Fucking hole. After graduating from school, a young man named Goob returns from the boarding school to a rural shithole that in the peripheral Norfolk, escorted by the advice of a bus driver, as soon as possible to get out of it, because waiting for a happy life here is only to hope, and so, even not to dream. However, Goob already knows what the hell he was brought to.
And the devil is the mother fucker who keeps the field farm here and himself holds on like a planter, taking himself for the owner of all the local living souls who work for him among the pumpkin plots, believing in the position of an alpha - a male fixated on sexual and social domination, excluding the slightest movement along or across his will, firmly in the belief that those he feeds, by right he should also "have."
The starting feature of Guy Mihill is made in the best traditions of British social realism and is quite comparable to the works of Shane Meadows or even Ken Loach, having as arguments not only an uncompromising script, but also a wonderful actor's ensemble led by Sean Harris (the owner of the British "taiga") and Sienna Gilari (a woman who is not up to songs), a mirror reflection of the overturning world of the British backwater in the lens of Simon Tindall, rushing behind them without feeling / under his own feet.
Ordinary-looking story: an obsessed uncle adamantly holds the line of the self-proclaimed leader, bending everyone about and for no reason to always be on top of things. In the course are any leads and nagging, and Goob has not yet forgotten about the will – this and it, and this “it” kindles the enemy’s hunt for self-affirmation, against which, there is nowhere to go, you can not resist.
Nothing superfluous: the movie turned out to be rational in structure and concentrated in content, where in the condensing conflict environment the young man is determined to bend his own, despite the inequality of forces and family circumstances, one of which is his undividedly submissive mother, exchanging motherhood for comfortable cohabitation, yielding to the right of an economic peasant.
Compressed and accentuated on details, the film is assembled from dynamic erotic-romantic dramatic episodes, accompanied by directness of speech and camera attention, ensuring the unity of all types of movement that connect one or another fragment of the picture, along with a carefully paved soundtrack, definitely preserving a given plot wave leading from disco further to punk, transforming into the ripening of anger and protest, which accumulates restless Goob.
Dry, rigidly, but at the same time, surprisingly, stylishly and harmoniously, figuratively not only in the impeccable works of the actors, but also in those external components that form the “talking trifles” that develop into a piercingly clear look of great shit, from where you want to, but there is nowhere to run, remaining envious of those who like the trampled Elliot, a visiting cousin of Goob, have a house where he can carry his gay ass, the defiled dress of a woman who keeps with himself the selflessly courageous master of the fields.
A few steps literally before his eyes, transform Goob, at first still wavering from the weakness of the will, but strengthening, having already felt his masculinity, refusing to retreat and get along, as does him, in fact selling herself, the mother, forcing her son to draw a line under which he left his last decisive stroke of Liam Valpole, in whose big eyes dissolved the bottomless depth of eternity, which brought him the place of a model in the fashion house of Yves Saint Laurent.