Around this time last year, when lockdown kicked off, I made a to-watch list. Naively thinking it might last a couple of months, it started off succinct with classics I’d never seen and new releases I’d missed. By the end of the year, I’d ticked around 90 films off the ever-growing list.

However, since the new year rolled around, I’ve really struggled to get my movie mojo back, falling for the allure of trash TV and the various seasons of drag race. But I miss my night spent getting into bed early to curl up around my laptop screen. Even on the laziest days, watching a film and being able to add a new tick to my list made me feel like I’d at least achieved one thing, and when the credits rolled I’d always feel that nice sense of post-productivity calm. Having let most of my good habits slip in this long 3^rd lockdown, I reckon this is one I can pull back.

To get started, and encourage you to do the same, I’m visiting some past watches that always make me want to watch more. Some magical, some heart-breaking, these films will make you want to watch more films.

Babyteeth

Probably a symptom of living through unprecedented times, but suddenly I’m a person that cries at films. Previously I’d only ever cried at Paddington 2 and Perks Of Being A Wallflower which made me violently wail in the cinema, but god, Babyteeth made me bawl.

I added Babyteeth to my list after I saw some screencap quotes from it that had my favourite sharp-witted flavour of comedy, but I didn’t know much about the story. The trailer risks slipping into cheesy, presenting it as another Cancer tainted love story, but the film misses all the fault-in-our-stars clichés and remains so unique and so human.

I don’t want to linger too long on the story as I don’t want to give it away, but as well as a bittersweet, beautiful plot, Babyteeth is also visually stunning. The lighting, the chapter structure, the colours; lovely, lovely, lovely. This is one of those films where you want to find a crisp photo of every single scene to put on Instagram. When it finished, I laid there in silence for 20 minutes to process how much I loved it, and then immediately wanted to chase that feeling with some more heartbreaking movies.

Yes God Yes

On the other hand, Yes God Yes made me want to watch more comedies.

Honestly, I’ve very judgemental about American comedies as they’re never dark enough for me, but Yes God Yes ticked all my boxes and had me cry laughing.  Starring Stranger Things’ Natalia Dyer, this one is about catholic teens essentially discovering sex at a summer camp. It’s a coming of age film in the best way, in that it's awkward and stupid and points out how ridiculous it all is.

I also love that this film has that ‘independent vibe’ that I can never quite put my finger on explaining. It feels uninterrupted by execs and very much untethered from traditional big-budget American cinema. And the jokes don’t have that bashfulness that a lot of American comedies have, managing to tap into the straight-faced humour I love. And as above, this film is so bright; the lighting and laughs feel like they could shake away and lockdown-grumpy cobwebs.

Beautiful Boy

If you want to get back into heavy, serious watches; take on Beautiful Boy. Incentivised by Timothee Chalamet’s face, this film was so gut-wrenching I couldn’t even bring myself to cry, just laid there in emotional agony.

You might know this one as it has a heavy promo circuit back in 2018, but it’s based on a pair of memoirs written by father and son, David & Nic Sheff, about Nic’s struggles with addiction from being a young teen. Firstly, the acting in this film is incredible. Despite loving Call Me By Your Name and Little Women, this is the film that made me go oh! Timothee can act! And Steve Carell steps into this serious Dad role so seamlessly you manage to forget about all his comedy work. Between the two leads, these characters will have you feeling every emotion from annoyance to intense sympathy, somehow still managing to cut it with a touch of humour and moments of beautiful catharsis.

Honestly, it’s quite a hard watch being so emotional, but it never loses its grip on your attention or dips off into too much. Bathed in blue-toned light, this is one to switch on if you want to force a good cry.

 

Malcolm & Marie

Malcolm & Marie is best watched with a glass of red wine or some kind of neat cocktail. Settle down and start watching it as the sun sets so it’s dark by halfway through. Maybe dress up a little so Zendaya’s beauty isn’t quite as intimidating.

Malcolm & Marie is a great one if you want to ease yourself into more avant-garde films. Filmed in black and white, and not following a traditional plot structure, Malcolm & Marie adapted to the strange world of covid restrictions by doing something totally different. The film only has two characters and is filmed entirely inside one house, and I love the small world of it. It’s essentially about the intricacies of relationship, success and the muse figure, and I love how both characters are the hero and the villain all at once.

It’s funny and intense, heartbreaking and heartwarming, offering so much from so little. Add it to your list.

