Attack the Block - film review

Outline: Intergalactic bear-monkeys land in east London, UK, for a game of tag with tower-block dwelling disadvantaged youths. Aka An Introduction to 21st Century youthspeak.

The mood is set from the outset, the score reminiscent of favourite horror-comedies like gremlins, critters and lesser known gems like killer klowns from outer space. The tone continues throughout, and despite the modern setting and today's gang-culture language, succeeds in feeling retro. It may jump from comedic to horrific on occasion too quickly, but, for me, this enhanced its retro vibe. It is the imperfections that we often love about these types of films.

That's not to say this lacks polish. The aliens are unique and well-rendered and never feel fake. Their glowing teeth are eery. And the action scenes are well done, successfully combining action, tension and plenty of blood. First time director, Joe Cornish, will be justifiably pleased with his efforts, and looks to have a bright film-making future. With more experience, he will perhaps be able to avoid the clumsiness of the 'fog' scene where both the character and the audience becomes disoriented. But this does not detract from what is an exciting denoument.

As we follow the gang around their tower block, and the aliens follow them, there are obvious plot markers laid down, without subtlety, such as a jump a gang member cannot make, or the early explanation for the aliens' arrival. But this does not matter. It's about the chase, and how much fun you can have at the same time. And with a cast of relative unknowns (Nick Frost makes a typically laid back appearance, the antithesis of his more angry Spaced performances) the acting is very good throughout.

Overall, an entertaining watch, and worth the cinema admission fee. The only thing missing is two Critters-esque galactic bounty hunters wrecking havoc on an unsuspecting local community. Maybe in the sequel.

8/10

In-Out

Out
of the post-cunt coma,
far-off Fuck near, fears
of chucking,
knee jabs cock, sun
blinds, bottles dry linear
voyeurs, knocked
by barefoot kicks.

In
to wet receiver, wet
kisses, hard grunts silent
loud springs, early morning
bird gets the worm,
cock jabs cunt, feet
in plates, dried curry
bottom of the bed.

Dust on the Windowsill

What fires turn the insides out,

what ice tempers us;

if in our elemental state

this darkness masquerades as dust

on summer’s day windowsills,

buoyed on moving beams,

when our eyes are closed in union

this darkness is a seam

between our heat and cool

and our slick cementing pool

of radiation, circulating

behind four eyelids tightening.

What fires do we see in elation,

the patterns of the fallout in our minds,

our groins ensemble certainty of mutuality

bound in dual kind;

there are the flames of suns falling

behind a sea,

there are flickers of morning firelighters

crackling beneath dry wood.

There are embers glowing, sizzling

from the dribbling meat fat.

There are summers of blood red on the backs

of eyelids in the sun

and winters of candlelight and hearths.

There is an oven with a coffin,

and galaxies turning.

The ground frost cannot temper us,

as we lie above the earth,

it is our dew that binds the grass

to our skin on this Sunday’s birth.

So what ice will turn our outside in,

until our heart and mind is numb;

the pattern of your face on my retina

engrained, with eyes open it will come;

frozen sheets at the bottom of the bed,

melting ice cream tempting our teeth,

windshields with patterns crystallised

by the night,

virgin prints in snow trailing our steps,

snow-angels joined at the hip.

Skin cool to touch, dry,

dark energy pushing us to zero Kelvin.

What fires will turn our insides out,

what ice will temper us;

our chemistry seen on standstill days

is love within sunrays, dust on a windowsill.