by Natalie Bennett

Frankland & Sons is an intensely personal show, about an intensely personal family story. A genuine, real-life story.

That makes it tough to review. But here’s my honest view.

Tom and John, son and father (a retired drama teacher), put themselves, or certain a pretty exposing part of themselves and their joint relationship, on show for us. And an occasionally fascinating part of their family tree – as discovered through the medium of a suitcase of letters that reveals the relationship over two wars from the Twenties to the Forties of their ancestors – between what are, really, a pretty ordinary couple.

These reveal minorly interesting bits of cultural history – certainly that couples didn’t necessarily wait for marriage, or very long at all, before hopping into bed together, contrary to popular opinion, and that soppy if unimaginative love letters were apparently de rigeur in the Twenties – but nothing really about the two individuals concerned, despite the fact that he’s living through two world wars, both times serving in Palestine.

The billing lists Jamie Wood as director, and perhaps he produced some of the more “stagey” scenes, and perhaps the timeline format that ties it altogether. But really this is a story that cries out for a writer, not too performers so close to it.

And while Tom shows occasional flashes of the professional performer that he is, there’s an awful lot of village hall pantomime in this show – perhaps intentionally, but not in a good way. I could have done without the semi-strip-tease and dance.

There’s several rather half-hearted attempts at audience participation – though don’t worry, no audience member has to talk or get up from their seat – which are clearly efforts to broaden the story, and make it about more than one family’s history, but they don’t really work, beyond producing an uncomfortable, embarrassed shifting of buttocks in the audience.

In the second act there’s a surprising, interesting, though not awful twist, which reveals that, without deceit, there’s been a powerful lie at the heart of the story.

But given we still know little about the people not on stage, the degree of hold this has on the audience is limited.

I left thinking I’d really like to know more about Barbara, who’s at the centre of the tale and clearly led an interesting, active, creative life, including working as a single woman in Occupied Germany just after the war. But otherwise, sorry, I really just didn’t care about this bit of family history, which might have come out of almost any attic in the land.

 Frankland & Sons continues until January 28 at the Camden People’s Theatre.

Theatre doesn’t really do it as a word to describe La Soiree, now playing at the Roundhouse, Camden.

“Edgy late-night adult cabaret circus” is about the best description I can manage. Certainly it sits perfectly in the tent-like, circular Roundhouse and “clown” Mario (one of the clear stars of the show) manages a joking reference to the railway origins of the structure while playing a juggling, unicycle-riding “reincarnation” of Freddie Mercury. With a 10pm start and regular exhortations to stroll over to the bar whenever you feel like it, this is certainly relaxed entertainment.

There’s clearly circus elements – the Canadians Hugo Desmarais and Katharine Arnold, “aerial artists” who stage a sultry duet that doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination in the “cage” swaying above the audience – whilst clearly being highly athletic and very good at what they do, certainly fit that model.

So do the equally physically good veterans “The Skating Willars” – although the politics of their staging, and presentation, leave a bit of a nasty taste in the mouth – not my favourites.

And the German acrobatic duo Chris and Iris – just as good as anything you’re likely to see at the Olympics, and a lot more creative.

But there’s a lot of comedy here that’s rather more cabaret. One of the standout acts was Nate Cooper, a Charlie Chaplin tap-dancing on the edge of disaster on roller-skates while juggling machetes.

And drawing lots of laughs on the night I was there, while taking audience participation to possibly new heights, was Mooky Cornish – who as a Canadian completes the international flavour.

If there was a weakness it was in the compering – there was a lack of pizzazz and sense that the man in the trilby was really enjoying this show and trying to draw us into it. But perhaps it will get better as the show beds in.

Just a word of warning – if you don’t fancy being the subject of some of that serious audience participation (only a few will be selected, but they’ll never forget the experience), don’t sit in the chairs arrayed around the central stage.

And also be aware that a range of acts circulate through the show, so if you go you may not see all the acts mentioned here – not surprising really, since the more physical acts certainly must have a pretty high injury/exhaustion rate!

