It is all so confusing!
That’s exactly the way I felt as the final credits rolled of Bernard Rose’s 1988 film, Paperhouse! I found myself trying hard to decipher the symbolism of the narrative.
So hard, in fact, that I got tired of it all and wished for the film to finally end, which is not a good sign, and clearly indicated that my cinematic experience was anything but pleasant.
I almost feel bad for disliking a movie that is apparently dedicated as a memoriam of Elliott Spiers, a young British actor who died tragically after having starred in a TV series and a few films – one of them Paperhouse.
Yet I’d rather be honest when reviewing the film than to praise it, as some other reviewers have done, citing “a captivating story, convincing dialogues and good acting”. I didn’t detect any of those and I wonder if the symbolism was a bit too much, or have I somehow completely missed the point of the dark fantasy portrayal central to the story in Paperhouse?
But before I confuse YOU – here is a basic outline of what the film is about:
Eleven-year-old Anna Madden (Charlotte Burke) is an outgoing little girl with a passion for drawing. Somehow everything she draws comes to life in an imaginary world that she visits and experiences in her dreams. In that fantasy world of hers she meets and befriends a disabled boy named Marc (Elliott Spiers), for whom the dream world of Anna is the real one. In her waking hours, Anna discovers that Marc is a real person and, while she has never met him, she feels that she knows him. She believes she could help him by altering the real world with her drawings — drawings that reflect on the imaginary world where she and Marc meet.
Paperhouse Trailer
I believe that the film tried to capture the child’s imagination and deal with issues such as grief, compassion, memories, and friendship. But the narrative is so much open for interpretation that I completely missed its point.
The film’s visuals – suitable for the portrayal of a fantasy world using exaggerated props, unusual angles and shadows — are one of the few things that leaves a positive impression in me. Another one is the musical score, which included some treble (boy choir) performances that gave off an unearthly heavenly appeal to some scenes. I was not impressed with the actors’ performances and I did not identify with or manage to care about any of the film’s characters. However, I’m willing to attribute that to the confusion that this art-house film caused in me.
In essence, Paperhouse is a female Coming-of-Age movie. There is a reason why I predominately review films with male protagonists as I believe that it’s easier for me to process an identification with the character and that allows me to view the world they inhabit (albeit a cinematic one) through their eyes.
But assuming that I didn’t understand the film, on the basis of my lack of understanding of the female psyche, is hardly realistic.
The film critic Roger Ebert rated Paperhouse highly in his own review of the movie, which ends with the following observation:
“This is not a movie to be measured and weighed and plumbed, but to be surrendered to.”
It almost feels like we have watched different movies as, in my case, Paperhouse left me bored and confused. Apparently, somewhere along the way, I refused to surrender. That is why I can’t recommend the film, yet remain interested in hearing what interpretations and impressions other viewers may of have of it.
A comment by Robert Duvall on the 
The poster artwork of the 1969 Yugoslavian film A Bloody Tale (Original title: Krvava bajka) doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, nor does its title. It’s a film dedicated to the memory of people subjugated to massacre and, as such, it is extremely hard to watch –especially because the story is told from the view point of children.
Gil, a 13-year-old boy (played by P.J. Verhoest) and his grandmother Mrs. A (Polly Bergen), are traveling to their summerhouse in Manhattan New York, while the housekeeper Betty (Dana Ivey), prepares the house for their arrival.
Hanging out with friends during those long summer days with nothing to do but pass the time of day, has got to be a universal growing up experience – significant in its insignificance. Writer/Director Julien Paolini decided to use that experience as the premise for his 2011 short film Boredom Killer (original title Tuer l’ennui).
In this day and age, when many of us are glued to screens of various dimensions, we consume content – a lot of content — that informs, misinforms or to simply entertains us. But where is all this digital addiction going to lead us?
The fact that Not All Were Murderers is a made-for-TV movie doesn’t mar the result. The quality of the sets and costumes is sufficiently convincing, although they are likely to be responsible for some serious issues the film has with the passage of time concept. The issue doesn’t become apparent until the last scenes when, in conjunction with the seemingly rushed ending, they ruined the whole effect the film is supposed to have on its viewers. For this reason alone, it’s probably better to pick up the book on which the film is based, or another film with more consistently told story such as 
His latest YouTube upload (109K views in four days!) is Burn Down the Lonely Night, a haunting, plaintiff tune that I had trouble understanding. This song is apparently written by his brother and set to the backdrop of beautiful, early autumn foliage. But what makes this so dramatic?
Christian is playing a small wooden piano in a field, but the sound is similar to a church organ. This creates a kind of contrast between reverence for Nature, and a vision of faith.
The song touches on the loss of innocence, young love and finding redemption and value in a lover.
Eleven is a brilliant little creation, very inventive, as we see Christian at a blackboard writing outlines: 1+1 is not 11, it’s a bumpy beat song with many word/number inventions. 1derful, 2gether for example. It is playful and dreamy and visually fun.
I haven’t seen that many Coming-of-Age films from Greece. Aside from 
In introducing Ty to the readers of theskykid.com, I want to emphasize that this boy is developing a fine ability to perform and interpret, but it is truly in an early stage.
These are but a few examples of this 15-year old’s online repertoire. You can explore more on his sites. To his management, I would recommend investing in some pro videos of him. His voice right now has a smokey adolescent charm and that should be captured before it changes. I would be pleased to see new quality videos of him, and I hope he continues to gather experience by singing to live audiences.
Relevant enough in real life and significantly important, 
Of course, that would not be as effective if it were not for the film’s cast and especially Rasmus Lind Rubin and Nikolaj Støvring Hansen – both of whom emit tenderness and innocence. Both have memorable features, and one can closely follow the changes that occur in their inner worlds just by observing their facial expressions and mannerisms. This allows for a level of identification with the characters and, consequently, eases the reflections on one’s own life. In my case, I was bullied for being a fan of the music band Hanson as a kid (unconventional for a boy, according to some). But I am glad I never resorted to some of the life choices that Alf and Toke chose or were forced into.
The soundtrack is modern and upbeat and helps the dynamic of the action — not that the dynamic needed much help. The action is intense from the very first scene. After that, the viewer is thrown straight into the action, and thereafter the film does a great job in holding one’s attention for its entire duration.
Most of the adults in the film choose to ignore the scenes they witness or choose not to intervene. While watching the scenes, I was put in a similar position. On the one side I felt like I should intervene (an impossible thing for someone who is only watching a film). Yet, at the same time, I felt equally intimidated as the young victims in the film. That passive reluctance was typical for the adults I observed on the screen.
