#that's one of those things modern audiences just would not find virtuous or sympathetic

[leonsrightarm]

i think the mysteries of udolpho would make for a really fun high budget tv series if done right. but if they did ever do it they would probably cut out most if not all of the times emily faints/swoons which is really tragic to imagine. even contemplating it is... it's too much... i'm starting to feel dizzy... *collapses weakly onto my settee*

[nitrateglow]

Favorite film discoveries of 2017

Most represented year: 1967 with three movies

Most represented director(s): GW Pabst and Yevgeni Bauer tie with two movies apiece

While I didn’t get to watch as many new movies (feature-length and shorts) as I did in 2016 (slightly over 200 as compared to slightly over 400), it was certainly a case of quality over quantity.

Wait Until Dark (dir. Terence Young, 1967)

I am so glad I followed a whim and watched Wait Until Dark when it aired fairly late on Turner Classic Movies on a weekday night in June; I was tired all morning at work the next day, but it was so worth it. This underrated movie made me jump twice, and scared the crap out of me in ways more explicit horror movies and thrillers have failed to do. Often praised for how it builds suspense, particularly in its final twenty minutes, this movie also sports great performances from Audrey Hepburn as the determined heroine caught in a deadly game and Alan Arkin as the sadistic thug preying upon her, as well as a deft illustration of the art of set-up and pay-off. Hepburn’s performance is among the best of her career: not only is she convincing as a blind woman, she’s emotionally vulnerable yet badass and smart, very much like a Miyazaki heroine. More than merely a story of a woman surviving a dangerous situation with a visual impairment, it’s a story about a woman learning her disability need not define her or limit her independence. I’ve re-watched Wait Until Dark close to ten times in the past six months; it is remarkable how the tension and sinister atmosphere continue to hold up, especially when the most horrifying things are only threatened, implied, or committed offscreen. It’s easily a new favorite of mine.

(Read my longer review here.)

Martin (dir. George Romero, 1978)

The late George Romero once claimed he considered Martin the best of his movies because it was the least compromised by outside meddling. A satirical and revisionist take on the vampire myth that doubles as a character study of a lonely man, Martin is largely unsung in the history of horror, which is a big shock to me. Though Night of the Living Dead is more influential and iconic, I think Martin is the better movie; at the very least, it is the more mature movie of these two great classics, made by a filmmaker more assured in his own storytelling. John Amplas is amazing as the socially awkward vampire who tries to reconcile his bloodlust with his desire to find true human connections. It takes a special talent to make a character who does some truly heinous things sympathetic and even lovable, but Amplas does it and makes such a feat seem effortless. The home invasion sequence in the middle of the movie is worth the price of admission alone; it scared the hell out of me, that’s for certain! Martin surely deserves a solid home video release—dare I say the Criterion Collection should pick it up for distribution? It merits more than the minor and very sporadic releases it’s had over the years, and it certainly deserves a bigger audience.

(Read my longer review here.)

The 3-Penny Opera (dir. GW Pabst, 1931)

The 3-Penny Opera could easily compete with Pennies from Heaven for Most Cynical Movie Musical. Pabst’s adaptation of the Brecht stage production is at once entertaining and kind of depressing. Its criminal protagonists run the gamut from being charming rogues to downright vicious murderers. Their London underworld is decidedly expressionistic, coated in grime and cast in dramatic shadows, yet there is nothing romantic about any of it: this is a nasty world with nasty people inhabiting it. Nevertheless, these unsavory criminals are witty and human, and the film remains one of the most vibrant of the early talkie era.

Day of Wrath (dir. Carl Th. Dreyer, 1943)

I didn’t fully understand this movie, but it touched something deep within me. The story takes place in the somber world of 17th century Denmark, where a pastor’s much-younger wife falls in love with her stepson and embraces the darker side of her nature. The acting is passionate and the slow-burn pacing does well to add to the tension and paranoia. Dreyer’s heroine Anne (played with a quiet and at times sensual intensity by Lisbeth Movin) is a marvelous character, dynamic and bewitching (no pun intended). Initially, we think she is an ingenue, but as she becomes aware of her powers, she becomes more open and independent in a society where these qualities mark her for trouble. Unlike the titular character of Dreyer’s more famous The Passion of Joan of Arc, I’m not sure if Anne ever gets any kind of grace or peace. The film is enigmatic and unforgettable, and now I’m itching to rent it from my local library once again.

