Micro-reviews - The King's Speech, Harry Potter and a few more...

The King's Speech – an inspiring and emotional story, made me feel slightly patriotic and ever so slightly proud of the our monarchy.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 – despite a lacklustre opening, this film brings the series to a dramatic and effective conclusion.

Captain America: The First Avenger – had some good moments and performances, but overall felt like a laboriously drawn-out teaser for The Avengers movie.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes – interesting ideas and a strong plot, weakened by a couple of cringe-worthy moments. Fans of the series will appreciate it.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy – superb British cast, labyrinthine plot and excellent production values. A remake that does the original credit.

Warrior – slightly contrived and very sincere, but has gripping combat sequences and a heart-wrenching narrative. A modern American fairytale.

Disagree or agree with my judgements? Comment below with your own thoughts!

Nick Pitera - One-man Disney

The Men from the Forest - part 3 of 3

Absolute terror. He is gripped, controlled. He wants to be so far away. Back in the cottage, wrapped up in his patchwork blanket, clutching his toy bear, enveloped by sweet sleep. But he is feverish, fervent, hopeless. The chasm within him is opening up, consuming him. He wants tears to rock his body, to pour out of him. The boy feels something.

She has drunk. She contorts, writhing, her naked flesh flashing like a gem in the torchlight. Death echoes in the chamber. She has filled herself, she is powerful, delirious, drunk on the fountain of his youth, his naivety, his innocence. She laughs, a rich peal of danger.

The knife is in his hand before she can break his neck, the claws enclosing. The cackle distorts into a scream as the blade violates her. Somehow he is dressed, he is tumbling down the stairs, a howl of pure rage pursuing him, snapping at his heels. He crashes through the door, across the clearing, plunges into the trees. She follows, a silken trace of scarlet falling in her wake, grasping her way through the treetops, panting, gasping, bleeding, ashamed, furious, alone.

She dives through the branches, knocking him to the ground, claws flurrying about his body, stealing more of him, ripping his clothing. Wildly he slashes. She pouches back, a streak of luminescent blood drawn on her white cheek. He stands, tall and cold. His shirt is in tatters, revealing his muscular chest, gashed. His dark hair is feral in the wind. His eyes pierce her emptiness. She is disgusted. He repulses her. Melting into the darkness, she returns to her tower, her hatred healing her skin, her pain eating her heart.

The villagers hardly recognised young Benjamin Thorn when he returned. He was so stern, so chilling, somehow taller and broader as he emerged from the Devil’s Whim on the third day. The grand old maids averted their gaze, knitting the funeral shrouds for the newly born babes.

He is a man now, they say, a shiver of discomfort running down the lace of their shawls. Benjamin grows up, he marries, becomes the father of a son, and then a daughter. He sends his son out on his fourteenth birthday, the son returns a man. He carries on living, as we all do, he builds Karletto’s first airship dock on the hills nearby, as air travel sweeps a new generation of travellers from the coast to the capital. As the village grows and becomes a town he grows old, sinks into bed, and ponders his dance with the beast in the forest, while his son stands in the dusky light, his newborn boy held in his arms, eyes piercing the night sky, watching the hills roll away, over and over, over and over.

The End

A Miscarriage of Justice

"You idiot! That goat was worth way more than a few stupid beans!"

SLAP!

Jack nursed the side of this throbbing head, tears welling in his eyes. This mother, a brutish woman who resembled a barrel with twigs for arms, thundered off into the ramshackle kitchen of the cottage, grasping the bag of magic lentils in her pudgy fist.

"And don't think you'll be getting any dinner tonight, you fool," she screeched, clattering pots and pans, making an unholy racket. "In fact," she continued, squeezing through the tiny frame of the doorway, "you don't even deserve to be under my roof. Get out!" Brandishing a greasy spatula she chased her son out of the front door, slamming it behind him.

Jack watched through the cracked window pane as his awful mother wolfed down a massive plate of steaming chilli con carne, a helping big enough for three people. His beans were mixed into the mess, glistening in the oily beef. The boy's stomach growled, and it took all his strength not to eat the grass under his feet. Shivering, he wrapped his ragged jacket as close as it would go against his jagged frame, and shuffled off to spend the night in the goat's shed, still stinking of its previous tenant, but warmer and drier than being outside at night.

ARRRGGHHHHH!!!

Jack awoke with a start. A strangled cry resounded from inside the cottage. Fearing the repremand he would face if he did not hurry to the scene, Jack jumped up and ran inside. He burst into his mother's room, greeted by a terrible sight. His mother was writhing in agony, her huge belly expanding much larger than its normal size. Sweat and tears streaming off her mottled flesh as she screamed,

"Jack! What... have... you... done to me?!"

