Victoria (2015)

Victoria (2015)

I have an 11-year-old niece; for writing purposes, she is to be identified, be her choice as ‘Sleepy owl, 1,2,3, I will eat you” I’m not allowed to abbreviate this when talking about her as that would be, her words, patriarchist. Still, she never asked to write, so I’m calling her Sleeps. From the first shot, I thought of how Sleeps in, at best, seven years away from the world in this film, of 4 am drinks and dodgy snogs. And for all that I could say, I just want her to listen to one thing I will repeat throughout the review.

Never be the only girl in the group.

We start with Victoria being the only girl in the club; she’s happy and lost and happy in being lost and flirting with the barman and annoyed with toilet ques because she’s on her own. 

NOSleeps, no matter how fun your buzz is, don’t be the only girl.

Then she meets these fucking guys; these fucking guys are all fun and bouncing and macho and thrilling and different and make her feel part of something.

No Sleep, no matter how thrilling and bold and exciting they are, don’t be the only girl.

Then, one takes her back to her cafe. She plays the piano and shows off despite her frustration with not making it to the next level.

No sleep, no matter how validating it may be from this charming man, don’t be the only girl.

Then she helps them with one job, one thing for bigger things, and more significant. Guns. And being out of your depth and treated as something to be traded.

No sleep, no matter how vast the unknown is. Don’t be the only girl.

And then, at this point, it’s the sparrow hours, and things start to fall and fracture as the steady walk and dunk sobriety of knowing that it’s that weird mixture of ennui and adrenaline that are keeping you functioning and the unsta unsta music of a Berlin basement bar keep you pretending this is life.

Don’t be the only girl without sleep, no matter how low and worthless you feel.

And in the end. In the one long take that follows those zombified hours of 4-8 in the morning like a Leonard Cohen track, all the men around you have either deceived you or been deluded with how fragile and blame they can be against the world. You regret not listening to me in the previous paragraphs.

No sleep, no matter the shame and doubt and lack in you at that point for ignoring what I was saying before because you knew so much better; it doesn’t matter now, so break the heel off the other shoe so both your feet are on the ground, find a sink, wash the vom out of your split ends so you can breath, worry about the lipstick on your cashmere jumper another day. And never feel ashamed or somehow that you deserved any of what’s happened. And all the sass, strength, and poise you tried out earlier in the night as a girl just to be realised as a woman.

And come home. It’s gone 7.

I love you too much to be upset with you. Now, when you wake up on the couch with a Superman blanket over you, there’s a cold horlicks on the table from when you came in, a pint of water, and a bucket with newspapers around it on the floor.

I’ll be upset later.

It’s a good film