Fantastic Mr Fox

I’m ashamed to say I only watched this film for the first time last night, but afterwards, I felt so excited about movies again that I was inspired to write this. I’m a big Wes Anderson, but I’d never been too bothered about Fantastic Mr Fox before, brushing it off as a kids film. But now I’m angry over all the years I’ve deprived myself.

If you haven’t seen it, I implore you to watch it. And if you have seen it, I recommend you watch it again. Infusing the classic Roald Dahl novel with all the Wes Anderson signature colours and quirks, this film made me laugh out loud, filled me with comfort and threatened to make me cry over how sweet these animals are. As with every Wes Anderson film, it has a killer soundtrack and cheeky humour that both silly and mature. Similar to Isle Of Dogs, I love the angles and intricacies of this film that puts so much detail into simple scenes.

Simply, this film made me so happy and that’s what we all need.

 

Submarine

This week was the 10-year anniversary of Submarine, and I was reminded how much I love this stupid film. In fact, one of the first blog posts I ever wrote was about the film, in which I dub Arctic Monkeys music ‘a bit too swear-filled’.

And while my writing ability has, hopefully, improved, my love of this film hasn’t changed at all. I think Submarine is one of those movies that you appreciate more and more as you get older. Back then I definitely loved the angst of it, but now I love how pathetic and melodramatic is it. The awkwardness of the characters versus the dramatic narration and cinematography makes such a unique contrast that I think really informed my taste in films. It’s so much of amazing one-liners that still make me laugh and always makes me want to go hunting for films that could possibly try and compare.

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Send me your recommendations!

I’m starting to realise I like the idea of shopping far more than the real thing. Lately, I’ve been losing hours to the ASOS app, scrolling and tapping the little heart on anything that catches my eye, adding it to my thousands of lost likes that for a brief moment I thought might make it to the bag. Sometimes they do; I teased those gingham trousers, brought them so close to the edge with my finger hovering over the buy button. They heard me inhale, getting closer and closer… only to close the app and give in. The blue balls of the browser, nothing is satisfying me lately.

It’s my own fault really, I know I need to stop treating shopping apps like they’re Pinterest, but I like the power. While Pinterest teases me with outfits in outdoor spaces, girls in beautiful trousers sat on uncomfortable café seats or taking power stances in galleries, ASOS offers me a big question mark that is still so appealing in its cruelty. I browse and try to dream up days to come, racking my brain for places I used to go and things we as humans used to do; trying to find the appropriate skirt to wear to the party called life where the invite has no date and no location. But it makes inspiration run dry pretty quick when all these things feel too nice for my living room. They deserve better, we would only disappoint each other.

My last victim stares at me as I write this, a flash of denim hanging limp out of my wardrobe. It turns out, if you buy a fancy dress and only wear it once to drink alone in the kitchen on your birthday, it’ll lose its sparkle. I wrote about it back in August, the way my new House of Sunny dream dress felt trapped in that ‘new-outfit-insecurity feeling’, and as it transpires that feeling is only stage one, succeeded by the avoidance phase, then an overwhelming sense of ‘why the fuck do I own this?’, and then finally acceptance. I put the dress on Depop, it spends all day shooting cutting glances at me.

But it just felt so unfulfilled, months later when all my hopes of meals out and occasions were still empty, the dress felt odd. Stuck in the middle between the reality we’re living and the reality we normally know, so many of my clothes and all the ones left unbought in my ASOS list, lack any context. New clothes still feel coded with the idea of new places, usually always tied to the concrete image of a particular day or plan, and each time when my parcel can’t deliver me that, their contents start to look like my disappointment. The knee-high boots that only ever shuffled down the road and back look stupid in their hope of a party, a new vintage handbag hangs like a relic of a past life that turned out to be fake all along. Clothes have always been so tightly tied to memories for me with my favourite pieces almost always being worn on a particularly good day. So at a time when there are no memories to be made, nothing feels all that special.

The only thing that feels contextualised and right at the moment is loungewear and soft cardigans. But I hate how joggers make me look and another piece of knitwear would be one too many, and god I miss slipping into something uncomfortable.  I miss tiny tight skirts and feeling them dig into my tummy when I sit down at a bar, I miss feeling my heels hurt, I miss wearing layers of jewellery and not being bothered by it clicking together or making my collarbone cold, I miss buying something daring last minute for an event and wearing it before I have a chance to second guess myself. I think mostly I miss buying things with a guarantee that I’ll be seen somewhere in them, a vain thing to long for but I miss my purchases being perceived.

