For the first time at this film festival no one stood as credits rolled. When the lights came on they exposed not a dry eye in the room. Strangers left the theatre talking about the people they loved. I have never seen a movie life this.

Hamaguchi’s ‘All of a Sudden’ lives up to its name. What starts off as a charming workplace drama set in a nursing home becomes something else. Something I don’t have the words for because I’ve never had to describe (albeit seen) a movie like this.

I can say this film is urgent. ‘Urgent’ has very quickly become overused and maybe even meaningless when it comes to art. Every musician, advocate, artist and writer appears to be marking their work as urgent. Maybe it’s because there is a ticking clock inside of all of us getting louder. But this film is the one I won’t shut up about for a while. I will substack about it, I will tik tok about it and I will email every publicist I can until I get to speak to a member of the filmmaking team on Curtain Call.

Sometimes you don’t realise how touch deprived you are until you get a hug from a stranger. It’s the conversation that wakes you up from months of surface level bullshit. Go watch this movie please.

I’ve turned to film and TV for the ultimate inspiration and boy has it worked. Here are production designs I’ve turned toward for the ultimate moodboard inspo.

The Conformist (1970)

I’m a sucker for an Italian classic and this Bertolucci is one of my favourites. Not because of its characters (the main guy is a dick) or its plotline but because of its visual language. Set designer Ferdinando Scarfiotti did his big one, with Italian art deco of the fascist era juxtaposed by the softness of parisian palettes. Highlights include the most insane moire silk wallpaper and butter yellow panelled walls.

Fresh Prince of Bel Air (1990)

Bet you didn’t think we were sharply pivoting from fascist Italy to Will Smith but here we are. Having grown up on re-runs, this show is equally familiar and foreign. It is the foreign quality I am most drawn to - the grandiose entryway, ottomans galore and Japanese room dividers. Added point for costume design in this show - I don’t know who’s outfits inspired me more, Hilary or Carlton.

A Single Man (2009)

Tom Ford directed a film and it looks exactly like you’d expect a film directed by Tom Ford to look - I want to live inside every frame of it. The entire design of these interiors run on restraint - two neutrals doing all the work, colour showing up only when it’s earned, everything low and lamp-lit and sitting on visible legs. A masterclass in doing more with less.

American Gigolo (1980)

Unsurprisingly another Scarfiotti makes this list. This time it’s Richard Gere swanning around 1980 Los Angeles — taupe on taupe on silver accents. Everyone remembers this one for the Armani suits (fair) but I think the apartments are just as noteworthy. I will play this movie on my phone in showrooms across Sydney until I find the perfect mushroom taupe couch.

L’Amour Fou (2010)

This documentary follows Pierre Bergé as he sells the art collection he built with Yves Saint Laurent. Once you’re inside the rue de Babylone apartment it’s all colour and it’s all devastating. Lacquer screens, Eileen Gray’s Dragons chair, rooms layered over decades rather than styled in an afternoon. It’s a film about grief, technically, but I spent most of it grieving the fact that I will never own a Dunand vase.

This is the mood board I'm still building out. I’m almost 100% certain I need this mushroom taupe shade of sofa, a lot of texture and an appropriate amount of Italian sculptural lamps. Shopping recs welcome xx

Each content creator duo is comprised of two women. Ages ranging between 22-30. All of them are shooting on hand held digital cameras - mainly canon. Some girls pretending to read for the shot, others making use of the staircase to get a good flatlay. The food’s getting cold. I’m seeing one duo very intentionally spill an iced matcha on the green marble table, it looks nice. Some girls are filming themselves walking in and out and applying that new Prada touch blush at the counter (I’m jealous she got that PR, Cassette feel free to reach out). One duo even asks the staff to open the windows so they can get a shot from outside. I am impressed by their lack of shame. Occasionally someone of a different archetype will walk in (someone who doesn’t know what Alo yoga is) and very quickly redirect themselves out of here.

I’m scrunching my face and trying really hard to introspect. I’m subbing demographics in to truly ask myself if this is internalised misogyny, xenophobia, ageism or sheer dickiness. Please don’t cancel me for being honest (8 people will read this). But in every hypothetical, even if these girls were boys, even if these girls were old white men, even if these girls were middle-aged Italian women (a demographic for which I have much affinity), I would hate this. I really hate this.