After Death (dir. Yevgeni Bauer, 1915)

I don’t want to say After Death is cinema’s first great ghost story because claiming anything to be a “first” when it comes to movies is a dangerous pastime, but regardless, it’s one great ghost story. It tells the story of a young man who becomes obsessed with a deceased stage actress. Having rejected her love when she was alive, he falls madly in love with an idealized notion of who she was once she kills herself. He is haunted by her image (or rather, the image of her as a virtuous, devoted maiden more in tune with Victorian ideals of womanhood than the modern, elusive character she actually appeared to be) and this torments him into madness. Psychologically complex, After Death says much about the line between delusion and love, and its characters are hardly simplistic archetypes of melodrama. The actress’s motivations for her suicide are not clear-cut and her posthumous admirer is a man in love with an idea more than he is with a woman. Cinematically, After Death is hardly primitive either: its use of long-shot, camera movement, and mise-en-scene feel quite modern.

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 (dir. James Gunn, 2017)

If you told me I would be excited for any new Marvel movies earlier this year, I would have laughed. I’ve never hated the MCU, but I’ve never been compelled by what I’ve seen either, at least not to the degree other people seem to be. However, seeing the Guardians of the Galaxy sequel in May changed my outlook entirely. I don’t care what the critics have to say: this movie is way superior to the original movie from 2014. The visuals are more interesting, the old-school pop music is more creatively woven into the narrative, and the story takes these characters into darker, more emotional territory. My sister and I went back to the theater to see it four times. I’ve NEVER seen a single movie that often in the cinema—I never imagined I’d do so for a Marvel film. After having seen and loved Thor: Ragnarok as well, I’m actually excited for Infinity War. That’s crazy to me, but it goes to show how our tastes can expand in surprising ways over time.

The Young Girls of Rochefort (dir. Jacques Demy, 1967)

Despite the candy color palettes and fairy tale motifs of his oeuvre, most viewers would probably not classify Jacques Demy as a feel-good filmmaker. His films are often about the bittersweet in life: disappointments and disillusionment abound even in a straightforward fantasy like his adaptation of Donkey Skin. However, The Young Girls of Rochefort is an anomaly in this respect, a musical comedy in which all past disappointments are mended and true love wins the day. Complete with catchy musical numbers and outstanding choreography, this is just one of those movies that has me grinning from ear to ear. The only other movie musical which has a similar effect on me is Singin’ in the Rain and I would absolutely claim this film to be that classic’s equal. About the only sour note in the film is the knowledge that one of its stars, the charming Francoise Dorleac, would be killed before her time in a car crash shortly after filming. Seeing her here, so alive and charismatic, makes one mourn for the career that never got the chance to flower, but at least we have this marvelous tribute to the classic Hollywood musical and her other work.

The Hitch-Hiker (dir. Ida Lupino, 1953)

The Hitch-Hiker is a bold, underrated noir suspense-thriller that attacks Hollywood-style masculinity in bold ways. Two men are held hostage by a psychopathic hitch-hiker they picked up during a brief fishing trip. Making it clear he’s going to kill them eventually, these guys try to find a way to escape without getting a bullet between the eyes. This movie plays the scenario without macho heroics: the hostages are ordinary men who are terrified for their lives. Instead of making them out to be cowards, Lupino goes against our expectations of what “real men” are like by showing how these men-in-distress rather realistically interact with a total maniac, played to chilling perfection by William Talman. Nightmarish and tightly written, I highly recommend this to all film noir aficionados, as well as people who think all Old Hollywood movies upheld conventional views of gender behavior.

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (dir. Stanley Kubrick, 1964)

After my viewing of Dr. Strangelove, I finally saw all of Kubrick’s filmography, from his 1950s shorts to Eyes Wide Shut, and yet I was not sad because one of Kubrick’s greatest strengths is that his films are endlessly rewatchable. Dr. Strangelove is certainly that. You would think a political satire so closely tied to the culture and politics of the decade in which it was made would date despite its great performances and stellar cinematography. But no. If anything, this movie has become relevant yet again in the light of recent world events. It hasn’t dated in the slightest, which both delights and terrifies me.

