Monthly Archives: September 2016



Starring: Eva Green, Asa Butterfield, Chris O’Dowd, Allison Janney, Rupert Everett, Terence Stamp, Ella Purnell, with Judi Dench and Samuel L. Jackson
Directed by: Tim Burton
Cert: 12A Running Time: 127 mins
Release Date: 30th September 2016

There are times throughout Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children that you want to punch the air for another Tim Burton movie has arrived, one not a million miles from The Nightmare Before Xmas or Edward Scissorhands – for Burton, himself being a celebrator of the peculiar, seems the perfect fit to take on Ransom Riggs’ 2011 bestseller. We are treated to the slurping of eyeballs, stop motion fight club and many more dark and deliciously disturbing things within, but it is the slanting differences between his own aesthetics and  Jane Goldman’s screenplay that ultimately trip the film up in final quarter.

Similar to Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, teenager Jake (Asa Butterfield) finds himself falling down a rabbit hole or time loop to visit the children’s home of the title after his Grandpa Abe (Terence Stamp) dies in mysterious circumstances. Whispering only a cryptic message before he dies, Jake knows his death has something to do with his stories of Miss Peregrine and the childrens home she ran during the Second World War. He sets off on an adventure to discover if the home still exists with his disinterested father in tow (a convincing Chris O’Dowd) and soon discovers a collection of children who along with their guardian (Eva Green) exist in a fracture of time where it is forever 1943.

It’s a mixed affair in terms of delights. Meeting all the peculiar children is a treat, each one weirder than the last,  from the cloth covered scare-children to the boy with bees in his mouth (Milo Parker), the girl who sets fire to things by touch (Lauren McCrostie), the young man (Finlay MacMillan) who like Burton’s Frankenweenie can animate objects with tiny animal hearts and Emma (Ella Purnell) who is as light as air. All of these lead to a picnic of visual delights and Burton has fun exploring their gifts however, their peculiarities are all we see, with very little personality to back them up so that they remain oddly at arms length to the audience.

Eva Green is luminous as the matriarch and protector of these strange children, her costume by Colleen Atwood feeding into her gothic presence while Asa Butterfield excels as the young man who may be just as peculiar as they are. However, the film begins to slowly buckle under its own weight as the plot begins to get more and more confusing. Conflict comes in the shape of Barron played by Samuel L. Jackson, who along with his stilt-walking ‘hollows’ – eyeless creatures with tentacles spewing from their mouths have been looking for Miss Peregrine’s children for many years. Were the story simply an attack by the hollows pitted against these extraordinary children in their spooky home it would have been everything the first hour had promised but when the plot veers to a sequence in a bright techno-pumping fairground, you know something’s gone awry somewhere.

Burton is not all about the visuals, he’s also a terrific storyteller and the theme of isolation – of being at odds with the world around you is well captured but sadly here his pairing with Goldman’s script has straddled him between two worlds, a little like the peculiars.



Short Story: ‘Little Miss Ashleigh’


Come closer. Move in. Take a closer look. Don’t worry they can’t see us or hear our footsteps. We are merely watching, invisible, like a fly on the mirror over the mantle or a piece of china sitting on the sideboard in the drawing room. Come with us now into the home of the Boudreaux family. Feel the warm Georgia air through the open French windows, your collar beginning to sweat. You’re wondering why we are here. Don’t worry it will soon become clear. This is Ravenwood. The largest cotton plantation west of Atlanta and the year is 1837. Home to the Boudreaux family for three generations, we have come to look in on the youngest Boudreaux at this time, little Miss Ashleigh.

There she is, her golden ringlets bouncing as she bounds down the long staircase. She can smell the cookies Annie has made and she’s making a beeline for the kitchen eager to get there before her older sister Marguerite. But her sister is already hanging from Annie’s apron strings as she takes the biscuits from the oven. Before the tray is even rested on the stove top Marguerite grabs the biggest one, throwing it between her hands, the heat burning her as she scores a victorious look to her newly arrived sister.

Ashleigh’s face is a disgruntled snarl and even though Annie burns her own hands she lifts one to give to the smaller child and draw a line under her defeat. Ashleigh devours the cookie, crumbs falling to the kitchen floor and grabs another before knocking the tray into the air, falling into a jumbled mess as Marguerite screams. What you’re seeing is typical sibling rivalry but it is important to see Ashleigh for the eight-year-old child she is, for children are not equipped some would say, to understand the proper order of things, not yet. They have much to learn. They are impetuous, acting on instinct and finding their way between the folds of good and bad behaviour.