Still her stomach distended, as Jack watched in horror, unable to act. With one final blood-curdling bellow, the skin of his mother's belly split, covering the room with guts, gore and fluid. Errupting out of it, plowing through the thatched roof of the cottage and into the sky, a plant grew, green and hearty, pulsing with life. Jack stood and gaped at the destruction, until he was taken away from the scene by police officers called to the incident by the concerned and nosy neighbours.

"Look, we know you fed her the beans. We've got a statement from the dealer who sold them to you, and he's getting ten years for distributing an illegal and deadly substance." The detective glowered at the pale-faced Jack, his stocky partner leaning back in her chair, appearing uninterested. "The forensic evidence alone is enough to send you to the chair. Confess, and it will be life in prison." Jack cleared his throat nervously, knowing what would come when he spoke.

"I didn't-"

The female detective suddenly surged forward, grabbing him by the throat.

"Go on. Say it." She ground the words out of her mouth, crushing them between her teeth.

"I, I, didn't do-"

She flung him to the floor, his head colliding with the solid bricks of the wall. Both the detectives left the room, the man sneering as he went,

"We'll see what the jury thinks."

The old judge, a wasted skeletal figure, turned to the spokesman of the jury.

"Have you come to a vedict?" He croaked.

"We have," repiled the spokesman. "Against the charge of 'beanacide' (not to be confused with Ribenacide, the criminal act of murdering an individual through the use of fruit squash) we find the defendant... guilty." Jack hardly reacted, evidence some would say, of his guilt. He stepped down from the defendant's box, flanked by court security staff, and out of the room, followed by the flash of cameras and the gabble of reporters.

A strange thing happened not long after Jack's execution. It seemed that the enormous plant which had grown up out of the cottage, had disturbed a giant living high in the clouds above. Furious and raging at the insolence of the men below, the giant climbed down the plant and flattened the town, crushing men and women and animals, leaving none alive. He climbed back up to his cloud and uprooted the plant, casting it down upon the wreckage. Let this tale be a lesson to us all; only use beans for their intended purpose. Who knows what might happen otherwise?

The Men from the Forest - part 2 of 3

Wrapped in a green cotton travelling cloak with a leather strap across the neck and carrying a tattered old knapsack containing a knife and a magic scroll, Benjamin set out into the woods. He isn’t scared, there isn’t anything to be afraid of in the trees, just small animals and shadows. His father taught him how to live in the wild and they had been camping in the forest before, on the outskirts. He takes out his scroll because the shafts of light dancing through the branches are growing dim. He reads the enchantment out aloud, the syllables slithering around his tongue like a serpent, watching as a little spark creeps off the page, floating up and growing brighter. It follows Benjamin, lighting the way. An obedient spark.

She can see him. Through the jet-ash boughs and trunks. She creeps. Watching him is making her thirst.

Soon I’ll make my move, she tells herself. An apocalypse of feeling rushes up her spine, causing her to shudder. Soundlessly she jumps to the next tree, her claws sinking into the bark.

The boy was walking, searching for a good spot to make camp, when he saw the black tower. Glimmering like an obsidian spike, it stands in a clearing of trees. Looking up he sees a window high above, near the tower’s peak. A light issues from within, its warming tendrils pulling at the boy, showing a presence inside. Benjamin strides up to the door and raps his knuckles on the ancient wood, no shame, no fear. The door slowly opens. When Benjamin thinks about it, he should have found it strange, the door opening as soon as he knocked. But he was too pure, too unassuming. Standing in the doorway is a tall woman, skin like a stone, washed by time, hair flowing like blood, thick and dark, her face too perfect, too symmetrical, beautiful but in a hideous way, a mask hiding secrets. The boy feels something, a depth within him, a cave opening, a gnawing. 

I shouldn’t be here, he thinks. She beckons him, her words cannot be heard, cannot be remembered. He follows. Her long violet cloak reaches down past the smooth stone floor. Like a ghost, he follows her up the stairs, past flickering torches in brackets high above. No shadows though. The black marble, its bone-white ripples, they take the shadows.