To be very clear, I don’t hate this the way boys hate this. I don’t think these girls are dumb or lack self-awareness. I think they’re commercial and strategic. The girl applying rhode to her lips with matcha in hand is signalling how she wants to be perceived. She is marketable, a glossy billboard for Rhode or any adjacent brand to plaster their name onto. She wants to be featured in a rhode carousel and she probably will be. These girls will directly or indirectly profit more from this one hour shoot than anyone with a normal job would care to know and to that i say go off - you would do it too for a cheque.

With all of that though, I cannot deny this dystopia. We have become so quickly habituated with this level of artificial togetherness. Technically this room is filled with people but it feels so depressingly empty. I’ve just watched a girl apply lipstick and carefully kiss the edge of her coffee cup to get a shot of the mark left behind. A shot that is so profoundly symbolic - representative of the bi-products we leave behind at a table with friends. An image of the incidental mess we make along the way. But of course here, it’s not incidental. It’s applied and well thought-out and a little bit sad. Stupid and well-intentioned followers might even fall for the facade, they might actually think she went for coffee with a friend and snapped a chic candid as she left. A reminder of their own loneliness because when was the last time they went for coffee with a friend?

Unfortunately this whole ‘only really caring about how things look’ thing has become well and truly internalised. I’m 24 and going for consults with a cosmetic injector because my face has much room for improvement. A 3D scan very quickly reveals all of the disproportionate problems with my face, it’s almost impressive to see how many laws of symmetry my face can break. I’ve always hated my nose but now I have a whole new list of reasons to hate my face and an appointment to fix it all with filler. I think if i’m more symmetrical i’ll be more inclined to film and stare at my face all day editing. Higher volume of content = more exposure = more paid opportunities = more money = happiness (?).

All of this to say, is it worth it? Have we become so fixated on our commerciality as human beings that our time together is best spent pimping each other out to brands? When your internet friends comment on your post is it worth it then? When your dream brand reaches out to work with you for a fraction of your standard rate, will your hunger be satiated then? Maybe cafes like this should start loaning out those fake food displays so we can just shoot with that? It’s not like we’re actually eating anyway.

ATE

Sant’Eustachio Caffè

Granita con panna here has become somewhat of a family tradition as our first stop. If you’re lucky enough to snub a table in the shade, take it. Otherwise, the granita is still worth the risk of heatstroke. The aragostine cioccolata also perfect.

Pommidoro dal 1890

Every restaurant in Rome claims to serve the greatest carbonara. As the flagship pasta of Lazio, the city is well-adorned with very good iterations as well as the ones Americans like (find these near the pantheon and Trevi fountain).  Having tried at least ten versions of ‘Rome’s greatest carbonara’ I can decidedly say the Bravi Family’s recipe is hard to beat. The guanciale is perfectly proportioned and its smokiness pervades the dish in the most welcome way. The egg isn’t too eggy and the oil isn’t too oily. It’s just perfect.

Mizio street food

Nestled in the streets of Monti, this hole in the wall serves up dangerously good pannini. A chalkboard menu spells out 11 options - from porchetta to mortadella with pistachio. Surprisingly the line was short when we went but I have no doubt as tik toks spread like wildfire, this will become Rome’s Antico Vennaio equivalent. Get in and get yours now before the line becomes longer than anyone can bear. Also while you’re there, Monti is a good spot for thrift store hopping.

Ivo a Trastevere

Trastevere is THE place to be. Go in the afternoon for aperitivo, catch some nice live entertainment in the piazza, do the san Callisto thing and then have pizza here. It’s a thin base and you will be cutting slices yourself (they don’t have time for that in Roman kitchens apparently) but it’s good.

Tazza d’oro

I avoided this place on every other visit due its breach of my radius rule; any eatery or bar within a km radius of a landmark in Rome is a strong no-go. If I can see a duomo, colosseum or pantheon while I’m eating, I’m at the wrong place. HOWEVER, in a moment of pure desperation and heatstroke we sat here for granita di caffe con panna. It was exceptional. Dare I say, as good as sant’eustachio.

Mary Microforno

This is not authentic, it wouldn’t dare feature in a Stanley Tucci docuseries but it was good and I think it represents a new wave of modernity in Rome. For a city so inherently political and bleeding with history, food says so much. Here, the food says maybe it’s ok to be experimental, maybe the rules we’ve abided by for centuries were made to be broken. I had a pannino/ croissant hybrid and it was great. Gelato also great with some fun funky flavours worth trying.

SHOPPED

Zara

Do I need to say anything ?

BallereTTE

The Ripetto of Rome. From suede to leather, this is ballet flat galore. I went for a classic cherry red and I’m really happy about it.