La Soiree is at the Roundhouse until January 29, and is also starting at the Sydney Opera House on January 6. (One can only assume a very good stage magician is involved in that transition…)

When the PR sent a classic email suggesting they loved my blog, and thought it was a perfect place for a review of the musical Rock of Ages, I wasn’t surprised. I’ve had similar emails before – they obviously teach them at “PR school”, and often have no relationship at all to your normal subject matter. But in this case I (and others) do review plays, just usually historic plays, modern avant-garde plays and children’s plays. Rock musicals aren’t usually in the mix – reflecting the fact perhaps that the team doesn’t exactly fit the normal demographic profile of “big musical” audiences.

But in a moment of frivolity I thought “why not have a change”? Which was how I came to find myself sitting in the Shaftesbury Theatre, its dressing as Sunset Boulevard 1987 looking incongruous against the 1911 plaster swirls.

Had I looked it up first I probably wouldn’t have gone. The reviews were mostly terrible – the Guardian hated it, giving the dreaded one star, as did the Telegraph, as did the Evening Standard, only the Independent was cautiously positive.

It’s perhaps telling, however, though that the readers’ views in the Standard in terms of star ratings are more than double that of the reviewer’s. And I have to say, rather to my surprise, that this was simply a fun evening. There’s nothing that could be called meaningful or significant, and the music is no one’s idea of brilliance, but in a pretty well packed theatre, amid some 1,000 audience members, I had a good time. And some of them clearly had a glorious time, leaving glowing with pleasure.

It’s not the story that does it. You really couldn’t get a simpler small town boy and girl meet in big city, fall in love, boy loses girl but you know she’ll return in the end storyline, with a siderun of nasty developer about to destroy city’s heritage and culture, but he’ll see the light in the end… (no, I don’t think I’m giving away too much – your seven-year-old could work it out).

Perhaps it’s in part the music. This glam rock (think Bon Jovi, Poison, REO Speedwagon and Twisted Sister) was around and getting plenty of play in the mid to late 80s, and despite being in no way a music buff I recognised a good percentage of the songs. Familiarity is usually good for comfort.

But mostly I think this is a show that’s got the tone just right for 2011. The character who holds it all together is Lonnie, the sound man, who several time pops out of the action to comment on the show and explain what’s happening the stage plans to the audience. You could call it post-modern irony, but really it’s just the show showing it doesn’t take itself seriously. It gives the audience permission to laugh along with, instead of at, the actors and singers. And the moment where he mocks the “hero” Drew (Oliver Tompsett) for having been in Mama Mia is a moment of comic genius.

Generally cast all do a smoothly professional job. They’ve had a couple of months to get it just right, and at the moment it feels like a show on top of its form. Somewhat to my surprise television presenter Justin Lee Collins showed real stage presence, and X-Factor-winner Shayne Ward was perfectly adequate.

Some have complained about its politics – we are talking about pretty stereotyped stuff here, but I think the mistake being made is to take any of the show too seriously. It isn’t taking itself serious – and while there’s plenty of stockings and suspender belts for the female characters (and the odd flash of underpants for the men), as another (male) audience member said, it’s totally non-sexy, non-titivating. There’s energy and enthusiasm, but not sleaze.

This musical’s apparently now being made into a movie starring Tom Cruise, which I’d already call a “miss”, but if you need an evening of light entertainment, particularly if your musical memories date back this far, I’d say seeing Rock of Ages at the Shaftesbury is worth the glitter that will inevitable pop up around your house for several days afterwards.

Rock of Ages is at the Shaftesbury Theatre. Booking until February 11.

You don’t have to have ever been a tomboy to have “a-ha” moments in Tomboy Blues – The Theory of Disappointment, which opened tonight at the Ovalhouse in south London. Although your laughter will probably be a bit more rueful if you were. All you need – male or female – is to have felt frustrated about being thrust into a narrow gender box, and told you have no alternative but to stay there.

Rachel Mars and nat tarrab have devised a show that’s hard to categorise – it moves from a glassblowing warehouse to a childhood back garden, from sketch to dance, symbolism to realism, humour to cod science. There’s a distinct Edinburgh feel to this production (unsurprisingly since that’s its origins) but it sits very comfortably in a more conventional theatre space.

It’s always highly personal – the programme declares that it was born when nat was “asked for the 94th time if she was in the right toilet, and Rachel re-found the Spiderman trainers of her youth” – but never indulgent.

This is a frequently lyrical show — “feel the fingertips of tears edging over your eyelids” — and it has an acute, aware physicality. But it’s also very funny – the “muscle-man” routine done with lacy thongs instead of rubber resistance bands will stick in my mind for some time.

