Missy Jubilee. 062 Nymph
Rating: 5
Votes: 8
Reviews: 8

Viewers Feedbacks

Missy Jubilee. 062 Nymph
on
Merci c'est cool!
Rating: 5

Missy Jubilee. 062 Nymph
on
Merci c'est cool!
Rating: 5

Missy Jubilee. 062 Nymph
on
I love your journey. Wanted to see how you had progressed. Ken. . X
Rating: 5

Missy Jubilee. 062 Nymph
on
Look forward to more of your amazing work.
Rating: 5

Missy Jubilee. 062 Nymph
on
It’s good to see another film. Great work. Any particular praise I might come up with is by now a repetition, so I’ll limit myself to saying I wonder at how I can laugh one moment and stop the movie to think long and hard at another, and take a sharp breath at another. And I love the music.
Rating: 5

Missy Jubilee. 062 Nymph
on
There goes Rhymin' Hymen. Another gem. This is what you get when you mix a spoonful dollop of eroticism in with a soundtrack that makes you weep openly it is so beautiful, and a psychological insight into a creative brain. Through words that spill from the screen into your consciousness before you read them. I am in awe and curtsey in your general direction (apollonia saintclair style). Or I would if I had the right equipment.
Rating: 5

Missy Jubilee. 062 Nymph
on
Hi Missy. It’s good to see another film. Any particular praise I might come up with is by now a repetition, so I’ll limit myself to saying I wonder at how I can laugh one moment and stop the movie to think long and hard at another, and take a sharp breath at another. And I love the music.
Rating: 5

Missy Jubilee. 062 Nymph
on
See the boy whose breath steams up the window. The cast iron lamppost has turned the fog yellow outside. The concrete path has slippery round stones embedded in its surface, making it slippery when wet. Why do they do that? See the boy running home to open hearth and smell of coal. Open book and lost forever. Fish tank hum and knitting needle clack. See the old man staring at the boy through splayed fingers and glasses, head resting in his palm. Nicotine in the air is not fed by his lungs. Let’s leave them there with their black and white telly and snowball at Christmas. They are lost, but clever enough to wander a pathway I cannot follow anymore, the fog is too thick. See the girl, distracted from her cooking, by the sound of her Mother stumbling through the door with a man she does not know, another day another stranger in the house. See the girl finding a box in her mind to put herself in. Eyes are vacant. Mouth ever smiling. There is no point in analysing her. She is a closed book, and will only open on her terms; for the rest of her life. Perhaps it was the slap of the hand knocking him sideways, the sting of the blood rushing to nurse the bruised skin on his legs. It was not his Dad, it was his Mothers Husband, and believe me it makes a difference. Denial. The need for escape bought them together, and in their haste to escape, they Married. No regrets. We are all weird. Lets be weird together. We found solace from the storm. The cold rain lashed our roof, the stress of hardship and underachievement inspiring our comeback. It is a beautiful thing, this love. I wish you could see the golden light it still emits. There is a way of course. Read. Write. Listen. Dance. Create. Shout. Hate. Love. Live. Drink it all up in one gulp. The world will always turn. We won’t stop that. Time presses us. But your project has projected across the timelines, across the map grid lines. Up and over the contour lines. Over the telephone lines. Seeping through the airwaves. Keep it going girlie. I need your input to make sense of my life.
Rating: 5