Jobson's film is clearly autobiographical in some way, whether literally or poetically, because it taps into real emotions and thorny issues. The problem is that nothing is expressed in a way we can grab onto. We feel like outsiders watching a piece of experimental theatre we don't quite understand. This isn't to say that the film is confusing; it isn't at all. We clearly follow the simple plot, and we clearly see the pain in each extremely well-played character (McKidd is excellent; Lynch is the standout). But the film never touches us simply because it ignores the truth of life. We only see the downbeat scenes, like Jobson is trying to clear his head of ghosts, so he puts them all on screen in a romanticised, belaboured view of troubled childhood, youth and young adulthood. But the pain only resonates when it's set against a whiff of spirit and joy. Meanwhile, Frankie's incessant narration is over-written like a mopey performance art monologue. This is all very frustrating, since the film examines truly important themes with first-rate cinematography and acting. If only the script was able to connect with us.