But it’s also thoughtful – I ended the evening, provoked by the show, in a debate over whether socialisation into “femaleness” was worse than “malenessness” – my argument was that it is because accepting “femaleness” means accepting loss of power and control, the inferior place in the room.

So yes, I did identify with “the heaven of tearing taffeta” of the tomboy climbing trees in “girl’s clothes”, with the search for the “428 lost tomboys” who disappeared with adolescence, and the demand for a hysterectomy at the arrival of the first period. But you won’t have to to enjoy this show – the ownership of a preparedness to take an open-eyed look at the way our society is still rigidly divided along gender lines will do.

The production continues at the Ovalhouse until November 19. Booking online. This is part of the Lady-Led season, four productions by women, focusing on gender issues.

Much has been written recently about the resurgence in British films, though less has been said about the number of women directors who currently have a film showing in our cinemas. Staggeringly, women account for just 6% of film directors, so the current success of Tomboy (director Celine Sciamma), Sleeping Beauty (director Julia Leigh) and now We Need to Talk About Kevin (director Lynne Ramsay) must surely be something worth celebrating.

Lynne Ramsay hasn’t had a film out since 2002, which is a lengthy absence for any director. Her last film was the superb Morvern Callar, filmed in Scotland and staring Samantha Mortern as the taciturn titular protagonist. Having watched the film repeatedly since then on VHS – that shows how long ago it was released – I was excited to see what Lynne Ramsay would do next. Like Morvern Callar, which was adapted from the novel by Alan Warner, We Need to Talk About Kevin is a novel–to-screen transition, and it was difficult to see how such a multi-layered, controversial book could be easily adapted without either losing its power or become a stock “schlock” horror.

Detailing as it does a mother’s life in the aftermath of her son committing a terrible crime, the film is probably most rewarding for viewers who have already read the book. Indeed, I would say that, partly due to the non-linear way in which some of the action is filmed, reading the book before seeing the film is almost a pre-requisite.

The central question of the book – why did Kevin commit this atrocity? – is also central to the film, although we are given clues throughout the scenes. The physical and emotional similarities between the mother, Eva (the always excellent Tilda Swinton) and the teenage Kevin (Ezra Miller) are stressed repeatedly – perhaps, at times, too heavy-handedly. For example, Kevin is shown, in close-up, ripping each fingernail off with his teeth, before retrieving them from his mouth and placing them on the table. Soon after, Eva is show retrieving egg shells out of her mouth and placing them, in a similar fashion, on the edge of the plate.

A lot is made in this film of the gruesomeness and unattractiveness of the human body, with close-ups of bad skin, chewing and left-over food. One excellent moment was the depiction of the conception of Kevin; instead of the usual cliched footage of sperm and egg, we are treated to breast cancer cells dividing (though only the credit-reading cinema goer, or possibly the cancer specialists in the audience, would know this to be the case).

Despite the repellent nature of the depictions, Ezra Miller’s Kevin did still disarmingly resemble a teenage male model, with his tight clothes, brown eyes and shock of dark hair. This isn’t something that comes across in the book, and so in this sense I felt he was miscast.

Indeed, the depiction of Kevin is one of the main problems with this film. The novel version of the boy shows him to be frustratingly blank, meaning that his mean acts against his mother and his sister are all the more shocking when they occur. In the film, however, he is demonic, channelling filmic depictions of evil boys since time began, and for this reason he is rather two-dimensional and less of an intriguing character than he could be.

One aspect of his depiction – his obsession with wanting to be famous – or rather, infamous – was well executed. For example, the scene where he is shown walking out of the school gym after committing the atrocity is filmed in a strikingly similar way to when contestants leave the “Big Brother” house. The crowd, at this point, sounded like they were cheering rather booing, and the flashing lights of the ambulances and police cars stood in for flashing paparazzi cameras. It struck me that only a British director could come up with this analogy, and I wondered how many other
audience members got the apparent reference.

The book was such a phenomenon because of the unswerving, brave and controversial depiction of motherhood that it presented, and it would take a brave director to bring it to the screen unchanged. For example, one of the most disturbing moments in the book is when Eva throws six-year-old Kevin across the room, breaking his arm. This moment is completely fudged in the film, with Eva seeming almost to “drop” the boy, but then later apologising as though she threw him.