This is where we must jump forward, only by a few nights to the events that would shape the child into the young woman she would become. See, there she is, lying in slumber, her hair a halo of fallen curls. She looks restful doesn’t she? But inside, her mind is a torment of voices as they try to gain control. The demons have spent years delicately burrowing into the girl, every night, twisting her mind a little further. Some nights she wakes screaming for her mother and they giggle to themselves already planning their mischief for the next opportunity.

Close your eyes for a moment and you can hear them whispering to her. Their voices, first a low rustle and then building, until hundreds of them overlap, crawling over each other to be heard. They are strong and they will her mind, manually turning the tiny cogs to their deeds. This night they will truly test the girl and themselves. Arise they command and so her little body sits upright, her face still lost in the façade of sleep. At first they are satisfied to just move her but when that proves an easy task, they goad her out of her bed and into walking, one little bare foot in front of the other, until her tiny hand meets the glass doorknob. You are thinking we should wake her but we are merely watching these moments like sketches in an artist’s book already drawn. We are visitors and the future is already set. We have no actions here but to witness what befell the girl. Across the landing to the stairs, she moves silently without a creak of wood to give her away and like a spectre in the darkness, we follow her little white nightgown.

They are taking her outside. The night air is cool, but they cast their invisible arms around her, keeping her in the warmth of their embrace. As her feet touch the grass, they lay themselves beneath her lest the blades disturb her wander and they draw her now to the woods where they will end it. Inside a clearing not far from the slaves quarters, they halt her, dropping her to her knees. They seek her voice now tunnelling through her body to find it, enclosed in the back of her throat. Make her speak they chant.

“Let me in” she whimpers, her voice weak as her hands find the soil beneath her and begin to move it slowly. The demons are marvelling at their power, one voice complimenting the other.


“Let me in.” This time a little louder as she scratches at the earth, making furrows with her fingers dragging it to her knees. The girl is lost inside and if the demons have their way they will take her down into the soil with them. A loud scream sounds from deep within her. The girl has fight after all for even in their torment she makes a mutinous revolt of her own. They must silence her and so they strike her head to the ground rubbing it in the small pit she has dug, the earth finding its way up her nose and into her open mouth. She is lost, yet she is screaming, her eyes sealed to the nightmare.

Can you hear the whipping of branches as he runs through the low bushes and gorse? Running from the slave quarters to the cries of a child in the darkness. Keep watching, there to the left. Here he comes. Joshua. He sees her, the Master’s child. Little Miss Ashleigh screaming, her nightgown thick with muck, her face smeared by her own hand it seems. He calls her name and for a moment he thinks he sees her head turn before it strikes again and if we move back we can see his feet sliding through the leaves as he lands beside her, grabbing her shoulders.

“No, Miss Ashleigh”, he says, holding her back.

Her body is rigid in his grip and her dirty hands have found his face, her head turning to him. Inside the demons scream and her eyes flash open, milky swirls before they shut tight again. The demons will fight him for her. Her hands become claws, dragging through his skin, drawing blood. His long arms clutch around her body trapping her flailing ones beneath his, his face now out of reach as she takes them both to the ground, the demons bucking and jolting her. In the distance through the trees, gather more witnesses but unlike us, they are flesh. They are like Joshua and they are frightened.

“Get the master, quick” he yells to them.

“He’ll be mad” one says.

“Get him” shouts Joshua.

For a moment she stops fighting and her limbs soften as he whispers softly into her ear.

“You’re safe Miss Ashleigh. You’re safe”.

Her head twitches, her ear turning to his lips, lost among the mess of her hair. Her body convulses as she hears his voice. She hears it, as do they and he is invading her mind with soothing words at odds with their hoarse cries.

“Where is little Miss Ashleigh?” he whispers. The one who sits on the top step of the porch, tapping her feet, eating rose water jellies, or clutching blossoms picked from the meadow, wildflowers in their hair. “Are you still in there?”

Her little body is shivering as the demons slowly lessen their embrace allowing the cool night air to prickle the hairs on her arms. Joshua’s voice rises in the darkness singing softly to her as he rocks her gently in his arms. He can’t think of one song she and he might share and so instead chooses a slave song, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating in her bones as he sings it into her ear.