Serry Moon

This is smaller than Instagram reels may have you believe but the collection is juicy and surprisingly well-priced. You can expect to see a lot 90s cavalli and 80’s D&G tops. Also if you have abnormally small feet, there are so many cute designer heels here waiting for you.

Humana vintage

This is the U-Turn of Rome. I got a nightgown here for $8 in fabulous condition. It’s hit and miss but at least when you come home and someone asks where your top is from you can say you thrifted it in Rome.

STAYED

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TUESDAY - Disclosure Day

First and foremost I love and always will love Steven Spielberg. His filmography is so deeply nostalgic that he is inextricably tied to my dad who raised us on E.T and Indiana Jones and Jurassic Park. He is the mind behind some generation-defining shit. His work sits in Amy Poehler’s subconscious (as she confessed to him on zoom) and for that I am forever grateful.

Having said that, I was disappointed by this movie. Much of my disappointment can be pit against the primary trailer. You know the one. Emily Blunt standing poised, ready to present the day’s weather forecast on live TV when some kind of extraterrestrial language spills out of her. Immediately the tone is set for something ominous, looming, eerie. I can’t help but also situate this release against the backdrop of highly evocative films of late - Obsession, Backrooms, Leviticus. High-concept stories that are deeply unsettling. Each of them use genre as a trojan horse to ultimately make us feel unsafe. It is with all of that context that I say, I felt very safe watching Disclosure Day. My nervous system did not feel a need to fight or fly. As he did in E.T and Jurassic Park, Spielberg does what he does best and coddles us in all of the warmth of an orchestral score and aliens that look exactly the way we’ve always depicted them to be. These are not inherently bad features of a film and arguably it is this reason exactly why Americans will love this movie. I know Americans will also love this film because the concept is put forward that in the case of alien contact, IF aliens had to pick two individuals to communicate with and through, those two people would be hand-picked from the United States. I can get behind the concept of aliens existing. What I cannot get behind is them choosing Americans as their primary vessel but I digress. Performance-wise, I really loved Emily Blunt in this - she’s clearly gotten a hold of Ariana’s voice coach because she delivers all dialogue in two octaves higher than her usual voice. All in all, its a feel-good movie, there are fun car-chase sequences. Go watch it and if you’re left craving more of a cortisol spike start a fight with your boyfriend or something.

WEDNESDAY - Hacks Finale

I had been dreading this moment. I really strung this last season out in the longest way I could because I was not ready to let go of these characters. The way in which Aniello has so poignantly painted a picture of the media landscape in this show is nothing short of iconic. The relationship between Deborah and Ava is beautifully representative of this dance between new and old media and the finale absolutely broke me. *MAJOR SPOILER CITY AHEAD* Deborah’s decision to end her life is so gut-wrenching in all of the obvious ways. I guess if I follow through with this symbolic read of the show, Ava’s response to this decision is hugely revealing of our generation’s fault lines. If the punchline of all of Ava’s best jokes are the antiquated ideals of yesteryear, what types of jokes do we make when there is no one left to uphold those values? Rule-breakers can only exist if there are rules. Comedy is only subversive if there are a set of traditions to be broken. So much of new media is founded on what we are not. But when all of that fades away we are left to deal with what we really stand for. Not in relation to our older relatives who still think George Michael is straight, but on our own. All of that to say I fucking love this show and most of all I will miss the heavenly trifecta that is Meg Stalter, Paul W. Downs and Robby Hoffman.

THURSDAY - Good Hang with Amy Poehler and Coleman Domingo

It is only now at this moment dawning on me that Coleman Domingo has made up a major food group this week in my media diet. I will not be complaining about that. Coleman Domingo embodies camp, oozes cool and seems to be having the year of his life. Every single episode of Good Hang is a smart use of my time. Poehler makes hosting seem so effortless, she brings all of her childlike wonder and true curiosity to the table and it is delightful. In this episode Coleman (we are on a first name basis because we are both enneagram 8s) talks alot about his mum. A woman that wrote letters to Oprah freaking Winfrey and her son tried to make a living as an actor. 8 letters she wrote to Ms Winfrey, absolutely positive that if she came to know Coleman she would love him and ‘she could help him’. Is it delusional? Massively. Was she correct? Yes. Some 20 years later Coleman is hiking with Oprah in Maui (my dream date) and pinches himself. It’s a gorgeous episode, I laughed and I cried.