But still, my fingers itch towards the apps, adding more things to the list of unfulfilled wants. I want floral trousers worn in spring outside a coffee shop. I want heeled loafers that click on wooden pub floors in the middle of the day on a weekend. I want star print tights that rip midway through a night out and I won’t care. I want a fully pink outfit with a fluffy jumper that feels soft and comforting on the train somewhere new. But ASOS doesn’t offer those deals, so I just won’t buy it.

Seeing one year roll into the next from the comfort of my living room suited me fine, allowed to slip from a 0 to a 1 without the pressure to do too much summarising, or make big promises for the year to come. While 2020 ripping away any chance of ticking ‘travel’ off your resolutions list was rubbish, it did have a knock on effect for those of us that out too much pressure on checking boxes we drew ourselves.

Something it feels like no one really wants to admit, but lockdown has been something of a haven for me. I slipped easily into routines that allowed me to give all my time to myself, no longer stressed about sacrificing writing to my social life or vice versa. I filled a whole notepad and sent words off to homes across various pages and places, I painted more, I got my skincare routine down; and at midnight I pulled the Knight Of Pentacles, he told me to keep doing what I’m doing for 365 more days. And so for January, I’ve just been standing still. Working through my weeks, writing when it hits me, eating croissants on Saturday mornings and seeing out nights with films. While I miss the pub and laughing in sunny weather and being able to make plans without everything feeling like a pipe dream, almost a year into all this, I really like how my life circles around little things. Always reaching for more and looking for next steps, I’ve got a new appreciation for small details, things that would’ve been footnotes in my week now coming to be bolded titles.

Allow me to write them some odes.

Dr Martens

There are things in life that are so shrouded with stories and culture, that you almost pause to consider if you’re worthy of them. I’ve had years of wanting them and not getting them, remember well the year seven heartbreak when my request for sleek patent white 1460 boots was reject by my parents. After, my confidence was knocked, not sure if I could carry them with the attitude they deserved. But when chance came knocking, with the smiling face of my friend and her sweet staff discount, they were finally to be mine.

Lockdowns have given me a new appreciation of walking. Before I would’ve shrugged off the activity but by April 2020 I was stomping laps round the city, and I’m so glad I have these docs as a companion. Pre-lockdown I invested in some cowboy boots which while beautiful, felt a bit too boisterously clompy for the silence of the start of it all. So instead, I swapped to these Dr Marten Church leather monkey boots, thankfully broken in before all the madness broke out. They’re the comfiest shoes I’ve ever own, finally allowing me to understand what everyone’s been raving about all this time. But they also go with everything. I’ve now worn them through every season with everything from jeans to outfits in the brief period where we could get dressed up to go to bars still. They’ve carried me through all my walks, my one brief get-away to London, rain and heatwaves. They’ve made my daily exercise a pleasure, something I never thought I’d write.

 

Letters

Your letter comes, speaking as you

I never got a pen in primary school, still writing is scrolling scribbles that get less readable as I get more passionate. I start neatly, ‘Dearest…’ but by ‘yours…’, you’re squinting. But at least you know I’m there, a little piece of me packaged up and sealed with a sticker, usually slanted and telling you of the last week’s thoughts that are now past for me and present for you, opened anew.

During lockdown, myself and my friend Holly launched Address, a bi-weekly newsletter based on letters. We’ve written to each other regularly for over two years now, and lockdown has made letters feel more important than ever as a token of presence. For my birthday she got me this Andy Warhol letter writing set, and I keep it more my most important correspondence, like sending new year’s affirmations to my best friends and when I didn’t think ahead enough to buy birthday cards before we get put up a tier. I now know my best friends’ handwritings, can tell the sender just by my address. I think that’s so rare now, but so beautiful. I write long 3 page letters on nights I can’t keep up with the instantaneous nature of messages, make sure to ask questions to be answered, and check my mail box every day.

Canned Cocktails

I sip pandemic nights away like cocktails, from a can to a glass, trying to make something out of not a lot. But it tasted great anyways.

There’s going shopping, and then there’s going shopping shopping. My Friday night Tesco trips have become the most dystopian highlight of my week, never before been so excited to pick out some slightly more extravagant essentials, browsing Linda McCartney’s newest offerings, spending a bit more on wine. Canned cocktails have never been high on my radar, generally preferring a neat cocktail over something fruity, and usually just opting for wine or a spirit. But suddenly, canned espresso martinis are an essential pillar of my serotonin. The crack of the nitro can, the slow development of the foamy top in my one martini glass, the way in looks on my bedside table in pink light. Suddenly my bedroom is a bar, and I’m such a VIP I didn’t even have to change out of my PJs.