They are in a bedchamber, ornately furnished with plush purple cloth, a four-poster bed of regal proportions taking up the majority of the room. The boy feels uneasy, noticing that nothing in this, the highest room in the tower, seems to have any signs of the damage of age. The wood of the bedposts, the long flowing material, the stone walls, they were from the beginning of time, yet they will be there for forever. The window offers a view over the trees, a sea of green, brown and black, waves billowing over the branches. The woman slides over to the bed, busying herself at a cabinet beside it. He is looking out of the window, gazing towards Karletto, wishing he were there, sweat and fear driving him to rush away. He doesn’t jump when she touches him, turns him towards her. Like a mother, like a fiend, she removes his cloak, taking his dignity. He sees for the first time she is wearing nothing beneath her gown, a figure crafted from darkness. He hurts inside, a well of confusion, staring at that body, he will gaze as she fully removes the gown. She takes him across to the bed.

The Prince and the Bridge - Chapter 6 of 6

Once again, the years passed on, as they have a habit of doing. The young man stayed with the girl and her father, working as a carpenter and woodcutter. His years living as a bridge had endowed him with a knowledge and love of working with wood and trees, allowing him to craft the most beautiful objects. Some people told stories that he could talk to the tree nymphs in the forest, asking them for their wood, and only taking when they allowed.

After patching up the girl's rickety and broken house the young man returned to the river and built a new bridge where he had once been imprisoned. He would sometimes go back to the water’s edge and look into the distance across the plains, travellers wondering why his piercing gaze was so steadfastly fixed on the royal palace. He provided for the girl and her father without asking for anything in return other than a room in their house and a place at their table.

As the girl and the young man got to know each other it was obvious to all the villagers that they were destined for one another, and very soon the young man announced that they were engaged to be married. The wedding was held in a leafy forest glade, and fairies flew amongst the trees, showering the delighted guests with sparkling dust that brought good fortune. The young man built a sturdy timber house for his wife and himself to live in, where they raised three children, two boys and a girl.

Time continued its unending march, the girl’s father died, and young couple became an old couple, grey and wizened, but still full of love. They never revealed the secret of the their meeting, treasuring the tale in their hearts. But somewhere, as children are tucked up in their beds, the story of a prince and a bridge may drift in the window, coaxing them into sweet sleep, and a happy ending.

The End

The Prince and the Bridge - Chapter 5 of 6

As winter deepened, snow fell upon the land, turning the ground to a cold fluffy blanket. The prince grew wearier and weaker as he gave away more and more wood. As he creaked and groaned, he knew he would not last much longer. He had pondered this moment for a long time, and he knew what he would do. With one final grinding of stone and crunching of wood, he fell, down into the churning icy waters.

As the girl took her usual journey along the snowy road, she found the bridge destroyed, bits of stone and splinters of wood littering the riverbank and floating in the water. As the dismayed girl was wondering how to cross the river she noticed that on the ground, where the wood was normally piled, something lay in the snow. The girl knelt down and picked it up. It was a small wooden heart, ornately carved and polished, a thing of great beauty. It captivated the girl, causing her to forget everything else that could sway her attention. She knew that this gift was from her mysterious benefactor. Overcome, she began to cry, her tears melting the crisp snow. 

“The man who made this for me, he will be the one I love,” she uttered aloud. “There can be no other.” She brought the wooden heart to her lips and kissed it. 

With a flash of blinding light the heart flew out of the girl’s hands. Startled, she leaped back, falling to the ground. A bright mist surrounded the heart as it lay on the ground, so bright the girl had to close eyes and shield her face. Slowly, the mist began to fade, revealing the body of a young man, clad in green and brown. The girl watched in amazement as he rested on the white ground. As if waking from a deep sleep, his eyes opened and he breathed a deep breath. Frightened, but also curious, the girl crept over to the young man.

“W-who are you?” She stammered. Very slowly, the young man sat up, flakes of snow clinging to his thick brown hair. He looked deep into the girl’s eyes.

“I had a magic spell cast on me years ago, trapping me as the bridge that crossed the river,” he explained, the girl’s jaw dropping with wonder. “I was the one that gave you the wood, I hope it was enough.”

“It was more than enough”, said the girl in awe. “Our fire was always lit and we had so much I sold the extra pieces.” The young man took the girl’s small hand in his. 

“The wooden heart I made for you was the last piece of myself I could give. Your kiss must have broken the spell.” He bowed low before her. “I am forever in your service.” The girl blushed.

“You’ve done so much for me, your kindness kept my father and myself warm and happy. I am the one that is in your service. Would you come back to my house and let me make you a meal? That is, if you don’t have anywhere else to go?” The young man turned his piercing blue eyes back across the river, looking towards the city and the palace in the distance, shrouded in snowy fog. 

“No,” he said, turning back to the girl with a smile on his face. “It would be an honour.”