The In-Laws (dir. Arthur Hiller, 1979)

I rarely belly laugh when watching comedies by myself. It doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying myself, but I usually need to be watching funny movies with other people in order to really have my sides split. The In-Laws proved itself a rare exception to that trend: I laughed loud and hard twice, at one point even ending up on the floor, finding it hard to breathe. And even when I wasn’t reacting that extremely, I did chuckle often and enjoy myself very much. Peter Falk and Alan Arkin make a great comedy team, playing off of one another perfectly. The story is INSANE in the best possible way and I don’t dare spoil its bizarre twists in case you’ve never seen it. It feels like a 1930s screwball comedy transplanted to the 1970s and mixed with a buddy-action film—and even that trite description doesn’t do the quirkiness justice.

Only Yesterday (dir. Isao Takahata, 1991)

While Grave of the Fireflies is Takahata’s most well-known film, I argue Only Yesterday is his masterpiece. Often coming across like a cross between Ozu and Bergman, this is a coming-of-age story like no other. It follows a twenty-something woman at a crossroads in her life as she both reflects on her childhood in the 1960s and wonders about what path to take in the future. I saw parts of this movie as a teenager and could never get into it, but now watching it in its entirety as a twenty-something woman at a crossroads in her life, I relate hardcore. This movie is so perfect in capturing the uncertainty of being a young person still undecided about what they want their future to be: do you follow a traditional path? Do you try to make your parents happy? Do you follow a more unconventional path and risk crashing-and-burning? If you needed an antidote to the idea that animation is only for family comedies or shock value “adult” satire, then watch Ozu’s masterpiece.

Excalibur (dir. John Boorman, 1981)

People tend to love or loathe Excalibur, but I found myself loving it quite a lot. The 1980s was a golden age for cinematic fantasy and this strange movie is one of the best of the decade, if not the best film interpretation of the Mallory’s Le Morte Darthur. For those who demand realistic dialogue and psychological nuance, this is not your movie; it has a mythic feel which means it foregoes realism for larger-than-life characters and symbolic episodes. Visually, this movie is gorgeous and Trevor Jones’s soundtrack, which samples Wagner, gives epic weight to the images.

Yojimbo (dir. Akira Kurosawa, 1961)

Oh man, Yojimbo is badass. This movie may not be Kurosawa’s “deepest” or “most artistic” movie, but it ties with The Hidden Fortress as his most entertaining. It’s got everything: dark comedy, great swordfights, an anti-hero who’s both coarse yet ultimately compassionate, menacing villains, a catchy soundtrack, and one of the best final lines in any movie ever. I haven’t seen A Fistful of Dollars, though I do have to wonder how it could match this excellent work.

Branded to Kill (dir. Sejuin Suzuki, 1967)

Don’t ask me if I understood it, because I don’t think I did and I’ve seen it twice. Branded to Kill is best described as film noir meets a very bad acid trip. Regardless, even if you don’t get 100 percent of what the hell you’re watching, this is still a great piece of pop art. I’ve read that it’s best to view this movie as a kind of commentary on noir itself, though I don’t know if it’s aim is to subvert, parody, or deconstruct noir conventions and archetypes. Probably a little bit of the three.

Vagabond (dir. Agnes Varda, 1985)

Agnes Varda’s Vagabond follows a young homeless woman named Mona. A la Citizen Kane, the movie starts with her being found dead in a ditch and then the rest of the movie is told from the perspectives of various people who encountered her in her last days. One thing that sticks out most to me about this movie is how Mona is not glamorized or sexed up; she is a plain, dirty drifter, no make-up. She is also remarkably enigmatic; we see her through the eyes of those who either pity her for her loneliness, shrink from her coarseness, or seek to exploit her for money or sex, but neither the audience nor the other characters are allowed to learn who she truly is. It’s a fascinating work from one of our best living directors, stark in its images and its themes.

The Diary of a Lost Girl (dir. GW Pabst, 1929)

While this movie is often overshadowed by Pandora’s Box, I think I prefer The Diary of a Lost Girl, if only because it has better pacing (though don’t get me wrong: PB is damn excellent). Louise Brooks is, as always, amazing, one of the most subtle and expressive of silent cinema’s actresses. The movie follows Thymian, a young girl’s persecution after she is raped and impregnated by one of her father’s employees: branded a whore by a society that blames the victim, she is sent away to a brutal reform school and is eventually forced into actual prostitution. The film is melodramatic, yet never crude or simplistic, especially in regards to Thymian’s unkind stepmother, who is revealed to be more complex than she appears. Unlike the tragic PB, Diary is more humanistic and hopeful, urging the audience to be more compassionate. And even in 2017, this little melodrama still moves and inspires.