The demons are listening for they fall quiet and suddenly they release her to him. Oh there is more merriment to be had this night, they think. Inside Miss Ashleigh’s mind they recede to the shadows, poking her with long fingers as they go causing her to shudder again. They howl with laughter and the sound of it starts to fade slowly as the girl begins to return, a song of redemption bringing her back to the surface. At last her rigid muscles relent and she sags into his embrace, curling her body into him. On he sings and she opens her eyes, looking at the man holding her as if he were Christ himself, a deity who made the monsters go away. His eyes are kind and she bursts into tears. He stops singing, wiping muddy strands of hair from her little face. She is tiny in his arms. She can smell the wood smoke from his worn shirt and through her tears comes the slow dawn of her surroundings. She is outside.

“The Master’s coming”. A man runs back into the trees away from them and she can hear her father’s voice bellowing across the lawn. He is worried and angry. He is always angry.

Her father is coming. Here. To her now. She is weeping fresh tears as she pushes her hands away from Joshua to look at him properly. She sees not the face of her saviour but that of a slave.

A slave.

She feels his hands on her holding her still, his eyes questioning hers. The sound of the wind in the leaves is suddenly very loud and he is asking her if she is okay but she can’t hear him. All she hears is her Daddy’s voice and the whipping of the branches. Her cheeks are hot and red and her stomach is squirming.

A slave.

Her eyes blur before settling on the image of Alfred Boudreaux in his nightgown, the tassel on his nightcap blowing in the wind. His face drops when he sees the two of them and that’s when the demons begin to celebrate and Miss Ashleigh begins to scream anew. She kicks her legs, her bare feet flying back and forth, her arms struggling in his. She’s afraid. Afraid her Daddy will see that she could be comforted by this man. And oh to explain how she came to be there with him. For he simply will not understand it.

“Help me” she screams.

Joshua sets her on the ground quickly and she runs from him, hugging her Daddy’s hip as he picks her up. He registers the state of his child, running his hand over her golden hair, ridding it of twig and leaf, glaring at the man before him.

Joshua speaks, his voice shaking as the situation now present dawns.

“Master, she was o’come with a madness Sir.”

Miss Ashleigh buries herself from his words but she has decided and when she speaks her voice is meek but definite.

“He took me here Daddy. He took me from my bed”.

Joshua protests but his words fall into the wind. Mr. Boudreaux sees the scrapes on his face, the trails of blood from her tiny fingernails. And how the demons laugh. They will happily find another to torment. This child has chosen a path now that will give them so much more amusement than if they had simply taken her life. Little Miss Ashleigh clutches her arms around her father’s neck as they walk away, her decision nesting within her, its roots taking hold. Her toes are tingling as her father holds her tightly, Joshua staring at her as he is set upon by the foreman with his noose – no pleading now – just a steely gaze in her direction, a recognition between them of the lie and he can almost see the demons circle her like ribbons as they celebrate his fate.

The Boudreaux’s don’t stay for the hanging and nor shall we. Instead we will watch as she is carried back to her bed, simpering at her father’s kind touch, and as sound slumber reaches for her in the warmth of her covers, she is again soothed by the slave song playing in her mind.


©Clare B. Daly 2016





Writing competitions: Running the endless race…


Epiphanies are rare. That moment when the right thought finds the right cubby hole in your brain in which to nest and nurture itself. This morning I realised after much anxiety this week that writing competitions just aren’t for me. What was I torturing myself for? How I’d goaded myself into believing that there’s a path and if you want to be a successful writer you must follow it to the letter. Given I’m a bit of a newcomer and have had my head wedged in the pages of my first book for the best part of four years, I told myself that I really should be writing some short stories and entering local competitions. Get yourself noticed. Get yourself heard. A chance to shed the invisibility cloak for a while. Sure look at this writer and that one who started out winning competitions and so on until my brain wrote one just to shut the voices up.

I should have known really that competitions weren’t for me for I am an eternal optimist. I do the lottery rarely but when I do I get a little tingle at the prospect that yes – it could be me and I have it all but spent by the time the draw comes round and someone in Belmullet has won it again. Unlike the lottery you’ll be surprised to find writing stories requires a bit more effort than a Quickpick and so time and energy must be exhumed in order to bleed the right shade of blood that a particular competition is looking for.

Don’t get me wrong, I see their worth, their value to those that win but what of those that don’t. Eight hundred people entered the competition I agonised over this week and twenty-four were shortlisted. Brilliant for those writers and fair play to them but what of the seven hundred and seventy-six writers bereft of any words in the pool of disappointment, not knowing if they came close or were the first to reach the recycling bin. Did I think I could win it? No but God I hoped. It’s the lottery all over again and so I found myself all week refreshing the relevant website for news. Again and again and again. I care a little too much and that scares me because its damaging to me and its also distracting me from the actual joy of writing. I have enough to be thinking about with my novel currently out on the hunt for an agent and that I have discovered, is all the anguish I need right now.

