’s expectations are very adolescent and childlike, and back then was a time when those expectations had formed.

Besides their politics, how do you think their music influenced other bands around at that time?
Well they were hugely influential at the time because they blueprinted that whole political urban rock thing that they’d taken from reggae music and late ’60s American soul music. Everybody started writing about police brutality but the Clash got there first, writing about Rastafarians and what it was like on the street. Musically, they wrote brilliant songs, very fast with lots of choppy chords changes and angular guitars. Everybody ripped that off of them from the Ruts to Stiff Little Fingers to any other number of punk bands and that just continued with people like Green Day and to a certain extent Nirvana. But the idea was hugely influential, the idea that a rock band wasn’t just interested in girls and money, that a rock band was making political statements, it was about changing the world and educating people. How many people do it really well? Bands like Hard-Fi these days do that to a certain extent, but it’s a difficult trick to pull off without it sounding really corny.

Speaking of bands of today, how do you think a band like the Clash fit into the mould of the more electronic-sounding music that’s becoming ever more popular?
Well a very obvious way is that the Clash were very experimental. Every record was going into new musical territory. In ‘Sandinista’ there was soundtrackey stuff, jazz stuff, loads of reggae, loads of dub. So it’s not really a bass, guitar and drums rock thing, there was lots of studio use as well, and the huge influence there is on dance music. They’ve been massively sampled; Rock the Casbah, the Clash’s big dancefloor hit was heavily used for Will Smith’s Will2k. And people like the Beastie Boys were massively influenced by the Clash. They were the first band really to get into dub, and they were the first band to assimilate rap and hip-hop into their music, they were very cutting edge.

Do you think that kids of today reading NME and Mojo and listening to these new bands are aware of the Clash and their significance?
Well if they’re not aware of the Clash, they ought to be. If you went back and took the Clash out of the equation, heaven knows what music would be like.

The theme of the day today was automobiles. I started my driving lessons this morning, finally mustering the courage to confront the motorists of São Paulo. Crossing a road here is always risky business, let alone driving on it. The things you see and stories you here, it makes you you wonder how some of these people got a license in the first place. I'm positive that when you're crossing the road, most motorists actually try to swerve into you rather than away from you. Or they speed up. I'm not quite sure which of those two is more frightening a thought.

What does fascinate me though is the liberal use of the horn here in Brazil; it isn't so much a device to warn others of danger but rather an extension of their vocal chords. It's as if it acts like a megaphone that can only project Morse Code. A horn could mean anything from "excuse me sir, the light's turned green", "if you don't get out of the road, I'm going to run you over", "3 cheers for São Paulo Football Club", or even "my dear lady, you are looking most exquisite today". It's like the country's unofficial second language.

I was told that back in the day (which is probably not even that long ago), driving schools and tests used to be all done with VW Beetles. I can only imagine what a struggle it'd be for anyone who'd never got behind the wheel of a car, such as myself. Steering must have been a nightmare. That is of course, unless your Beetle turned out to be Herbie (and I'm referring to the original film, not that Lindsay Lohan cinematic monstrosity). It turned out my car was a VW Gol (basically the Golf), so it was kept in the family. My instructor drove us to a quiet neighbourhood near the driving school and let me take over from there. I can happily say that the car died only once on the road, though many a time when I was trying to park but keep the motor running. At least I didn't go through the embarassing stop-and-start routine that you always see in films.

The pedals were actually a complete discovery for me. Well, not a complete one, I was aware of their existence prior to the lesson. But I had no idea how responsive they were, for some reason I thought you had to press relatively hard on the accelerator to get the car moving, probably based on the hundreds of getaway scenes I've seen in filmes over the years. It makes me think they should make more getaways like this, it'd be much more educational:

Luckily the lesson ended without me hitting anyone or anything, so I consider that a sucessful first lesson. Tomorrow, the saga continues.

In the afternoon, I went for another voiceover test like the ones I did back in February, which coincidentally enough also tunred out to be for Volkswagen. I had no idea what the advert was about, I suppose I didn't need to know as far as they were concerned, but from what I could tell it involved people warning the driver of the VW car of hazards in the road, such as children in the street and what not. Except that the gaps between each word was really long, so "Watch out for the kid!" became " Watch.....out.....for.....the.....kid!" It was quite strange really, didn't sound like it was going to be a slow-motion advert, so I'm curious to see it when it's done. Before I left, I also managed to pick up my cheque for one of the adverts I did in February; unfortunately my test for the Darth Vader/Luke Skywalker spot wasn't approved. Still, that's probably closer than most people will ever get to being a Jedi. And so here is the advert for all your lovely ears to enjoy, brought to you in Full Youtube Widescreen.