Things to Come (dir. William Cameron Menzies, 1936)

I had never heard of this film until recently and after having seen it, I wonder why. A Trip to the Moon and Metropolis are often cited as influential early science-fiction movies, and I argue that Things to Come absolutely deserves to be as well-known, for its predictions about the future are often alarming in their accuracy. In addition to covering the topics of another world war and space travel, it also sports a sort of proto-post-apocalyptic flair in the 1960s and 1970s sequences, where a zombie-like plague ravages the landscape and people live in tribes among the ruins of civilization. Visually, the film is a feast, sporting an art deco twenty-first century and pretty nifty special effects.

The Twilight of a Woman’s Soul (dir. Yevgeni Bauer, 1913)

Who said all silent film heroines were helpless damsels again? Or that all silent melodramas uphold conventional Victorian/Edwardian ideas about gender? The Twilight of a Woman’s Soul must have seemed socially bold back in 1913: it features a woman who, after being raped by a stranger and subsequently deemed unworthy of her fiancée’s respectable hand in marriage, does not go into exile or die conveniently. Instead, she finds healing and pursues her dreams of a theatrical career—never once looking back or feeling less like a woman for not marrying! Thoughtful performances and lovely composition make this film a great showcase for how sophisticated early movies could be, both artistically and culturally.

Feel My Pulse (dir. Gregory La Cava, 1928)

Nothing groundbreaking, but this movie is a thoroughly enjoyable comedy with a clever, resourceful female protagonist, which is very much my thing, especially when it challenges the tiresome stereotype that all silent film heroines were passive damsels. While there is one gag routine featuring booze and a song that goes on a little too long, the rest of the movie moves along swiftly. Bebe Daniels is funny and charming as the hypochondriac heiress who isn’t as over her head as the other character think. A pre-stardom William Powell plays the scummy villain and has a lot of fun doing it. Richard Arlen dresses exactly like Indiana Jones.

This Sporting Life (dir. Lindsay Anderson, 1963)

Lindsay Anderson is quickly becoming one of my new faves, if only because his films have such diverse atmospheres: there’s the youthful rebellion of If…. and the surreal cynicism of O Lucky Man!, and then there’s the more starkly realistic This Sporting Life, starring Richard Harris as a lonely rugby player exploited by the upper classes and yearning for something meaningful in life. He’s a brute in many ways, aggressively pursuing his widowed landlady (played to heart-breaking perfection by Rachel Roberts) in rather uncomfortable ways. Though put off by his rude manners, she is drawn to Harris’s athlete and the two engage in an affair that proves tragic. The film is a bit overlong and if you haven’t seen an Anderson film before, the two I previously mentioned are likely better introductions to his work, but the intensity of the performances and the ways in which Anderson and his collaborators explore class struggle make this riveting viewing.

Honorable mentions: Catch-22 (1970), The Producers (1968), Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Blade Runner (1982), Let Me Dream Again (1900), The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1968), Blade Runner 2049 (2017), Baby Driver (2017), The Little Match-Seller (1902), The Sands of Dee (1912), Robocop (1987), Regeneration (1915), Daydreams (1915), The White Sister (1923), David Copperfield (1935), The Man Who Knew Too Much (1934), The 39 Steps (1935), The Informer (1935), Fury (1936), The Road Warrior (1981), Super (2010), Slither (2006), The Lodger (1944), Bedlam (1946), Raw Deal (1948), Moulin Rouge (1952), Moulin Rouge! (2001), Cliffhanger (1993), Eraserhead (1977), A Touch of Zen (1971), Late Spring (1949), Harold and Maude (1971), Night of the Living Dead (1968), How to Steal a Million (1966), Ruka (1965), Three Outlaw Samurai (1964), Paris When it Sizzles (1964), The Haunting (1963), Experiment in Terror (1962), The Brides of Dracula (1960), Bigger than Life (1958), Napoleon Dynamite (2004)

What were your favorite film discoveries in 2017?

[emilyrumboldt-blog]

This time last year, I was nobody.

