Edinburgh

When Mountains Meet

26/04/24

The Studio at Festival Theatre, Edinburgh

When Mountains Meet is a very personal piece of gig theatre, composed by musician Anne Wood, who stands centre stage throughout, playing her violin and seeming almost to conduct proceedings.

Directed by Kath Burlinson and Niloo-Far Khan, this is the nostalgic story of Wood’s first meeting with her father. Raised in the Highlands by her single Scottish mother, the twenty-something Anne (Iman Akhtar) is a bold and fearless woman, happily hopping on a plane to Pakistan to try to get to know the man whose DNA she has inherited – and to connect with a culture that is both alien and hers.

Told through a blend of music, spoken word, projection and audience interaction, the production is as complex and disorienting as Wood’s relationship with her dad. It’s a gentle, welcoming piece – there’s a pot of kahwa tea on our table and four little ladoo sweets – but it encompasses some thorny themes, including feminism, poverty and the devastating effects of Partition. Anne’s father (Jamie Zubairi) is a kind and courteous man – a doctor, well-respected by all for his selfless commitment to building hospitals and helping the poor – but he is also unwilling to publicly acknowledge Anne as his daughter, her illegitimacy and creative career both proving sticking points. She is ‘taboo’.

With its cabaret-style seating, the storytellers (Akhtar, Zubairi and Hassan Javed) occasionally wending their way through the tables, this is an inclusive piece, and we’re carried along by its deceptively light tone, smiling as we make paper aeroplanes and hold stones in our hands. Wood’s violin is accompanied by Rakae Jamil’s sitar, Mary Macmaster’s electric harp and Rick Wilson’s percussion, and the result is a seamless fusion of Scottish and Pakistani influences. It all adds up to something very life-affirming: about how big the world is and how small we are; about acceptance, endurance and love.

When Mountains Meet is on tour in Scotland until the end of May, so why not seize the chance to see it if it’s in your vicinity? It’s a foot-tapping, thought-provoking gem.

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Mitsos – Serial Griller

20/04/24

Brougham Street, Edinburgh

It was way back in November 2017 that we first stumbled upon Taxidi – a charming little Greek restaurant just around the corner from where we live – and were absolutely knocked out both by the standard of the food and the relaxed, friendly atmosphere. It became a regular favourite and somewhere we often recommended to Edinburgh visitors. So, in January of this year, we were somewhat dismayed to see that it appeared to be closing down.

We needn’t have worried. The premises were simply undergoing a transformation into Mitsos – Serial Griller, under the same ownership. We vow to visit as soon as possible, but the best laid plans often go awry, and it’s quite some time before we finally find the opportunity. As the name implies, the little restaurant is now home to a sizeable charcoal grill and, as we enter the familiar premises, we’re greeted by the appetising aroma of roasting meat – though I should add that, as before, there are still plenty of vegetarian options on the menu.

We start with some marinated anchovies. These are quite the revelation. Plump and zesty, infused with lemon, parsley and garlic, they are about a million miles away from the dried up, salty things that come in tins. We eat them (perhaps ‘devour’ would be a more appropriate word) with slices of char-grilled pitta bread, which are are quite a revelation themselves, hot, crispy and so downright moreish that we have to rein ourselves back a little in order to have some to accompany the dishes that follow.

Next to arrive is a grilled chicken breast – marinated in yoghurt and cooked over charcoal. It’s accompanied by mild red onion and a delicious mustard, the meat wonderfully tender and as moist as you could ask for. Then comes the undoubted star of the show, a whole grilled sea bream, perfectly cooked, the flesh quite literally falling off the bone and as light as a feather. This comes with a lemon and coriander dressing, which brings out the delicate flavour of the fish. There’s also a lovely beetroot salad, flecked with manouri cheese and flavoured with mint and garlic, and a side of hand–cut chips. Suffice to say that we make very short work of it all.

We’ve left room for a pudding (naturally), so we’re initially disappointed to find that Mitsos only offers a choice of two, but the disappointment is short-lived because both prove to be delicious. There’s that most traditional of Greek desserts, baklava, this one fabulously sweet and sticky – and there’s Greek yoghurt. I’ll confess that the latter doesn’t sound inspiring, but I soon discover that this version of the classic dish is a cut above – a mouthwatering confection that comprises ultra thick spoonfuls of set yoghurt, heaped with a succulent berry compote and liberally sprinkled with chopped nuts. Good? It’s all I can do not to lick the platter clean!