This means the moment loses its impact and makes little sense. Mothers who physically harm their children are one of the last societal taboos, and here Ramsay had an opportunity to explore something we need to address, so it was a shame she compromised so readily.

Indeed, there is much that feels compromised in this film. Ramsay is known for her excellent, esoteric soundtracks, and some good tracks are chosen here – the Beach Boys, Buddy Holly – though I felt Lonnie Donegan was over-used and she could’ve gone for a bit more of a variety of musical genres. I wondered whether the constraint over the musical choices was, like other “wanting” parts of the film, down to budgetary constraints.

Ramsay has been very transparent in promotional interviews that the budget was slashed and she had to make some tough choices, filming in just 30 days when most people have eight weeks. With the closure of the UK Film Council, we may see this story repeated elsewhere, with what otherwise may have been high quality films being somewhat lacking due to lack of time and money.

We Need to Talk About Kevin is on general release.

Peppa Pig is a hugely popular Channel 5 cartoon, and the character is so marketable that she now
has a whole world dedicated to her in Hampshire. My four-year-old daughter entered a competition to win tickets to this pig-themed world though fortunately she didn’t win. However, instead we thought we’d catch the infamous pig’s stage show instead, which handily didn’t involve leaving London.

Although enchanting to children, it is hard to see what exactly is the appeal of Peppa Pig. The stories are largely uneventful, and Peppa Pig and her family have a uniquely annoying habit of chuckling,very regularly, for absolutely no reason. Watch an episode of the programme and you’ll see what I mean… or perhaps simply take my word for it.

The cartoon, however, transfers well on to the stage, with puppeteers in black clothing working small but adequately visible puppets of all the main characters. The plot revolves around a hunt for hidden treasure and includes a handy map-reading lesson along the way. Plenty of catchy songs and audience participation meant that most of the children present remained engaged, although the interval did disrupt concentration and I noticed it took some of the kids a while to re-focus when the second half commenced.

One very positive element of Peppa Pig is that, unlike many kids’ TV programme, it does go some way to challenge gender stereotypes. Step in the workaholic Miss Rabbit, who not only drives the bus, but also drives a train, flies a hot air balloon and sails a boat. When Peppa marvels at this character’s immense versatility, Miss Rabbit merely states, “I do have more than one job you know, Peppa!”

There are some great visual effects along the way; George’s squirting tears – which must have soaked the front row! – and the luminous underwater scene stand out particularly. One major complaint however is how loud the production was. It was almost ear-splittingly so at some points, and it is difficult to know why. If the production company thought this was the only way to guarantee that the children would keep paying attention, they were wrong.

Indeed, it made being in the audience somewhat torturous at times, and, without wanting to sound like the archetypal ‘helicopter parent’, children do have sensitive and therefore easily damageable ears. Whether this was a quirk of this particular venue or whether the show is always this loud is unclear, although if the latter is the case, I suggest they turn it down a notch. No need to shout: just oink.

Post-script: for further evidence of Peppa Pig’s wide appeal, see this short and rather amusing You Tube video from 2010, where Ed Balls deems her “a global media star acclaimed around the world” and boasts of visiting a SureStart Children’s
Centre alongside the affable creature.

Peppa Pig’s tour continues; tickets available online.

What can you expect from a film that, when it premiered at Cannes earlier this year, was met with both booing and clapping? Though perhaps that mixed reaction is to be expected, because this film deals with the issue of sex work, which is an issue sure to polarise opinion like no other.

Lucy (Emily Browning) is depicted taking on all kinds of work in order to pay for her degree, to the extent that it is difficult to see when she would find the time to actually study. Although this is an Australian film, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the plight of students in the UK these days, who must find themselves in a similar situation due to spiralling tuition fees.

The first work we see Lucy doing is when she takes part in medical research in return for cash. This involves swallowing a tube down her throat, which looks painful and disgusting, causing her to gag non-stop. This of course raises the question: is this work not more exploitative and dangerous than the sex work we later see her engage in? Other work she is depicted carrying out include mind-numbing waitressing and an office job doing endless photocopying, where the female boss enjoys treating her badly.

Already engaging in seemingly ad-hoc sex work, she answers an advert which leads to a job doing next to naked waitressing at private parties, which earns her two hundred and fifty an hour. This in turn leads to more sex work (‘promotion’) but of a very unusual kind. She consents to be drugged, and then, unconscious, letting elderly men have access to her body on the stipulation that there is to be no penetration.

