Martha Marcy May Marlene utilises the power of silence to the nth degree. No drama, no blood, not raised voices [barely any dialogue at all, in fact] – lots of heavy, buzzing silence which builds and creates such high tension that you find your knuckles are white before you even drew the first gasp.

Martha/Marcy May/Marlene is the lost and mysterious Elizabeth Olsen, who plays the role of troubled  space cadet with aplomb. Glazed and confused, M’s story slowly and painfully makes itself known through a series of flashbacks, which are seamlessly interwoven with the present narrative with stylish connects; underwater shots, black outs, noises. You find yourself flitting between M’s memory and real life without really noticing, and by the end it is not entirely clear what was real, whether these were memories of real events or the distorted visions of a harangued young girl.

It is the reaction of her sister Lucy which unhinges the story for me slightly. Such intensely bizarre behaviour – the scene when Lucy is having sex with her husband Ted and M steals into their room to curl up on the end of the bed, the sound of their love-making apparently comforting and familiar to her rather than private – would surely stir deep worry in regards to M’s sexual experiences in the two years she has been missing. However, Lucy merely puts her to sleep – clearly troubled – but without any conscious effort, or without seeming to realise, the true extend of M’s abuse. I find it hard to believe that you would reach the end of your tether in a few short days with a sister you apparently love so much, have missed so much, and who is so clearly troubled. Bruises on her head and a deeply introverted stance would surely ring more alarm bells than leaving yourself to believe the weak story of a dodgy relationship gone wrong. One’s mind might not jump to brain-washing orgy-having cults, but you might be inclined to probe a little deeper than the surface skimming questions Lucy and Ted weakly ask in between M’s stony silences.

It is her bizarre social skills that are the most troubling thing of this film, and the most astoundingly portrayed by Olsen. You are put on edge by a simple throwaway comments, which are so jarring in their inappropriateness; ‘is it true that married people don’t fuck?’. Not just shy then, M’s behavior is the product of a deeply sinister time at the chilling farm, led by charismatic and ruthless Patrick, a rapist and control freak, whose control over his ‘family’ is such that murder is justifiable. M guides a young recruit through the process leading to the ‘cleansing’ – aka – rape, as she experienced herself. We see that she was uncomfortable with the experience, but is persuaded, against a better judgement she is desperately trying to repress, that is was good.

It is solitude which defines this film so well – M’s

As you grow up, always tell the truth, do no harm to others, and don’t think you are the most important being on earth. Rich or poor, you then can look anyone in the eye and say, “I’m probably no better than you, but I’m certainly your equal.

Harper Lee, 2006

When asked if they would like to have sex with me, 30% of women said “yes” while the other 70%  replied, “what, again?”

i am without doubt the person who’s been the most persecuting in the entire history of the world

…says it all really.

Before the 16th century, this season was referred to as harvest across most of Europe. However, increasing urbanisation rendered this label redundant and meaningless, and so the old french world Automphne replaced it. It is the foreboding sense of the dark winter months, and the fading warmth of the summer sun which imbues autumn with a melancholy that makes this time of year only more sweet. Maybe it’s because I’m British, but there is something about blustery winds and cold hands and feet that make me feel at home – more so than broiling in sweltering heat, despite the latter weathers more popular reputation.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

    Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies

John Keats – To Autumn

Written September 19th, 1819

When asked what surprises him most, the Dalai Lama said this ;

” Man, because he sacrifices his health in order to make money. Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health. And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; He lives as if he’s never going to die, and then he dies having never really lived.”

Something to be concerned about falling into?