We leave feeling comfortably full and already planning our next visit. Αντίο, Taxidi. Long live the Serial Griller!

5 Stars

Philip Caveney

The Girls of Slender Means

17/04/24

Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh

Gabriel Quigley’s vivacious adaptation of Muriel Spark’s novel opens in the 1960s. Jane (Molly Vevers) is the editor of Elan magazine. Her bright young assistant, Bluebell (Molly McGrath), nervously pitches a feature, but Jane is distracted by news of a certain Nicholas Farringdon (Seamus Dillane)’s demise. Maybe she can write a piece about him? After all, she knew him, back in the day. And, just like that, she is hurtling down Memory Lane, back to 1945 and the months between VE Day and VJ Day, when she lived in the May of Teck…

The May of Teck is a pithily-straplined boarding house, “for the pecuniary convenience and social protection of ladies of slender means below the age of thirty years, who are obliged to reside apart from their families in order to follow an occupation in London.” The young occupants – who all work as secretaries – share everything: rations, deportment tips, clothes. One dress in particular, a Shiaparelli known affectionately as Scappers, is dear to all their hearts. They each get to wear it on special occasions; there’s a strict rota in place.

The first act is sprightly, frothy, almost determinedly light; the focus is on fashion and friendship, dancing and diets. Beautiful Selina (Julia Brown) carefully monitors her calorie-intake to ensure her hips don’t grow too wide to wriggle through the tiny bathroom window so that she can sunbathe on the roof. Live-wire Anne (Amy Kennedy) provides a caustic running commentary on everything and everyone, while angelic elocution teacher, Joanna (McGrath again), recites poetry and sews. Meanwhile, Pauline (Shannon Watson) never stops prattling about her love affair with famous actor Jack Buchanan, and our Scottish protagonist, Jane, forges fan mail to authors for her publisher boss, and dreams of being a poet herself one day. Her attempts to be taken seriously – her dowdy cardigan, her constant references to “brain work” – are undermined by her goofy awkwardness, wonderfully captured by Vevers.

There’s a tonal shift in the second act. As we get to know the girls better, we begin to see beneath the gilded surface. Their frivolity is revealed for what it is: a distraction from the horrors they have endured during the war. It shouldn’t come as a surprise; it’s been there all along in Jessica Worrall’s set design, the monochrome backdrop of bombed-out buildings a constant reminder that the girls’ colourful chatter belies a darker truth. But it shocks, providing an effective wake-up call. They are survivors. No wonder they cling so desperately to the fantasy Scappers provides.

Under Roxanna Silbert’s direction, the story has a clear contemporary resonance, and not just because we, like they, are living through the dying days of a Tory government, fearful of what might happen next. The production is impressive as a whole, but there are also some stand-out scenes, most notably the droll office sequence and the dance, where the girls’ boyfriends are represented by legless mannequins.

Spark’s lesson is clear. Don’t underestimate people because they seem shallow; you don’t know what’s concealed within their depths.

4.3 stars

Susan Singfield

The Trouble with Jessica

06/04/24

Cameo Cinema, Edinburgh

The Trouble With Jessica is at the Cameo tonight, and so are director Matt Winn and lead actor Shirley Henderson, here for a Q&A. The place is bustling. Indeed, the only seats we can find are in the very front row, but that’s okay. We settle down in the comfy velvet chairs and stretch our legs out, making the most of the space.

TTWJ is essentially a comedy of manners, drawing on elements of farce. It goes to some dark places – including suicide, depression and rape – but always (trust me) with humour, eliciting belly laughs from tonight’s audience. Winn treads that precarious line well.

Sarah (Henderson) and Tom (Alan Tudyk) have invited their best friends over for what Sarah dramatically announces will be the last dinner party they’ll host in this house. Tom’s latest architectural project has flopped, and they need to sell their beloved home to save themselves from going under. But Beth (Olivia Williams) and Richard (Rufus Sewell) have brought along an extra guest, a mutual ‘friend’ called Jessica (Indira Varma), whose recent memoir has become a bestseller. Sarah is not pleased. She’s no fan of Jessica’s and, as soon as the titular character begins to speak, it’s easy to see why. She’s awful.