I've not been to many protests in my life, a handful at most. One of them happened to be the "Stop the War" march in 2003, when an estimated 2 million people marched through the streets of London in protest against the Iraq War (it's been recorded as the biggest demonstration has ever seen to this day). Aside from the obvious reasons, I'm not entirely sure what compelled me to go that day, especially since I went on my own. Perhaps it was the feeling of being part of something big, a movement that could provoke change and have an effect on the government's decisions. In the end it didn't, of course, but I don't think that takes away as much from the protest as cynics would have you think. It still shows a large, unified and collective voice speaking out against those in power, demonstrating that they are prepared to confront whatever consequences they may have to face. Evidently these consequences wouldn't amount to much in a protest in London, but as director Anders Østergaard shows, it's another story altogether in Rangoon.

'Burma VJ' is a documentary about the 2007 protests by thousands of Buddhist monks. Sworn to only protest for religious causes, they broke that oath and protested against the government for the terrible conditions the people were forced to live in. Unlike previous protests which had normally been made up of students, this mass demonstration had seen people from all walks of life behind the same cause, most importantly the monks who hold a lot of power in Burma since they are considered holy men. But under the repressive military dictatorship, even the monks didn't hold enough influence to effect change and the army descended violently upon all the protesters, eventually bringing things back to the status quo.

What's amazing about these protests is not only the story itself but how the whole world came to know about it. A team of Burmese journalists recorded as much as they could of the demonstrations (despite any non-state-controlled media being banned in the country) and sent the images across the world to all the major news channels. They were risking death to show the world what was happening in their country. Back in 2007, we would only have seen snippets here and there on a daily basis. Østergaard, together with the head of the collective, named in the film as Joshua, brought all the recorded material together to present a chronicle of the very first days of the protests to the final confrontation between demonstrators and soldiers. The images you see in the film are a testament to the journalists' dedication to their goals: we don't see second-hand interviews, it's all unfolding in front of them right there and then, from the head monk's first calls to the Burmese people to join them, all the way to the soldiers beating people within an inch of their lives. One particular scene shows a Japanese journalist being shot in the head; in a reconstructed telephone conversation, we hear Joshua ask if anyone else filmed the shooting from a better angle. We suddenly see a short montage of at least 7 other angles, all focusing on the shooting. It's a truly astounding thing to see.

But it's not the atrocities of the army on its citizens that made the biggest impression on me, as horrible as they are; it's the unity of the demonstration, the images of a never-ending sea of people marching through the streets. These were hundreds of thousands of people who knew exactly what army would do but were still ready to stand up for what they believed in. They may not have achieved their goal but they still accomplished something which, in my mind, disproves any cynic's theory that protests are useless.

Considering the recent G20 protests in London and its repercussions, this film stuck in my mind even more so. One point that was made in 'Burma VJ' was that as manipulative as people may call our media, one should be thankful that we live in a free society where media is allowed and where protests are allowed. Seeing the scenes of the assault on Ian Tomlinson makes me question what kind of representation of a free society these images portray. I'm not saying the UK is living under a military dictatorship, but those images still make me think twice about the extent of our rights as citizens. Just watch Chris Atkins' 'Taking Liberties' to understand what I mean.

Apologies if that sounded rushed, unstructured, and simplistic but I've been meaning to get it all off my chest since last Monday but haven't had the time. Any criticisms are more than welcome.

Last week was the 14th International Documentary Film Festival It's All True, a Brazilian festival that showcases the best in national and international documentaries. Among the films were 'Burma VJ: Reporting from a Closed Country', a Danish documentary about the 2007 protests by thousand of Buddhist monks as well as 'Garapa', the new film by acclaimed director José Padilha ('Bus 174' and 'Elite Squad') concerning the issue of extreme poverty in Brazil. Unfortunately I saw very few of the films that were showing since my days are busier now than when the São Paulo Film Festival was taking place, though I hear there is a screening of 'Burma VJ' tonight so I'll try and make that. I'm just hoping I'm not waiting in line for ages (Paulistas love queueing as much as the English, you see). But I did make two screenings thankfully, both of which I'm more than glad I attended.