Makeup on a weekend

‘The sun doesn’t like me’, I’ve laughed before. I’ve diagnosed myself allergic as the heat makes my skin scream and I spend holidays hiding under umbrella. When I was younger it was a vanity thing, I wanted to be pale and fragile like all my favourite girls from films and magazine, and any hint of sun would ruin the mystery I thought I was making. But now, I want to radiate, want to look warm with blushing cheeks hiding under a mask like a secret. Or maybe I just like the irony of the process, erasing everything to add some life back in. But I love drawing on cheekbones I don’t have, patting sunshine into my face that’s been outside for less than an hour in days.

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On the train home, he hopes the tinsel will at least be burgundy. In the flat it was gold and falling apart already, becoming a handy prop to his act, kicking strands to the side as he huffed his hatred for the occasion again but drank mulled wine out of a takeout cup all the same. But something told him it would be red, and seem brighter than ever somehow, like the 19 years of aging couldn’t touch the cheeriness of the foil, protected by the thing that everyone else seems to feel. The thing that made people smile as they counted down days, open little doors to little chocolates, wear Christmas jumpers with cartoon animals; wondered why they bothered, sort of wished he could care too.

But he doesn’t know what to do with it, think they call it joy. Never seen mommy kissing anyone, never heard dad say thank you, but now mistletoe stares down and forces it, while Jackson 5 sing about a home so full of love you assume it must be adulterous, too much to go round that they must have got his share. They attempt to ration it back out from the small speaker in the corner that will be turned down five times in one day till the festivities match the feeling; nothing but a whisper that you only have out of duty.

And the 50^th photo of the weekend will be taken, snaps him out of that mood and into a worse one. In every picture he looks like he’s been caught in an act. Eyes scream of falsity, guilt over something as if by living and smiling he’s touched something he shouldn’t have. He waits for a hand to hit his away, hates himself for that thought. He’s 19, should be able to smile convincingly without the feeling of his mouth curling making him shiver into a grimace, but for the past couple years every move his bones make feels wrong. Each finger twitch is cringe-worthy, like his body laughing at a joke that’s on him and anyone that catches a glimpse hears it too. Same sound that screams when he accidentally walks in time to the music in his headphones and the pavement points at him and cackles, or when he catches himself smiling at his reflection and the mirror shouts for everyone to come look and laugh too.

It gets louder when the crackers come out. Putting in the effort to rip cardboard from itself, feeling the muscles in his arms tense up, straining for an act of nothingness that tradition demands, the lack of dignity in a paper crown, and mum wants another photo. He feels his face wrinkle, he forgets to unclench his fist.

The year drew itself to a close in a pretty ideal way for my to-read pile. Spending the final months of the year in another lockdown and boring tier 3 life, I was well prepared with a fresh stock of books. Completely ignoring my vow to stop buying new books and focus on the ones left unread on my shelf, I went out pre-lockdown and spent the money I knew I’d save on meals out on whatever caught my eye. So for the final reading list of the year, I went in mostly blind.

BTW. I’m now a Bookshop affiliate! Bookshop is on a mission to support local bookshops and so am I. There’s no reason to be buying books on evil Amazon anymore but I understand the draw of the convenience. Bookshop is just as easy to use, and if you buy any of my recommendations through my shop, I get a commission, so you also get to support me and what I do. A win win. 

#1 The Bluest Eye - Toni Morrison

Remember back in February where I said I was going to read The Bluest Eye… well. I finally did it! The Bluest Eye was book number 3 on the reading list in my 1^st year of uni, and now I’ve finally read it, I feel like I was robbed of all those seminars and discussions. This book has such a unique way of being so easy to read while also being completely gut-wrenching. The subtle way that Toni Morrison packs her characters full of pain and repression, and the decision to study racism and class through the lens of young girls makes the whole novel so heart-breaking but never so heavy it becomes suffocating. The bit that really got to me was the focus on self-esteem and beauty, and the way racism had seeped into the girls’ view of themselves, tacking a massive issue in a way that felt so reflective of how these things pop up in day to day life.

Took me long enough but I’m so glad I finally picked this one up properly, feels like a book everyone should read.