  Of course, that’s not entirely true. I was getting by, so to speak, minding my own business whilst coasting along in my own little fantasy world. Think of a cloud: drifting way up in the sky, no anchors or weights holding it in one place. Gravity is a stranger up there, so it would seem. What I am trying to say is that, in many ways, I was that cloud once upon a time. The funny thing about clouds is that they are so much bigger, so much more significant, than they originally appear; apparently the average cumulonimbus is about 1000 feet thick. And to think: before NCS, I didn’t even know that clouds had names! This cloud had a name, too. Emily. In fact, that might be the only thing about me that hasn’t changed, because this time last year I was preparing for the biggest, most life-changing opportunity which has ever found itself lying on my doorstep. NCS: The Challenge.

  My experience with the National Citizen Service has been, in many ways, the key to the locked door labelled “FUTURE” which I had been vacantly gawping at for so much of my adolescent life. It’s not that I wasn’t trying to get through; it was more like I had been brainwashed into thinking that life was easy, and that any door in the world would eventually open up for me given enough time. I could mutter Alohomora under my breath a million times and counting, though. That door needed a key, and that only came with experience. At that point in time, I only associated “experience” with work. Ah, work experience. By the time you reach my age, even the thought of the term work experience begins to tickle your nerves. Everybody wants it! Employers, Universities, UCAS: in fact, I have heard that godforsaken word so many times that I wish I could lock it inside Room 101 for all of eternity. Ah!

  All of a sudden, during one of those dreary Year 11 assemblies we used to have, a virtuous symphony of fanfares exploded upon us. The sky, previously murky and grey, was blanketed in a warm ray of light, and from the heavens above fell my guardian angel. An NCS worker by the name of “Pete” stood before us, singing a divine chorus about experiences and challenges far beyond the likes of anything our normal lives could offer. NCS: The Challenge. Of course, Pete wasn’t really an angel, but oh how much I wanted to get involved with this so-called “NCS” business. I practically ran home that evening – a miraculous feat in itself, considering my particular dislike of all things active – and forced my mum to sign the consent form. Before that day, I hadn’t even thought about the summer following my GCSE exams, but from then on my experience with NCS was all that I could think about for months.

  On the morning of August 11th, 2016, I felt more sick-to-my-stomach with anxiety than I had when coming out for the first time. I remember my alarm screaming obscenities at me for the fourth or fifth time that morning, promising an endless, terrifying wrath upon everything I loved if I didn’t get my lazy self out of bed, for the last time, woman! Well, something like that. It was stupid o’clock in the morning; the sun had barely risen above the line of conifer trees at the end of my back-garden, and both of my eyes were plastered shut with sleep. I sat up, and at once my ears erupted with a sharp, drilling pain, like a pair of needles were being shoved through them. Ear infection. Brilliant.

  Looking back now, I can’t help but laugh at my last-minute aversion towards the whole thing. On that morning, I just didn’t want anything to do with NCS! “I’M NOT GOING!” I would scream at my poor mother as she hammered on my bedroom door, fighting with all the strength she had to get me to cooperate. The thing about my pre-NCS self is that, unlike now, I had next to no control over my mental health. I was riddled with anxiety, with generous helpings of depression, PTSD, and OCD mixed in. My brain at that point was like a cocktail of negativity, garnished with whipped cream and a scattering of rainbow-coloured sprinkles. Meeting new people was one of my biggest fears, succeeding my crippling phobia of judgement, and so I was practically drowning in the proposal of meeting an entire wave of complete strangers.

  What did I think would happen? I have no clue. Whatever it was, however, it couldn’t have been further from the reality. I stepped foot through those doors, both hands shaking as I hauled behind me the most tragic offense of overpacking known to man, and I found myself greeted by the most sympathetically sweet smile I had ever seen. That smile belonged to an equally sweet woman, who took that stupid yellow suitcase of mine and led me to my group.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Before me sat the most incredible group of people I have ever had the honour to meet. No monsters. No ruffians or thugs. Just real, INCREDIBLE people. People who wanted to get to know me, who cared about me and the constant film references I make. People who would grow to be my fiercest friends, who in the next few weeks would learn more about me than I knew about myself at that point in time. People who, for the first time in my life, I could connect with.

  I have spent hours deliberating the best way to tell this story. NCS really was the best experience of my life; even now, a year on, I can’t stress that enough. Of all the places I’ve been, all the memories I’ve made, nothing quite compares to the independence and sense of worth that The Challenge gave me. In fact, I have so many priceless memories thanks to NCS that I can’t possibly share them all. This blog would be infinite! Instead, I have tortured myself by coming up with a Top 3, a decision which was incomprehensibly difficult to make. My chosen three are not just stories: they are anecdote ROYALTY. They are nostalgic, filled to the brim with banter, affection, and cringe-worthy soppiness which my NCS team will probably curse me for sharing. But first, here’s a little context.