The first was a feature-length film called 'Cidadão Boilesen' ('Citizen Boilesen'). It's the story of Henning Albert Boilesen, a Danish businessman who moved to Brazil in the 1960s and was naturalised as a Brazilian citizen; the film focuses on his relationship with the military dictatorship in the '60s, in particular his contribution and collaboration with the OBAN in the later part of the decade, an organisation set up by the Brazilian Army as a centre of information, investigations and torture of "suspected criminals". I was curious to see the film since it was concerned with a period of Brazilian history I know little about, a specific story that most Brazilians know little about, and because the editor of the film was a friend of mine from Rio.

The story itself is eerily disconcerting, as testimonies from various interviewees take note of Boilesen's involvement with the OBAN. Whilst most businessmen were only interested in financing the operation and remaining anonymous, Boilesen openly participated in their activities, purportedly even joining in the torture sessions. What makes it particularly frightening is the contrast between this sadistic aspect of his character and his public image of the kind and caring entrepeneur who embraced Brazil and its culture fervently. The two personalities seem so far apart from each other at such extreme ends of the spectrum that it seems almost impossible that they would be the same person. As the film progresses and we learn more about Boilesen, public photographs of him smiling away become evermore disturbing.

Equally frightening are some of the attitudes of the interviewees in the film. Director Chaim Litewski managed to get a impressive number of high-profile figures, including ex-members of the military regime, former president Fernand Henrique Cardoso, Boilesen's son, psychologists and historians, and even one of the members of the group involved in Boilesen's assasination in 1971, who, for the first time ever, confesses on film of his involvement. Whilst the psychologists and historians take a more objective approach, examining both sides of his personality, it's amazing how some of the ex-military figures are so obviously lying, or in the case of Boilesen's son simply deluded. One military figure claims that despite a number of documented visits to the OBAN headquarters, Boilesen ever only went there once. On Christmas Eve. To give him a Christmas ham. Boilesen's son, on the other hand, tells us that to this day he doesn't know why his father was killed. From the look on his face, he's just not saying this to free himself from guilt, he genuinely believes in his father's innocence, perhaps something he's had to convince himself in order to deal with it. But Litewski was careful not to present a one-sided biased view of the history, best exemplified when he asks someone about the reaction to Boilesen's death. The interviewee talks of the joy and relief that many felt, that at last the sadistic villain had been killed; yet as he describes this joy, we cut to images from Boilesen's funeral where many people are gathered to honour the life of the man that they knew, the kind-hearted and noble Boilesen. The juxtaposition of sound and image highlights the complexity of Boilesen who, like every person in this world, was a man of many faces and who can't be reduced to just one.

Whilst watching the film, I did find that a lot of the time, the editing style and the music didn't seem to fit with the thematic content. It seemed too light-hearted, too frenetic, not measured as one might expect. At first, I was quite put off by it, thinking it detracted from the film. After the film finished, my friend invited me for a drink with some people, one of which was the director himself. I was lucky enough to hear him discuss these particular aspects of the film, stating that he didn't want to do something so traditional since the content was so dense and disturbing that it would've only added to this, leaving the viewer exhausted by the end of the film. Instead, the editing and the soundtrack lightens the mood of the film and adds an ironic, humourous tone to it. Rather than unload this story upon us with all the facts and documents that come with it, the film educates and entertains you in equal measure, particularly evident from the inclusion of clips from several '70s films about the dicatorship and characters such as Boilesen. They act as cheap, badly-produced reconstructions when in fact they are effectively secondary sources from the time period; they inform our understanding of the tensions in the country at the time whilst also softening the tone of the film.

Perhaps another reason Litewski went for this tone was because, like every filmmaker, he wants as many people as possible to see his film, to learn about this story that's been swept under the carpet. I heard today that the film won Best National Feature-length Documentary at the festival, with a prize of R$100,000 (around £30,000) that will undoubtedly help the film secure some distribution here in Brazil. They plan to take the film to as many documentary festivals around the world as possible; the London one coincidentally took place last week too, so I'd imagine it won't be there for a while yet.

