First was the word (review of ZERO, a film by Paweł Borowski)



ZERO, the début film by Pawel Borowski, is another example of the ongoing crisis in Polish screenwriting. What good is excellent direction, cinematography, acting or sound production – even if it is the best of its kind – if the most important organ in the body of the film – the script – is poorly thought through?


It’s not possible, thanks to its unusual narrative construction, to compress the plot of “Zero” down to a few lines. It seems the hub of this multi-layered story is the figure of the director of an unnamed company, who hires two rather wacky, down-at-heel detectives to follow his wife who, as we later learn, has rented a small apartment to host meetings with her lover. To spice up this narrative thread, Borowski dissects it with other plot lines: lingering shots direct our attention towards other characters – a taxi driver, newspaper seller, a nurse, a go-go dancer on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Initially, we follow these with interest, expecting something we haven’t yet seen before. The scope of this strategy brings to mind Anderson’s “Magnolia”, in the distance accentuated with echoes of Iñárritu and Arriaga. We are curious as to how this wildly varied group of individuals will be brought together by the all-powerful screenwriter’s pen.  

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poetry review by Marek Kazmierski


Baby, I’m Ready To Go, Melissa Mann, Grevious Jones Press, 2009.


If you don’t already know about Melissa Mann – read about her here – regular visitors to these e-pages should, so I won’t labour the introduction. Her latest collection of poems, Baby I’m Ready To Go, has recently been published by Grievous Jones Press. It’s founder David Oprava has gone on record as saying “The Beats are dead and no one has stepped up”. Big words from a big man, who opened the recent launch of the first three Grevious Jones titles at the Betsey Trotwood talking about “voices which needed to be heard” and all that visionary propaganda I do not want to hear but see from publishers (especially those who print and bind their own writing). Readings from the three GJ authors on offer that night proved to be a wonderfully mixed bag;


– panicked laughter racing through confessionals of rape and personal rebellion

– dull rendering of misogynistic ramblings which should never have troubled ink to page

– perfectly introduced, almost perfectly formed poems of love and its multi-layered lessons



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