And then she kills herself in Sarah and Tom’s garden.

Sarah is furious. The house sale might be jeopardised! Her kids might have to go to state schools! They might have to live in a rubbish part of London! There’s nothing for it. They’ll have to move the body, pretend the suicide occurred elsewhere…

Through all the deliciously heightened nonsense that follows, the only thing I find hard to believe is that Sarah and Beth would keep up their friendship with Jessica. She doesn’t seem to have any redeeming features. She’s slept with two of Beth’s boyfriends and flirts incessantly with Tom. She’s rude and demanding and I don’t know anyone who’d put up with her.

That aside, I enjoy this film.

There is a charming cameo from Anne Reid as a nosey neighbour, and a wonderfully sinister series of scenes with Sylvester Groth as the potential house buyer. Jonathan Livingstone and David Schaal are very funny as PCs Terry and Paul, working-class foils to all the hoity-toity hogwash (although PC Paul recognises a decent clafoutis when he sees one).

It’s a stylish movie. The camera often lingers on the loveliness of the house, like an estate agent’s puff piece, reminding us of what’s at stake. Yes, Sarah and Tom are very privileged and it’s easy to mock their first world problems – but no one wants to lose what they have accrued; no one wants to fail, to have to step backwards. Of course they’d probably be fine if it all went tits up – but it’s no surprise they don’t want to put that theory to the test. It’s more relatable than its milieu might make it sound.

I like the title cards that act as introductions to the various ‘chapters’, each beginning The Trouble With… Tension mounts as the quartet struggle to come to terms with what they’re doing, as well as to manage the practicalities. Henderson in particular is riveting, her brittle capriciousness a delight to watch.

The Q&A is interesting too; it’s good to find out a little more about the process – especially Winn’s composition of the score – and it’s always a thrill to be in the same room as the people you’ve just been watching on the screen.

Once home, I find myself googling clafoutis recipes. Guess what we’re having for pudding tonight?

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Mothers’ Instinct

30/03/24

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Benoît Delhomme’s directorial debut looks beautiful: every scene is a pastel-perfect work of art. Stepford-ish wives Celine (Anne Hathaway) and Alice (Jessica Chastain) are next-door neighbours, with identikit McMansions, impeccable wardrobes and lookalike husbands. Even their sons, Max (Baylen D. Bielitz) and Theo (Eamon Patrick O’Connell), are a matching pair: they’re best friends, just like their moms. But not everything in this 1960s paradise is as peachy as it seems, and Max’s sudden death exposes more than just grief…

Mothers’ Instinct works well in many ways: Hathaway and Chastain deliver performances as flawless as their characters’ powder-pink co-ords. Celine’s brittle devastation and Alice’s mounting unease are slowly revealed, leading us first one way and then another, as we’re not sure whose version of reality to believe. The tension crackles and there’s some fine melodrama at play here.

Sadly – and don’t read any further if you’re worried about spoilers – there’s also an embarrassingly regressive subtext: women without children are monstrous. A generous reading might be that this is what happens to women when motherhood is the only role they’re allowed (Alice, keen at the start of the film to return to her work as a journalist, is told by her husband to contribute something to her son’s school newsletter). But, as the film progresses, it feels more like an indictment of childless women: driven mad by the frustration of their most basic desire, they are dangerous and should be feared.

It’s 2024. I honestly thought this was going to go somewhere different, that it would tease us with the clichés and then pull the rug from under us. But no. This actually is the grieving-mother-turns-psycho insult that is suggested from the start.

In the face of this deep-rooted misogyny, it seems pointless to quibble about minor plot details, such as why the police wouldn’t suspect foul play when so many deaths occur in one small neighbourhood, or how a woman can walk on a lawn in stilettos without getting mud on her heels or crawl through a hedge without mussing up her hair.

Mother’s Instinct has a lot in common with its lead character: it’s beautifully put together, but fundamentally fucked up.

2.7 stars

Susan Singfield

Hotdog

26/03/24

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Hotdog (Chloe-Ann Tylor) is all dressed up and ready to party! 

Wearing a garish hired costume and carrying a handbag, a phone and a bottle of lemonade, she’s leaving the sanctuary of her flat and heading off to an undisclosed location to strut her stuff. Outspoken and full of pent-up bile, she is determined that tonight she will be the life and soul of the party. She will dance and drink and curse and laugh out loud! She will sweep aside anybody who has a single bad word to say about her and show them who’s the boss.