The Prince and the Bridge - Chapter 4 of 6

It was nearing winter, the trees were shedding their leafy coats, and frost lay upon the morning ground. The prince would have shivered if he could feel the chill, stretched out naked in the cold. Through the hazy mist he saw someone approaching the city, heading for his bridge. As the person drew nearer, he saw it was a young girl wearing a ragged blue cloak. The prince saw hundreds of girls cross over the bridge, but as he strained his gaze, he saw that this girl was unusually beautiful. Feelings not felt for so long stirred within him, the golden hair cascading onto her shoulders, her rosy cheeks, the way her cloak wrapped tightly round her small frame, staving off the cold, all enflamed the prince, his vision locked on the girl. She was his ideal visage of perfection. Then he saw her eyes, and was overcome by how much sadness lay within them.

Why should someone as beautiful as her be so sad? He pondered. He wished he could help her in some way, he wished he could turn her frown into a smile. As the girl crossed the bridge, a nobleman on a horse galloped past, thundering along the road.

"Please sir!" Cried the girl. The nobleman stopped, his horse rearing up.

"What do you want?" He asked, his frosty reception matching the weather.

"Can you spare a penny for a poor soul?" Begged the girl.

"Don’t you have a job?" Sneered the man.

"I go to the palace everyday for work but they often send me away," explained the girl. "My father is ill and we have no wood for a fire and no axe to chop any with."

"Not my problem," growled the nobleman, and with that, he spurred his horse and galloped away. The poor girl sighed and carried on her despondent journey to the city. The prince seethed with anger towards the rude nobleman, outraged that he only stopped to humiliate the young girl. Then, an idea struck him, a plan of how he could aid the beautiful peasant.

Every morning, if the girl returned with no work, the prince would pry some pieces of wood off himself and toss them up next to the river bank. To start with the girl was too scared to take the wood, afraid that someone else had dropped it and would return for it later. After a few days, when she realised no one else had taken the wood, the girl began to carry the pieces away with her. Everyday she looked a little happier, the prince’s heart bursting when he saw her beaming smile.

However, soon the bridge began to become less stable, wobbling and creaking as people crossed. Sometimes it would take all the prince’s effort not to fall into the rushing river below, as the travellers crossed over his back. People would say to each other,

"Someone really ought to fix this bridge, it’s getting very dangerous." But no one actually took the time to do the job. The prince still found bits and pieces of wood he could give to the girl. Every time she found a pile of wood waiting for her, the beautiful girl would gaze upwards, hands clasped, and say,

"I thank the gods for blessing me, please bless the soul who does this kindness unto me." Warmth would rush over the prince, filling his heart with love. He wished he could regain his human form, just to serve her forever.

The Prince and the Bridge - Chapter 3 of 6

Years passed on, the lands changed, and the prince stayed on the bank of the river, trapped in wood and stone. Because he was no longer human, the prince did not age. He lived on as his parents grew old and died, succeeded by his brother. The people of the kingdom forgot their lost prince, although now and again someone might remark,

 

“Do you remember the lost prince?” Sparking conversation like a match amongst dry leaves. However, just as all fires eventually die, the discussions would fade, leaving the thought of the prince hidden in the recesses of memory and time.

After the prince was first transformed, he would passionately try to reveal his identity to anyone who crossed the bridge. He creaked him boards and ground his stones, sometimes trying so furiously he would almost throw himself into the river. 

After many despondent months, the prince ceased his efforts, residing himself to spending his whole existence as a bridge. He began to watch and listen to the people who passed over him. He learnt about the hard lives of the peasants, as they trudged over him, backs aching and hands sore. He also saw the nobility, some of which were his old friends and admirers from long ago. He saw how mean, spiteful and proud they could be. In them he saw himself, long ago, prancing and parading around the palace, rude and impetuous.

Was I really that self-centred? He thought. Was I really such an ignorant fool? The realisation that he would never be able to right any of the wrongs he had committed sank over him, engulfing him in sadness. He would never be able to live a truly noble life.

The Prince and the Bridge - Chapter 2 of 6

When the handsome prince did not return home to the palace, the King sent out search parties all over the land, charging his knights and servants with the task of locating his lost son. They searched across the wide green fields, but they could not find him. They searched in the dark forests and caves, but they could not find him. They searched all the way to the top of the highest snow-capped mountain, but still they could not find him. Many times the king’s men crossed the bridge the prince had become, and he would try with all his might to cry out. But how ever hard he tried, the only sound the prince could now make with a pitiful creak.