Compare if you will a writer to an athlete. Always writing, always training, breaking a mental sweat versus the physical one. Now imagine that athlete running a marathon, urging every last cell in their body to get them over the finish line, pushing themselves until they can no longer breathe, the finish line the only thing keeping them going as it appears in the distance, growing nearer and nearer. Perseverance is needed but they reach the end and have the beautiful satisfaction of recording their time, checking if it’s a personal best and if they’re lucky enough maybe even picking up a record and a nice medal. Now imagine that marathon runner is a writer and they have secreted themselves out onto a page and entered a writing competition. Their mind will run that marathon for months waiting on the result for they can’t enter that same story in another race while still running this one. They have cut loose a piece of themselves to be judged, only in the end satisfaction is not forthcoming. Only silence. Now the two are melding, the athlete running among his peers but he is invisible, like a ghost moving one foot after another as other runners jostle past them. For the invisible runner, the finish line just keeps moving further back into the distance and they may never ever reach it and if they invest themselves as they do in all things with 110%, they will end up forever exhausted and unable to do what it is they so loved in the first place.

Having taken my short story from an anecdote told in my novel, I do realise that it comes down to personal taste and maybe my tragic notes are not for everyone. Hell I get that, I do. Completely. And so rather than torture myself and burn my energies finding more competitions, I shall leave it to the pros. There are so many talented writers in Ireland and so I bow to those of you who have what it takes mentally and the physical arsenal of material to keep firing at these deadlines all the time.

I’m not an athlete (I spend far too much time sitting at this computer) but I fully appreciate that training is a huge part of finishing races and achieving goals. But there is a pressure out there, probably self imagined that mirrors my I’m-a-mother-I-should-be-able-to-do everything to I’m-a-writer-I-should-be-able-to-do-everything that is just not realistic and for the foolhardy among us leads only down a road of further torture.

I’m not afraid of showing people my work (if I was my novel would be sitting in a drawer right now and I wouldn’t be writing its sequel). It is what it is. I do what I do. Like all forms of creativity it speaks of the individual who made it and one story, song, painting, poem is not going to speak to everyone in the same way. And so I have decided that writing, much like the film reviews I write should be expressed and sent out to float into the atmosphere and find their own natural home. So no more competitions, no more judges, no more waiting. I shall post it here and continue what I love best.








Starring: Gemma Arterton, Glenn Close, Paddy Considine, Sennia Nanua
Directed by: Colm McCarthy
Cert: 15A Running Time: 111 mins
 Release Date: September 23rd 2016

Coming a month or so before we get our new season fix of The Walking Dead is British zombie film The Girl With All The Gifts, based on the bestselling novel by M.R. Carey and like a zombie reawakened by the sweet smell of fresh meat, it’s a salivating proposal. In a genre that is ripe for over gorging on well worn tropes, Carey (who also wrote the screenplay at the same time) has brought something new in his approach which definitely pays off.

A child zombie, Melanie (played by newcomer Sennia Nanua), forms an emotional bond with her ‘teacher’ Miss Justineau (played by Gemma Arterton) at an army research facility where she and others like her are housed for experiments in the hope of finding a cure for a zombie virus threatening humanity. Melanie is a ‘special girl’ possessing a partial immunity to the pathogen that may just be the last hope for mankind if Doctor Caldwell (Glenn Close) can carry out her valuable work. As they go about their daily routine, hordes of ‘hungries’ rage at the fences, chomping to get in and when their defences fall, all hell breaks loose and Sergeant Parks (Paddy Considine) must shepherd, Melanie, Miss Justineau and Caldwell to safety.

It’s a great set up with Parks wanting to kill the girl, Caldwell to protect her precious specimen and Justineau to love her for the caring and thoughtful little girl she is. Nanua’s performance is a revelation as the monster/child hopelessly looking for a mother figure as the world disintegrates around her and it’s a testament to her performance that we completely forgive her her zombie urges. When Justineau catches her looking at a poster of a cat on a cityscape, she asks, “would you like a kitten?” to which Melanie answers “I already had one” – the blood of it slowly drying on her clothes. Each member of the group has their own priorities and as Caldwell obsesses about the importance of Melanie to her research, Parks tells her that the only “mission now is to keep ourselves off the fucking menu”.