But, as is so often the case, her forced exuberance only exists to mask a deeper, darker truth. Because something bad happened to Hotdog in the recent past – something that it’s going to take her a very long time to come to terms with.

Written by Ellen Ritchie and directed by Beckie Hope-Palmer, with an enchanting central performance  by Chloe-Ann Tylor, the latest piece from A Play, A Pie and a Pint is an astutely observed drama that deals with the subject of trauma. Tylor (most recently seen by B&B in  Same Team: A Street Soccer Story and in the fabulous Battery Park) talks directly to the audience, discussing her character’s uncompromising, no-holds-barred approach to life. She tells us about her apparent hatred of her over-protective mother and her revulsion for the kind of fridge-magnet things that people are prone to say to her. 

As she chips steadily away at the brittle carapace she’s constructed around herself, the real story gradually emerges – and it’s utterly heartbreaking.

Tylor is joined onstage by Ross Allan, who at first undertakes the role of a silent stage hand, ensuring that props, music cues and sound effects are there whenever Hotdog needs them. It’s only in the poignant final stretches that he becomes Andy, the proprietor of the chippy where Hotdog tends to finish up her evenings. As in his previous role, he is exactly the helping hand she needs, the one who keeps a caring eye on her. He’s also the bearer of a truth universally acknowledged – that Joni Mitchell is the greatest lyricist of all time.

Kenny Miller’s set might at first glance seem overly complicated, but all those meticulous white lines on the floor – like Hotdog’s motivation – eventually fall into place.

4 stars

Philip Caveney

Mowgli Street Food

24/03/24

Hanover Street, Edinburgh

We’re not big on chains, but some of them are worth it. Dishoom, Wahaca, Wagamama: we’re looking at you. And now we can add Mowgli to the list.

I’ve been past this place on the bus a few times, and it looks lovely: a grand old building with more twinkling lights than Fairyland at Christmas. My interest is further piqued by listening to owner, Nisha Katona, on the Off Menu podcast. The concept – “the kind of food Indians eat at home and on their streets” – seems strong and some of those dishes sound amazing. Treacle tamarind fries? Yoghurt chat bombs? I need to try them

We’re long overdue a catch-up with some friends, so what better excuse to head into what, it turns out, was once the Clydesdale? “I used to bank here,” our pal tells us. The conversion has been more sympathetically managed than the Edinburgh Hawksmoor, also housed in an old bank, and which we found very imposing and austere. Here, the lofty space has been cunningly sectioned off so that it feels cosy and inviting, as well as very glamorous.

The food is good. It’s all small plates, and between us we sample four items from the House Kitchen (Agra ginger chicken, house lamb curry, mother butter chicken and Aunty Geeta’s prawn curry), two from the Hindu Kitchen (temple dahl and green ginger and rhubarb dahl), three Curry Companions (Mowgli slaw, roti breads and basmati rice) and, of course, those treacle tamarind fries. To the disappointment of one of our friends, there’s no Mowgli house keema available tonight, but he’s happy enough with what he orders instead.

The standout dishes are the lamb curry, which is melt-in-the-mouth tender – and, surprisingly, the slaw. None of us has ever considered coleslaw as an accompaniment to curry, but it works a treat, offering a cool, crispy contrast to all those rich sauces. We’ll be aiming to repeat the trick at home. But almost everything tastes great: the flavours are robust and interesting; the spicing delicate. I only have minor criticisms: I find the tomatoes in the prawn curry a little too astringent, and I can’t really taste the rhubarb in the ginger and rhubarb dahl. The tamarind fries are a revelation though. They’re very sweet and rich, so one portion between four of us is certainly enough, but they’re truly delicious.

None of us drinks alcohol, but there are several mocktails on offer, as well as a couple of 0% beers. The Estrella Dam goes down well with the others, and I enjoy a bottle of sparkling water.

We’re too full for either of the ‘big’ puddings available (gulab jamun or a chocolate brownie) but we can always find room for a little sweet something, so we’re pleased to see homemade ice cream cones on the menu. Sadly, the same friend who wanted the keema now learns that there’s no coconut ice cream, so he decides to do without. The rest of us go for either the salted caramel or the mango sorbet, and both are excellent.