#2 Spy In The House Of Love - Anais Nin

I’d seen the cover art for this book a million times and always meant to give it a go. Anais Nin feels like a writer I should know more about, writing diary pieces along with essays and short stories, all forms I love. So I went into this book completely blind with no idea of plot and no familiarity with Anais work, something I haven’t done in a long time. Immediately I connected to the main character Sabina, a woman who is a kind of emotional chameleon having multiple affairs, and I love how her personality is built through the narrator’s assumptions mixed in with her thoughts and experiences. It reminded me a lot of Fitzgerald and all his best bits in The Great Gatsby as he describes Daisy, full of really beautiful and rich language, but Anais Nin uses it to describe a female character that’s 100x more liberated and powerful.

The balance of power and vulnerability in this short novel is amazing, but if you’re looking for a strong plot that you can really get stuck into, this isn’t the one of you. With no real climax or build, this novel is more of a sequence of happenings, so there were some points where I felt like the 136 page book was taking me forever to finish. The relatability of the character and the feminine energy throughout has definitely hooked me in though, keen to discover more of Nin’s work next year.

#3 The Descent of Man - Grayson Perry

This is a strong contender for one of my favourite books I’ve read all the year. Previously I’d heard of Grayson Perry but never indulged much, however this has been on my to-read list forever, and since finishing it I can’t get enough of him. Reading The Descent Of Man made me realise how counter-productive so many other book on gender are, always focussing on women and what we need. In this book, Grayson Perry instead focusses on what men need, offering up a discussion of what men may need and the importance of considering men and what to do with masculinity as we attempt to rid of the toxic side of it. Written in Grayson Perry’s classic humour and casual tone, I was shocked how much I actually learnt and have taken away from this book, being one that’s really stuck with it. Honestly, I want to buy everyone in my life a copy of this book, feeling like it’s hosting such an important conversation that too often gets forgotten or silenced.

#4 Diary Of An Oxygen Thief - Anonymous

I picked up this book 100% based on the cover, and it didn’t disappoint in the slightest. Not at all what I expected as I was suddenly thrown into this monologue of toxicity from the male protagonist (antagonist more likely), but I don’t remember the last time I read a book this quickly, polishing it off in a week. With an anonymous author who talks in personal pronouns and even refers back to his plan to write a book, I love that you never really know whether the book is fact or fiction, feeling like you’re reading the diary of a guy who honestly is just a complete asshole. Playing on the sympathy for the devil trope, Diary Of An Oxygen Thief is like Lolita or Frankenstein, told from the villain’s point of view, but then imagine that villain was funny and sounded like half the men you’ve ever met. Building a voice that’s full of all your most toxic thoughts, the narration of this book is so human and captivating in its gross cruelty, you get completely sucked in, being shocked and enthralled and sympathetic towards the narrator all at once.

As far as the plot goes it’s pretty simple, the narrator is awful to women and then a woman is awful to him. But the voice is so good I closed the book and immediately ordered the sequel, hoping I might be able to squeeze it in before the year is out.

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In Conclusion...

I counted and this year I’ve read 25 books, not counting the numerous novels I’ve started and given up on or the complete works I’ve been dipping in and out of. That’s more than I’ve ever read in a year, even while I was at uni, and for once I feel like I’ve actually properly engaged with what I’ve read, able to give you a summary and an opinion on any of the titles. A couple of weeks back I wrote this piece for Reason To Be Cheerful, talking about how I think I’ve finally recovered from the reading burnout of my degree and started to enjoy it again as a comforting activity and a kind of routine self-care. Previously flying through books on my commute, the half an hour I spend reading in bed every morning determines the mood of my day, always feeling a difference if I skip it. 

This year reading has been such a necessary form of escapism, being tied into little luxuries that have made the year bearable at worse, but at best actually really really lovely. Spending every Saturday morning sat by the canal with a takeout coffee and pastry has become my lockdown equivalent of a meal out or a Saturday night cocktail, feeling like the one treat my week leads up to. Especially in a time where we spent so much of our year alone, something about reading makes my own company feel so luxurious and special, a bit of quiet that I really look forward to. Diving into everything from classic novels to new poetry to non-fiction diaries, this year has massively broadened by reading horizons, and given me some of my favourite books that currently sit on my shelf.

And hopefully it’ll continue into 2021. 

Up next...

Chameleon in a candy store – anon

Orlando – Virginia Woolf

Nights Sky With Exit Wounds – Ocean Yuong

All the books still unread on my shelf…