It is unclear what this odd depiction is meant to signify. Does it imply that sex workers, whilst giving their bodies, give little of their selves, to the extent that they are – metaphorically at least – unconscious? Why the ‘no penetration’ rule? One of the elderly men states he couldn’t have penetrative sex even if he wanted to, and then men are indeed shown to be somewhat pathetic and lonely, desperate for company and getting little from an unconscious woman.

Despite the fact that Lucy doesn’t know what’s going on when she is unconscious, and that the men are limited in what they can do to her, we see that she is still in peril. The first man we see her with accidentally almost allows her to suffocate. The second, a deeply unpleasant man with anger issues, shouts abuse at the unconscious Lucy before burning her with a cigarette. The third man repeatedly lifts her naked body and then – intentionally? – drops her repeatedly on the floor.

What struck me was how isolated Lucy is throughout the film. The nature of the work she is engaging in demands that she is separated from her fellow students, but her emotional detachment is never explained nor elaborated upon. Another strange note was the way in which she asked men, almost at random, whether they would marry her.

The film ends extremely abruptly, with nothing resolved, having answered none of the complex questions it has raised.

Sleeping Beauty is out now on general release. (And here’s the Guardian’s view.)

Melancholia has been hugely overshadowed by the comments of its director, Lars von Trier, at the
Cannes film festival earlier this year. Von Trier said he felt “sympathy” with Hitler, and in so doing caused a furore that meant his film wasn’t given the attention it deserved. This is a shame,because here is a film that deserves to be seen, and is at its best on the big screen.

When reviewing a film, the first thing to bear in mind is not to give away the ending. However, von Trier opens the film with the ending, so discussing it won’t be giving too much away. It is quite literally an ending: the end of the world, which is depicted simply, devastatingly and with a sweeping Wagner soundtrack. Viewers might be reminded slightly of Space Odyssey 2001 at this point. It is certainly one of the most arresting opening scenes of any film I have ever seen.

The film is then split into two sections, ‘Justine’ and ‘Claire’, named after the two sisters around whom the story revolves. Played by Kirsten Dunst and Charlotte Gainsbourg respectively, the actresses give their best performances to date, although we never learn why the former has an American accent, the latter an English one.

The first section takes place on the night of Justine’s wedding. Claire has organised the event meticulously on her sister’s behalf, and takes great offence that her sister is unable to enter into the spirit of things due to her depression. “But I smile and I smile and I smile!” laments Justine, to which Claire rather unkindly comments “You’re lying to us all.” Claire’s husband John (Kiefer Sutherland) only adds to Justine’s woes when, commenting on the fact that he has paid for the event, states “You better be goddamn happy. Do you have any idea how much this party cost me?”

The depiction of the wedding is excruciating in its awkward accuracy, and serves to highlight the interminable, never-ending nature of many of these events. The speeches, cutting of the cake, the first dance, the launching of the paper lanterns; the sisters’ curmudgeonly mother (played by a woefully underutilised Charlotte Rampling) speaks for us all when she inappropriately comments, “Enjoy it while it lasts. I myself hate marriages.”

This section of the film is filmed entirely using hand-held cameras. This perhaps helps to convey the drunken nature of the event, but this viewer at least found the effect literally dizzying, meaning I had to look away at times I would have preferred not to have.

The second section opens with an intensely depressed Justine turning up to stay with her sister, her brother-in-law and her nephew, Leo. The depiction of depression is uniquely moving; the simple scene where Claire tries to get an almost catatonic Justine into the bath – and fails – is one of the most remarkable moments in the film.

But there’s a problem bigger than Justine’s mental illness that is overshadowing the lives of the family, and which is particularly worrying Claire, despite her husband’s constant reassurances. The planet Melancholia is heading for earth, and it is unsure whether the planets will collide. Viewers of course have an advantage, having already seen that this is indeed what is going to happen. This may sound like a contrived, over-dramatic and unbelievable plot, but being contained as it is inside a film that is searingly realist, the sense of panic is entirely believable and the two sisters’ reactions to the impending end of the world is telling. Justine, struggling with her depression, declares that “the earth is evil. We don’t need to grieve for it. Nobody will miss it.”, whereas, as a mother, Claire simply ponders “where will Leo grow up?”