All in all, we have a lovely evening. Of course, a lot of that is to do with the company, but Mowgli feels like a strong addition to the Edinburgh food scene, and I’m sure that we’ll be back. After all, I still need to try those yoghurt chat bombs.

4.1 stars

Susan Singfield

Blue Beard

15/03/24

Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh

I’m a massive fan of writer/director Emma Rice – and also of fairytales. I even wrote my own version of Blue Beard some years ago, a short story currently languishing in the proverbial drawer where unpublished fiction goes to die. So, co-produced by Wise Children, Birmingham Rep, HOME Manchester, York Theatre Royal, and – of course – Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum, this adaptation promises to be a delight. It doesn’t disappoint.

We all know the story. Blue Beard is a charming villain: rich, handsome and very popular. Sure, he’s had more wives than Henry VIII, but he doesn’t pretend to be a saint, and it’s no surprise when a naïve young woman agrees to marry him. The surprise comes later, when he gives his new bride a key but prohibits her from using it, placing a temptation in her way that he knows she can’t resist. When, inevitably, she opens the forbidden door, she finds the dismembered corpses of his previous wives and understands immediately that she is next. Luckily, she has brothers, and they come riding to the rescue. And then – spoiler alert! – she lives happily ever after.

Naturally, things pan out a little differently here. Rice embraces the anarchic heart of the fairy tale, while simultaneously tearing it apart. The result is as chaotic and brash as anyone who knows her work will expect: maximalist and frantic and as unsubtle as the protagonist’s cerulean facial hair. I love it.

The music (by Stu Barker) is integral to the piece. It’s enthralling, and beautifully performed by the impressive cast, all of whom turn out to be quadruple-threats, not only dancing, singing and acting with aplomb, but also playing a range of instruments and, in the case of Mirabelle Gremaud, adding gymnastics and contortion to the mix.

Vicki Mortimer’s ingenious set comprises boxes within boxes: indeed, the whole play is a magic show, all dazzling mirror-balls and sleights of hand. The cabaret glitz enhances the plot: no wonder Lucky (Robyn Sinclair) finds Blue Beard (Tristan Sturrock) spellbinding; he’s a magician, after all; illusions are his stock-in-trade. The thrilling, illicit pleasure draws us in: we too are seduced by Blue Beard’s ostentation and flair; excited as he conjures a horse race from nowhere; throws knives at his assistant (Gremaud); saws Lucky in half. This first act is all about the seductive allure of darkness, the impulse that makes us devour murder-mysteries and glamourise the bad guys.

But Rice’s Blue Beard comes with a warning, in the form of Mother Superior (the fabulous Katy Owen), whose Convent of the Three Fs reminds us that real women – as opposed to their fairytale counterparts – are at once fearful, fucked and furious. She’s both narrator and chorus, veering between humour and rage, first undercutting the tension with a perfectly-placed “fuck off”, then skewering Blue Beard’s dangerous pomposity.

The second act draws all the disparate strands together. Lucky doesn’t have brothers who can rescue her, but she does have Treasure and Trouble, her mum and sister (Patrycja Kujawska and Stephanie Hockley), and Blue Beard is no match for this formidable trio.

Out in the real world, the Lost Sister (Gremaud) is not so lucky. A screen showing black and white CCTV footage of a man following a woman is a theatrical gut-punch, less visceral than the slo-mo, gore-spattered, cartoon battle we’ve just enjoyed, but much more chilling. The auditorium, which just a moment ago was a riot of whoops and claps, is silent, aghast. The Lost Brother (Adam Mirsky) weeps; the Mother Superior sheds her habit. The smoke clears; the illusion breaks.

This is theatre with a capital T.

5 stars

Susan Singfield

Escaped Alone

14/03/24

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

First performed at the Royal Court in 2016, Caryl Churchill’s Escaped Alone is a fascinating piece, revealing some essential human truths despite the brevity of its running time.

Three retired women – neighbours – sit in a garden, chatting inconsequentially. Mrs Jarrett (Blythe Duff) calls out a greeting as she passes by and is invited to take a seat. On the surface, she fits in, joining in the conversation. But she’s plagued by her knowledge of what’s happening in the news. At regular intervals, while the other women freeze, Mrs Jarrett rises and stands before Lewis den Hertog’s bleak black and white video projection, monologuing about apocalyptic events in the world beyond the garden. It’s like she’s zoning out, and we’re inside her head – and then she’s back again, making small talk, as if nothing has happened.