  NCS: The Challenge is an experience like no other, and I don’t mean that in the horrifically clichéd way. What I mean is that, unlike anything else in this big ol’ world, NCS actually gave me the motivation to stop bingeing Netflix in the sun-free zone that is my bedroom, and instead put on a pair of trainers and DO SOMETHING. The course is split into three phases: adventure, skills, and social action. Phase 1 is exactly what it says on the tin: an adventure. They ship you all off to Wonderland – South Wales, in my case – to take part in death-defying challenges, by which I mean a series of perfectly safe activities such as rock-climbing and coasteering, all of which are run by trained and experienced practitioners. In Phase 2 we stayed in accommodation at Reading University, where we spent a few days learning our chosen skill – photography – to present to a dauntingly-large audience of parents at the Showcase. Finally, in Phase 3, we took to Reading town centre to raise awareness of an amazing local mental health charity, Compass Opportunities, who work with adults in Reading to help improve their mental wellbeing. Our plan was to run a dramatic flash mob in town, but you’ll hear more about that later.

  At the end of all this, we graduated NCS with an impressive skillset appealing to any good employer, an INCREDIBLE addition to our CVs and UCAS applications, and a set of friends to last a lifetime. But you don’t really care about that, do you? I promised you my top three NCS memories. So, without further ado…

  3: THE LAST DAY™

  Alas, the last day. It seems weird, really, that the day which put an end to this magical adventure would find itself in my top three best-days-ever. But hey, not all finales are as dreadfully disappointing as the final episode of ‘Pretty Little Liars’. No, this was a finale for the Gods. Think of the ‘Friends’ finale, with its soppy goodbyes and happy sadness galore. I had never seen any of my new friends cry until that last day. They’d all seen my ugly, Kim K cry-face plenty of times, of course; I am nothing if not an emotional wreck. It had taken until that last day for us to process that, after all this was finished, there was a chance that we would never see each other again. That, of course, was a load of rubbish: NCS had made us inseparable, a band of warriors sworn to protect one another from the big bad world. We barely go a day without talking to at least one other Team SPICYyyy member (our team name was one of a selection of wonderfully wacky nicknames which have somehow stuck after all these months).

  But the Last Day™ was also quite possibly the most hectic, stress-inducing PANDEMONIUM to ever hit our busy little lives. Why, you ask? Well, cast your minds back a couple of paragraphs to when I mentioned our social-action project. Why we ever thought we would be able to pull off a flash mob was beyond me, but heck, we did it anyway. The plan was fairly simple: we would scatter ourselves around town dressed in hoodies and eerie facepaint, all surrounding our leading lady Ashley, who was dancing to grab people’s attention. Slowly, we would close in on her until she was completely overwhelmed by hooded figured, representing different mental health conditions and the effect they can have on the most innocent of people. After the demonstration, we would talk about the importance of Compass Opportunities and hand out leaflets.

  The problems started with the weather. Rain. Lots of it. I guess we should have planned for a downpour, really – we live in England, after all. This, however, was as though Mother Nature was performing a flash mob of her own, namely a modern rendition of Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’.  By the time we even arrived in town, the whole lot of us were soaked through from head-to-toe. To make matters worse, I had broken my toe a couple of days prior in a freak makeup accident, rendering me useless, our “loudspeaker” wasn’t exactly very loud, and our spot in town had been high-jacked by a friendly busker named Jack. Yikes. Team SPICYyyy, however, are no quitters, and so we spent the majority of the day singing acapella with Jack, helping him raise money whilst promoting Compass Opportunities at the same time. Success!

  To find out more about Compass Opportunities and the incredible work they do, please click here.

  2: THE VERY STRANGE EASTER EGG HUNT

  Imagine this: you are a normal person, minding your own business as you make your way through the bustle of your local high-street. It is coming up to midday, the sun is blazing, and you have just left MacDonald’s with a fist full of Big Mac when you see it. Right in front of you, barreling down the road, is a technicoloured Leviathan! You choke on your Big Mac, for you have never seen such insanity in your life. You blink: once, then twice, until you FINALLY realise that Leviathans do not exist, and the entity charging towards you is, in fact, a team of hyperactive young hooligans dressed in onesies.