Director Colm McCarthy (Peaky Blinders, Sherlock), has crafted a bleak, disturbing nightmare made all the more real by the fact that the ‘hungries’ are fast on their feet and more than capable of catching up to you if you run. In one scene you can hear them approaching, running through the trees before they find their way into frame, sounding the dread before they appear, their movements quick and erratic, their mouths drooling.

The only thing more horrifying than the running zombies are the catatonic ones, slowed by inactivity, a dormant state until awoken by loud noise or the smell of human flesh. They sway like Triffids in the breeze in one of the most tense nail biting sequences.  Shot in the Midlands around Birmingham, the locations are all real derelict properties from hospitals to shopping centres and for the wider shots doubling for London, McCarthy sent a unit to shoot aerial footage of Pripyat outside Chernobyl giving it a heightened sense of the world gone to ruin. 

Fans of the book will be not be disappointed and the casting of all parts is spot on. No-one could play Caldwell better than Glenn Close who brings her wits and steely nerve to the role while Arterton brings a motherly gentleness to a world gone mad with Considine’s tough soldier showing his own heartache as the cracks begin to appear. The film though belongs to Nanua who’s performance anchors the whole story and the audience’s investment in it, all accompanied by a beautiful, haunting, soulful score by Christobal Tapia de Veer.

Devour and enjoy.






Starring: Cillian Murphy, Jamie Dornan, Toby Jones, Charlotte Le Bon, Anna Geislerová
Directed by: Sean Ellis
Cert: 15A Running Time: 120 mins
Release Date: 9th September 2016

Great minds in Hollywood it would seem think alike as Anthropoid, the first film out of the gates to feature the true story of the WWII mission to assassinate SS General Reinhard Heydrich, get its release in cinemas this week. “They say, if you don’t have a competing project, you’re doing the wrong film” says writer/director Sean Ellis, unfazed by the arrival next year of Cédric Jimenez’ HHhH. As with most competing projects, one tends to overshadow the other and so fine a film is Ellis’, that it will be a tough one for Jimenez to follow up.

A passion project since 2001, he wrote, produced, directed and served as cinematographer to tell the story of Operation Anthropoid – the plot to assassinate Heydrich, the SS officer third in command after Hitler and Himmler and the main architect behind the ‘Final Solution’. Cillian Murphy and Jamie Dornan play Josef Gabcík and Jan Kubis, the two men charged with leading the operation, parachuting into their homeland with murder in mind. As Josef points out when asked if it is murder, he responds that assassination is a better word – murder implying that it’s a life worth living in the first place. From the get go, Ellis pulls the audience in close and the fact that he did all but make the tea on set stands greatly to him. His confident approach as a writer to nailing his characters, his attention to detail as director, making the decision to shoot in the actual locations and his framing as cameraman, bring vitality and urgency to every scene.

Ellis shot the film hand held and though initially a little jaunty, it does settle, perhaps mirroring their perilous parachute drop into enemy territory and the cool composure they then need if they are to succeed. The film itself has a reportage look to it, particularly when they come face to face with the man himself, like newsreel footage, not dissimilar to the Zapruder footage from the Kennedy assassination in Dallas two decades later. It is indeed an important moment in history and Ellis’ treats it as such.

For those of you, who like me were unfamiliar with the story, worry not as its an advantage here, the outcome unknown as you perch perilously on the edge of your seat. To say more of the plot itself would be to spoil what unfolds. Murphy is a tour de force as always and though the film is billed as a two hander with Dornan,  it is his heartbeat that pounds throughout the film. His Czech accent which he practiced as if “going to the gym for your mouth” is flawless. He is immersive and compelling and the camera can barely tear itself away from his face at times. Sadly, Dornan finds himself in Murphy’s shadow for much of the film. He is a more understated actor, his accent soft as if uncertain and we therefore are uncertain of him, though he more than acquits himself in the action scenes.

The supporting cast are all excellent and Czech actor Anna Geislerová is outstanding as the stoic Lenka, who with her friend Marie (Le Bon) provide cover for Jan and Josef when they are in public. The scene where they first meet in a dancehall is terrific, both girls looking glamourous while Josef remarks how their lipstick could get them all killed. They are too attractive he says and they must blend in or they will all be shot. It is this constant knife edge on which they all live that makes the story so compelling. Toby Jones also is handmade for his role as the local leader of the Prague resistance and though he is largely on the side-lines, one of his scenes in particular is nail-bitingly tense. It will be interesting to see the direction HHhH will take but this personal, stylish, tense, superbly acted drama ticks all the boxes. It will be a hard act to follow.