The second screening was a selection of 4 Brazilian shorts: 'Samba from Quadra', 'The Body's Architecture', 'The House of the Dead', and 'Nello's'. The first short concerns a type of samba from the countryside of Brazil that is little known outside of the area and which has faded from memory over time, even of those that used to play. It's a simple portrait of a world very far from the big cities, one which has little contact with anyone outside of its little bubble. It's interesting as it uncovers a form of music a little different to the usual samba beats and lyrics one is used to hearing, but it's ultimately a sentimental exercise in nostalgia, which is probably all it intends to be.

'The Body's Architecture' (photo above) follows several dance groups in Belo Horizonte (the third largest city in the country) ranging from youngsters to adults to favela-dwelling kids to rich teenagers. The film contains no direct dialogue at all, only the background sounds of the instructions from the teacher, the feet moving against the floor, the panting of tired dancers. The cinematography is stunning, focusing on detailed parts of the dancers' bodies such as the movement of hands and feet as well as wide shots of a room of dancers all performing in sync. We cut constantly from each distinct group, each one with preparing for its public presentation, be it the two girls in the favela who will dance at their local church or the professional dance group performing in front of a large audience. It was probably the most captivating 20 minutes of film I've seen in a while.

'The House of the Dead' was quite a dark short in comparison to the other three; it depicts the lives of patients at a mental hospital in the northeast of Brazil. We hear of three stories: one of a man who took his own life in the asylum, one of a man who's been released several times and who always ends up being sent back, and one of a man who's been there for 25 years, 15 years longer than he was sentenced for. All 3 stories tell of men who have nowhere else to go, nowhere else they could belong. The saddest of all is certainly the latter of the three; when asked whether or not his name is Almerindo (which it is), he simply answers, "Almerindo died a long time ago". I particularly liked the narration of the film, a recital of a poem based on Dante's 'Inferno' describing these patients. Only at the end do we discover the poem was written and narrated by one the patients at the hospital itself, challenging our view of the sanity of the individuals there.

Finally, there's 'Nello's', the story of Nello de Rossi, an Italian actor from the before WWII who worked in film for much of his life, even as an assistant to Roberto Rossellini, before coming to Brazil in the '70s to open his own restaurant. The film is focused mainly on interviews with de Rossi, intercut with footage of his films and photographs from the period. But the film works so well because he is such a fun and charismatic figure, infusing humour and vivacity to each story he tells.

I'm sure I was lucky to have enjoyed 3 out of the 4 films so much, I can only imagine that in these kind of screenings of shorts, it's entirely lucky dip. But then again none was longer than 25 minutes and with each one dealing with such a different topic, it's hard to lose interest really. I found out that de Rossi's restaurant is still up and running, here in my neighbourhood no less. I better go quickly though, since, as he put it himself, his got his bags packed on a one-way trip to hell. When the interviewer asked him why he was going to hell, he answered:

"My dad always used to say to me, "I'll see you in hell, son". I'd get really frightened and ask him, "Why am I going to hell?" He'd tell me, "It's hot down there. If we open a bar with ice-cold drinks, imagine the money we'd make!""

This year is the year of France in Brazil, a celebration of all things French from music to art to fashion and gastronomy. Throughout the year, a lot of cultural events will be happening with France as the central theme; one in particular I'm looking forward to is an exhibition of Henri Cartier-Bresson's work, one which will bring photos of his from all around the world. Of course, many events have already come and gone, but one which began on Sunday and which aims to continue till the end of the year is Le Ciné Club here in São Paulo. They are showing films which show a more contemporary portrait of France, films which didn't receive wide distribution here if at all. I imagine that with these types of events, especially here in Brazil, their longevity is based entirely on their popularity rather than a confirmed set of films that would be shown indepedent of how many attended; inevitably, it's for financial reasons more than anything else. From what I saw on Sunday (March 29th), I don't think they have anything to worry about.

The film I went to see on Sunday morning was 'L'Esquive' or 'Games of Love and Chance' as is its title in English. I expected there to be a fair number of people but not too many since it was a relatively unknown film and because, after all, it was on a Sunday morning. How wrong I was. The public demand was so high that they had to show the film in two screens, both of which were packed to the last seat. The organisers, who said a few words before the film, were evidently visibly shocked. Their first showing was already such an overwhelming success that it probably eased many nerves. But onto the film.