  Yeah, we were the hooligans. Now, believe me, in normal circumstances I in no way condone the heinous act that is public onesie-wearing. Never. That is a privilege awarded only to the most special of occasions: Pride, pyjama parties, pretty much anything beginning with the letter ‘P’. However, when NCS threw a very strange Easter-Egg Hunt at us, Team SPICYyyy went all out. The challenge was simple, really: each team was given 100 tasks, and we had the rest of the day to complete them. Let the games begin!

  I could sit here listing every ridiculous thing we did that day, but as Fred R. Barnard said: a picture is worth ten thousand words!

  Cheeky Nando’s with Team SPICYyyy

Abbey Road

Mannequin Challenge: Family Edition

Eleanor and I – 100 Challenges

Yes, we’re twins

Squirrel, Celery, and Dobby

Team SPICYyyy

Yes, that’s an egg

Maddie and I – 100 Challenges

    1: THE METAPHORICAL CAMPFIRE

  I adore metaphors. My writing, by nature, is full of them; a trick for dealing with anxiety that I learned on NCS, in fact, is to turn all of your negative thoughts or experiences into metaphors and create stories out of them. My favourite metaphor of all, however, was born on the night of August 13th, 2016, two days after I had met the people who would change my life forever. Team SPICYyyy had spent the day rock-climbing and abseiling, which for me had been a metaphor for life in itself, leading to the discovery that I am much better at falling down than climbing up. I also found myself pretty badly sunburned, which was odd as I had become obsessed with a bottle of glittery sunscreen which transformed its wearer into a real-life Edward Cullen. Anyhow, by the end of the day, I had become such a scratching post for the claws of the cliff-edge that my fingerprints had been scraped off. The last thing I needed was a night in a muddy Welsh field, but that was exactly what I got.

  I hated camping. Actually, I despised it. The single other time I had slept outside had been on my Year 6 Residential trip to, wait for it, SOUTH WALES. Renowned for its sheep overpopulation and consequent poop-minefields. So, forgive me for being a little apprehensive when being told that I would be spending the night in a two-person tent with three other girls, a blanket of clouds threatening to burst over our heads at any moment. As it happened, however, our little camping trip became the mother of a million memories. We weren’t allowed to light a fire as the campsite didn’t allow it, but we quickly made our substitute. Shoving a torch inside an empty water bottle and dubbing it our metaphorical campfire, we sang and joked and laughed the night away. It was in this beautiful moment, all of us sat in our little circle with a ball of light at our heart, that I realised how special our connection was. The other teams were close – my twin sister was even in one of them, not that we spoke much – but not one of them had what we had. In two days, we had become family. No metaphor is needed to express that.

  Good morning Wales

  The funny thing about NCS is that, for me at least, it never seems to end. It’s like going to Disneyland, only for the magic to return home with you and slip into your mundane life, opening up doors to fantastic opportunities which you would have only dreamed of before. Since graduating, I have had my first part-time job, helped The Challenge to choose this years’ batch of Senior Mentors, and even begun to launch my writing career. It astonishes me that, a year ago, I was one of the shyest kids I knew – a cloud with no destination – and now I am on my way to publishing my first novel and getting my A-Levels! Now, free of the shackles of my mental health, I am able to pass through that door into a world of possibilities, and NCS: The Challenge was my key.

  Day 3

Day 3 – Pre-camp

We set our kitchen on fire…

Cheeky Nando’s with Team SPICYyyy

Wet suits

The dreaded hike

The girls

Yes, we’re twins

Light painting

Day 1 vibes

Eleanor and I – Showcase

Camping food

Abbey Road

Day 1

Eleanor and I – 100 Challenges

Beach babies

Good morning Wales

Mannequin Challenge: Family Edition

Day 2!

Yes, that’s an egg

When I couldn’t swim because of my ear infection

Day 3

Ready for the Showcase!

Maddie and I – 100 Challenges

Wet wet wet

This took longer than expected

Squirrel, Celery, and Dobby

Pre-Finding Dory

Team SPICYyyy

Day 3

Maddie and I – Showcase

Tired after day 1

Squad goals

MY NCS experience: a year on. This post is so nostalgic it brought tears to my eyes. @NCS This time last year, I was nobody. Of course, that’s not entirely true. I was getting by, so to speak, minding my own business whilst coasting along in my own little fantasy world.