FRIDAY - The Four Seasons

The first season of this show got me through Sydney winter last year. It is paced so perfectly in a way that really surprised me as a Netflix original. It is low-concept and delivered with just the right amount of funny. This show is a hug. Every episode takes place on a different trip with the same middle-aged friend group. I’m four episodes into this second season and so far it has not disappointed me. It is so honest about marriage and grief and sex and children. Tina Fey does what she did with mean girls. She doesn’t shy away from making her characters three-dimensional. They are painful at times, they grant empathy, they say what they shouldn’t. It’s human and it’s great and I don’t know why more people aren’t talking about it.

Anyway, as I’m reading to a very cold audience I start listing each of our traits. My sister is an Aries so she’s impulsive, people are nodding. My brother is a cancer so he’s highly sentimental - my mum concurs. Dad’s an anxious virgo - my mum’s showing signs of conversion. But then I loose her because it gets to my star sign - Libra. *I will also preface that without the full chart you really don’t get the full picture but alas. I’m reading my personality traits as graciously spelt out for us on zodiacsigns.com; ‘social, will carry a grudge, flirty, avoids conflic-

Before I can even finish the final syllable I hear a choir-sung ‘WRONG’ yelled from the table. Unanimously and defiantly, my identity as a libra is torn from me as my family reminds me of the countless arguments (I prefer the term debates) I have started at this very dining table.

Stars - 0, My Family - 1

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I am disgusted by my screen time. This insatiable desire to be force-fed anyone else’s thoughts but my own is getting pretty pathetic. The worst part is not being able to tell you the last TikTok I watched. My content gluttony became obvious pretty early after losing the job I hated — and yes, I know how that sounds. Like the sour ex-girlfriend who’s just pissed she didn’t get to call it quits first. The punch left a bruise. I’m fine. Totally over it. Moving on.

With a dangerous amount of time on my hands, I did the mature thing and made a conscious effort to be on my small screen less. It’s not good for my eyesight, my critical thinking, or my self-esteem. I replaced my small screen for the big one.

In my first two months of unemployment, I visited the Orpheum Theatre — on my own — twelve times. Twelve movies. Twelve matinee screenings. 

Cinema became my gateway drug back into reality after hiding on my phone. In a theatre, I’m invited into a world other than my own and I have to *stay there* for longer than fifteen seconds. I get time to develop an opinion. I’m given the opportunity to watch someone grow, to change my mind, to become emotionally invested.

And then when the credits roll and I walk out beside lower north shore retirees, I am overcome by a fantasy that someone — anyone — will tap me on the shoulder and ask me what I thought. We’d sit on the gorgeous velvet couch just outside the cinema doors and exchange reviews. She reminds me of an early detail I forgot about. I share my theories. It’s pleasant and intellectually stimulating. At the end she says I remind her of a younger version of herself and asks me to be the sole beneficiary of her northern beaches estate.

I say yes.

My reverence for film has almost everything to do with my dad.

Going to the movies with him, I’d spend half the film mentally bookmarking things — small details that seemed obsolete, jokes delivered in perfect timing. All of these bookmarks collected for the car ride home. An agenda for conversation with my dad. 

He never told me what to think. He’d ask what I noticed. He’d offer an explanation I hadn’t considered, and then wait to see if I’d push back. Sometimes I did. Sometimes the film would quietly rearrange itself in my mind while we sat in traffic.

I think I quietly preferred the ride home to the movies themselves. That muscle — the critical thinking one — was being trained without me realising it. 

I’m starting to strength train again.

My routine:

1. Watch a Movie

Preferably alone in a theatre with reclining chairs.

2. Resist the urge to rate it

Miss me with the star-rating BS. Don’t jump the gun and choose good or bad, like or dislike. First and foremost, I try to do that thing I’m not very good at and listen to my gut. How do I feel? Why do I feel like that?

3. Wait a few hours before absorbing any shoulder content— the junk food. Press junkets, reviews, rankings, memes, video essays. All of it. 

4. Form an actual well-founded opinion and verbalise it.

To a real-life person, or to my front camera. Saying something out loud forces me to actually know it.

In the evolution of the term ‘fan’ we’ve swapped reverence for hours. Depth for coverage. The modern measure of fandom is consumption: how many edits you’ve watched, how quickly you can quote the cast’s press tour, how many hours you’ve logged. But none of that really means anything when we’re all being waterboarded by everyone else’s opinion. I’d rather sit on a velvet couch and talk. 

That’s why I started Curtain Call.

Not to review films. To strength train — and to find other people who are training too. Who care less about being first and more about going deep. The car ride home is the best part after all. 

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Unfortunately for me (and for you, the reader of this story) I did not grow up poor, or unloved or closeted. I had the cushiest and most uninteresting upbringing in S…

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