Although the catastrophes Mrs Jarrett describes are absurd in their extremity – all food has been diverted to TV channels; the hungry only know breakfast as an image on their screens; obese people sell their flesh, cutting rashers from their own bodies – the situation is depressingly normal. Just this morning, listening to the radio, I hear that 300 kidnapped Nigerian schoolchildren are still missing. In Gaza, shots have been fired at starving Palestinians waiting for a food truck. War still rages in Ukraine. It’s horrible. “Should we have curry or pasta for dinner tonight?” I ask my husband. We’re all fiddling while Rome burns.

The set, designed by Anna Orton, heightens the feeling of pretence. The grass is too green, the sky too blue; it’s what the women want to see, not what’s really there.

But, however fervently they cling to the façade they’ve created, real life keeps creeping in. “I’d love to go to Japan,” muses the agoraphobic (Anne Kidd). “Get yourself to Tesco first,” advises the caustic former GP (Joanna Tope), puncturing the daydream. Most resolutely cheerful of all is the ex-hairdresser (Irene McDougall), fresh out of prison for killing her husband. She went down for manslaughter, “but it might have been murder, in actual fact.” Nothing is what it seems.

Under Johanna Bowman’s direction, the performances are pulsing with vitality. There’s an urgency to proceedings that underscores the latent horror. Churchill’s script offers no real plot or character progression and this Tron Theatre production makes sense of that. It’s a snapshot of the way we’re stuck: a never-ending cycle of looking away; distracting ourselves from what’s really happening; ignoring the overpowering emotion consuming us.

“Terrible rage. Terrible rage. TERRIBLE RAGE.”

4.3 stars

Susan Singfield

Origin

10/03/24

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Origin isn’t like any film I’ve seen before. Structurally, it’s akin to a dramatised lecture – but if that sounds dry, then I’m doing it a huge disservice. Writer/director Ava DuVernay has taken an academic text and created an artist’s impression of both the work and its author. The result is multi-layered: at once instructive and provocative – and absolutely riveting.

Based on Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents by Isabel Wilkerson (played here by Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor), Origin isn’t an easy watch. Wilkerson’s central conceit is that all oppression is linked – that the Holocaust, US slavery and India’s caste system all stem from the same fundamental practice of labelling one group of people ‘inferior’. This perception is entrenched via eight ‘pillars’, including endogamy, dehumanisation and heritability. DuVernay has done a sterling job of distilling these complex ideas and making them accessible, but the volume of cruelty on display is devastating. Who are we? Why do we keep on letting this happen? Some scenes are particularly heartbreaking, for example the young Al Bright (Lennox Simms)’s humiliating experience at a swimming pool in 1951, and I can hardly bear to mention the visceral horror of seeing people crammed into slave ships.

Ellis-Taylor’s Wilkerson is very engaging. She’s not only fiercely intelligent, but also thoughtful and gentle. Despite the weighty topics that dominate her working life, she finds time to have fun with her husband, Brett (Jon Bernthal), and to look after her mum, Ruby (Emily Yancy). She feels real.

Wilkerson’s personal life anchors the movie, which begins with her looking at retirement homes with Ruby. We see how Trayvon Martin (Myles Frost)’s shooting sows the first seed of her thesis, and then we jump back and forth in time and place, bearing witness to Nazi book burnings and Bhimrao Ambedkar’s ‘untouchable’ status; to Elizabeth and Allison Davis’s undercover work with Burleigh and Mary Gardner, documenting the everyday realities of racism in 1940s Mississippi. It is to DuVernay’s credit that we are never in any doubt about where we are or what point is being made.

There are moments when the concepts need bullet-pointing for clarity, and this is neatly achieved by the addition of a literal whiteboard. We see Wilkerson laboriously erecting it, before covering it in notes about the pillars that hold oppression in its place. This helps to anchor the key arguments, making them easy to grasp and remember.

Origin is a demanding piece of cinema, but it’s worth the effort. I come away feeling both horrified and educated, looking at the world in a different way.

4 stars

Susan Singfield