Many months passed, and with great sadness, the King and Queen accepted that their son must be dead. A grand but solemn funeral was held for the lost prince. Everyone in the kingdom mourned and wept, and black flags flew from all the towers and spires across the land. Thousands of wreaths of flowers lined the palace courtyards, as the solid gold coffin was carried down the steps and out to the royal mausoleum in the hills, carrying the prince’s armour, shield and sword. As the procession crossed over the bridge the prince screamed at the top of his lungs, furiously trying to alert his family and subjects to his plight. But the feeble groans of his new wooden form were lost in the midst of the cries and shudders of the grieving crowds. For a long time a sombre mood covered the kingdom like a thundercloud, blotting out any thought of happiness.

However, there was one person who did not mourn the prince’s supposed death. Bitter little Cecil watched with glee as the panic began, and revelled in the despair he had caused. This fun was short-lived however, as soon the little creep began to fear that his dastardly actions would be discovered, and punishment would then ensue. So he and crooked mother fled the kingdom, their exit unnoticed in the frantic search to find the prince. They travelled far, across icy mountain ranges and arid hazy deserts, their paranoia driving them like frightened sheep.

Although Cecil had played his devious trick upon the prince, it did not quench his thirst for retribution against his former master. Whenever he crossed a bridge, Cecil burned with hatred against the prince, and would stamp his feet upon the wood or stone that lay beneath him.

"How d’you like that!?" He raged. "Not so tough and handsome now!"

One day, as Cecil and his mother travelled, they came to a deep gorge that barred their path. A rickety old rope bridge spanned the chasm, which Cecil and his mother began to cross. The old anger and jealousy stirred within the ugly wicked creature and he began to stomp his feet harder and harder upon the fragile planks.

"Stop it you fool, you’ll kill us both!" Cried Cecil’s mother, clinging to the frayed ropes, but Cecil did not listen. As his foot came down the bridge snapped, sending Cecil and his crone mother plunging to their doom, taking with them all of Cecil’s hatred and the dark secret of the prince’s betrayal.

The Prince and the Bridge - Chapter 1 of 6

Once upon a time there lived a handsome prince. His hair was dusky brown, thick and lively, his face was chiselled like a precious stone, his body muscular and fit, and his eyes were oceanic blue, one glance reducing women to swooning fits. Everyone wanted to be his friend, laugh at his jokes or blush at his romantic advances.

Everyone, that is, except for ugly little Cecil the servant. Imagine the complete opposite of the handsome prince and you would get an idea of what Cecil looked like. His back crooked, his eyes squinting, his face like a squashed potato, he would boil with jealousy towards the prince as he did his chores around the palace. Sometimes, when the prince was showing off to his sycophant friends, he would force Cecil to the ground and use him as a footstool, his band of followers falling about in fits of laughter.

When Cecil went home, tired and hurt, he told his mother of his humiliating day. His mother, who happened to be a rather powerful witch, concocted a plan to get revenge on the prince, the boil on the end of her nose twitching with delight. With her cauldron boiling on the fire, shadows and fumes fluttering madly, she prepared a magic potion, cackling as she outlined her vengeful scheme to her sniggering son.

The next morning Cecil sidled into the prince’s ornate bedchamber, groaning under the weight of a huge cooked breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, black pudding and fried bread.

"Lovely day, my liege," he said, grinning a mischievous grin as he swept back the purple velvet curtains.

"Oh, is it?" Yawned the prince, squinting in the bright sunlight.

"Oh yes, sir," replied little Cecil. "It’s so nice outside you can see a perfect reflection of yourself in the river. Oh, it would be marvellous to see a face as handsome as yours glistening in the water." The cogs began to turn in the vain prince’s mind.

"Do you know what? I think I’m going to have a walk down by the river this morning, as it’s such a lovely day."

"I though you might have that idea," said Cecil, trying his hardest not to giggle. After washing and dressing, the prince strode out of the palace and down to the river, Cecil scuttling after him.

"Look how handsome I make this river look," said the prince his chest puffed out with pride as he gazed at his reflection in the sparkling water. He did not notice Cecil creeping up behind him. With all his might, Cecil shoved the prince off the riverbank. As his master fell, Cecil opened the flask containing his mother’s potion and threw the contents down after him. With a puff of acrid smoke the prince began to change. His arms and legs stretched out across the river, grasping the muddy verges. His back arched up high. His whole body stiffened, turning to stone and wood. Where the prince once was, there was now a bridge!

"Ah ha!" Cried Cecil with glee. "Now we’ll see who walks on who!" With that, he stamped triumphantly across the prince and ran off to tell his mother of his success, leaving the young man stuck in mute, unmoving rage.