It's a story set in the suburbs of Paris, in the equivalent of a council estate, where disillusioned teenagers spend their days trying to escape the boredom of their lives. For some, this involves vandalism (which, importantly is only suggested but never shown); for others, it's the preparation of an 18th century French comedy play. Krimo (Osman Elkharraz), having just been dumped by his girlfriend, is dragged along to a rehearsal by the fair-haired Lydia (Sara Forestier), much to the disdain of one of her fellow actors. He begins to take a larger interest in theatre, particularly in Lydia's "character", and decides he wants to play the part of her admirer in the play. As Krimo shuns his friends in favour of private rehearsals between him and Lydia, tensions rise among the teenagers until the young couple are forced to deal with their feelings once and for all.

The plot is somewhat inconsequential really, visibly and openly simple, allowing space for the environment, the characters, and in particular the language to take precedence and capture our attention. These characters are all trapped here, in every sense of the word; it's a reality that exists in droves today which many are ignorant of, their only knowledge of it being when they are shown images of riots and vandalism in these suburbs. For Krimo, his upbringing has been so limited that he's been denied the tools of expression that allow him to project his feelings of anger or happiness or any emotion. In one scene, as he and Lydia rehearse a scene in front of his class, the teacher continually insists that he give energy and vitality to his character, a character that is supposed to be infused with a joie de vivre. Krimo seems physically incapable of this, managing only to mumble his way through his lines with about as much emotion as a brick wall.

Where we do see emotions being expressed are through language and its constrasting uses, particular Lydia and her friends. Throughout the film, there's a heavy use of slang among the teenagers known as "verlan" in which words are said backwards, or rather syllables of words are said in reverse order. So, for example, femme (woman) becomes meuf. The word "verlan" itself is the reverse of "l'envers", meaning backwards. The presence of this contemporary dialect highlights the stark contrast between the French of the streets and the French we hear in the classroom or even in conversation with their parents. In effect, it's become their only method of communication with which they can project most comprenhesively their true feelings, invariably ones of frustration and aggression that are taken out on each other. One girl in particular, Frida (Sabrina Ouazani), spends pretty much the whole film shouting and arguing with absolutely everyone, although ironically she nearly always has reason to. These constant arguments may seem pointlessly long, but it is exactly this pointlessness that director Abdel Kechiche wants to draw out attention to, drawing them out in long scenes when others might have cut much earlier; it's even more telling (and impressive) since most of the film is scripted and not improvised as it appears. Only here can they express themselves freely and unabashedly since they themselves are the only ones who understand each other. Thus, it is the pointlessness that gives significance to these long exchanges.

Kechiche's style of extending scenes to their fullest reaches its apex near the end, in a scene involving the teenagers and the police, providing the film's most explicit social commentary. While Krimo and Lydia are forced to open up to each other by their friends, four policemen suddenly appear and forcibly search all the teenagers, treating them as if they guilty criminals. Soon enough, the policemen are even treating Lydia in the same way, patting her down vigorously as she silently tries to hold back her tears. The scene goes on for a good few minutes, with Kechiche employing a large amount of close-ups throughout that makes one feel as suffocated and violated as the the teenagers are feeling. It's a surprisingly intense and uncomfortable scene to watch, despite it's relative restraint in terms of physical violence. What makes it so powerful also has to do with the sympathy we feel for these characters: until this point, there is no mention of authority of any kind really, and we have seen that criminal activity is probably the last thing on the kids' minds. Yet they're reduced to an "easily identifiable" stereotype by the police so briskly and without any real proof, thus fueling the antagonistic relationship between the two groups. Whilst I don't think this is the central message of the film since it's more concerned with the teenagers' ongoing sense of disenfranchisement more so than pent-up anger, it's still hugely important to our understanding of them and is delivered brilliantly.

It must be said that it's not the easiest film to watch: listening to 15 year-olds arguing with each other for 2 hours doesn't sound like the most appealing thing in the world. Furthermore, the playful treatment of the French language in all its guises will be lost on anyone who isn't a confident French speaker (nearly all the verlan went completely over my head). But in the end, the payoff is worth it; stripped away from visual excesses and narrative diversions, the film delivers a genuine portrait of people trapped in an environment and a system that pin them down. Perhaps the saddest thing of all is that for many of them, any road out of that of this imprisonment will probably lead nowhere.