A few jarring notes towards the end of the film only mar it slightly. Why don’t the family, who live somewhat remotely, seek out other people and try to find out what’s happening? The electricity has failed, and neither car will start – this was particularly heavy-handed – but the stable of horses would’ve meant they could ride to the nearby village; surely this would have been the natural
instinct?

The denouement is no surprise but it is incredible in its power, and for this reason I recommend you
see it on the big screen rather than watching it on DVD. Best of all, see it alone. You will walk out
into the street under the spell of this magnificent film, and the spell won’t be broken until next you
speak to someone else. And that’s the best thing you can ever say about a film.

Melancholia is out now on general release.

If you don’t know much about the Paris Commune of 1871, there’s a simple solution: got to see Bertolt Brecht’s last original play, showing at the White Bear Theatre.

The Days of the Commune is a detailed, practically blow-by-blow depiction of the events of what’s often considered the textbook proletarian revolution, from the fall of the Government of National Defence to the fall of the Commune. Indeed, in the staging here, we get on a chalkboard a record of each scene’s date and location.

That makes it sound a bit like a dry documentary, but it’s far from that.

In this lively and dynamic staging by the new Gunpowder Theatre, crisply directed by Genieve Girling, there’s plenty of action, and if we never really get close to any individual character, we do get an emotional attachment to the whole community of the Rue Pigalle, around which the action is centred – although we do hop off to Berlin to see quisling Adolphe Thiers (nicely done by Theo Devaney, who also plays the conniving Bank of France governor) cringing as he sells out his country.

The play, happily, makes much of the feminist aspects of the Commune, centring particularly around the teacher Genevieve Guericault – her travails in trying to gain access to the resources of the ministry of education is one of the few really comedic scenes in the play.

It’s ambitious to stage a revolution in the tiny space of the White Bear’s stage, yet here the whole event is carried off with panache. Effective use is made of a nicely done backdrop panorama and a heavy cannon that almost becomes a character in its own right.

If there are scenes that are less successful it’s the debates in the Commune, which do sometimes drag on rather (no doubt just like the real thing), and sometimes see the actors shouting over each other a little too realistically.

The cast of nine have many characters to portray. Mostly they carry it off, although sometimes it is a little distracting until you work out which hat the actor is wearing this scene.

But, as so often at the White Bear, this is a production whose ambition is to be applauded, and enjoyed.

The production continues until 30 October, with online booking. Tickets £13/£10.

Tomboy has been described by some reviewers as being about a “gender confused kid”, though in Zoe Heran’s magnificent portrayal of 10-year-old Laure/Mikael, I saw a child who was quite at home with her identity; it was instead society that was confused by her.

It is the summer holidays, and Laure has just moved to a new neighbourhood and decides to introduce herself to the local children as “Mikael”, and pretend to be a boy. This doesn’t take much of a pretence as she is more at home in this identity than the one she has to assume at home. There she is Laure, playing happily with her younger, tutu-wearing sister Jeanne (Malonn Levana).

Both the performances of the two child actresses are outstanding, leading me to wonder how much was improvised, so naturalistic were the scenes between the two girls.

The tension throughout the film is never overstated but always menacingly there in the background. When Laure models a Play Doh penis to wear in her improvised swimming trunks, we wince as we imagine it becoming dislodged and revealing the extent of her façade to the baffled children.

When the boys with whom she plays football urinate in public, she doubles over in agony as she is desperate to do the same but obviously cannot without revealing her sex.

But things really become complicated when Lisa, one of the other children in the neighbourhood, falls for Mikael, and is quite forward in her advances to him, having no idea he is in fact female.

The film’s subtle nature comes into its own here; is Laure attracted to girls? Does she in fact like boys?

Or, at the age of ten, is she simply undecided or uninterested? We never quite know, and the film is all the better for not spelling this out.

Laure’s awkwardness, brought on to a large extent by her double life and her constant fear of discovery, is in marked contrast to the ease and confidence of the other children, for whom life seems so much more simple.

When Lisa puts make-up on Laure and declares “you look great as a girl!”, Laure’s unease is palpable.

To reveal the denouement would be to spoil the viewing experience entirely, but suffice to say that the conclusion matches up to the rest of this short, original and ultimately moving film.

Tomboy is on general release.