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Claire Angelique, Standard Bank Young Artist of the Year for Film 2010, screens her Jhb premiere of her new feature film PALACE OF BONE on FRIDAY 5 AUGUST 7PM at the BIOSCOPE INDEPENDENT CINEMA, 6 FOX STREET (MAIN STREET LIFE)  which showed to rave reviews at the recent National Arts Festival, Grahamstown 2011.

PALACE of BONE, is the documentation over a couple of months of the strangely unstable day to day life of Faith – a scarred but brazen and quirky twenty five year old.

Filmed entirely on cellular phones by her devoted best friend, the enigmatic Po, (who is rarely seen in front of the camera except in reflections, turning her back to Mecca…), we are allowed a voyeuristic peek into their friend’s squats, downtown bars and are privy to bedroom confessions. That is all until we realise that the ominous sequence of Faith’s actions due to likely severe psychological problems have forced Faith to escape the city and take to the hills.   

What we as an audience get to experience is Po’s last days with her comrade in the Palace of Bone; a euphemism for both the backstreets, backrooms and backdoors of the city of Durban and the cache of queer insights and outlooks of Faith, a girl who feels she is bigger than her world and thus has some rather unorthodox answers to curb her frustration.

The film ends with us only sort of certain that Faith was last seen on August 15 2008, smoking a joint beside rusty train tracks north of Botha’s Hill. What we are certain of is that there are six dead bodies in Durban harbour….

The film will be introduced by Claire Angelique who will be available to answer questions after the screening

”After the intensity and catharsis of  My Black Little Heart, her new film Palace of Bone is a step away from savagely personal. In fact it’s anything but autobiographical. Still, Angelique’s trademark dark, beautiful imagery pervades, as do the thematic obsessions with the underbelly and the underdog.’‘  – Cue

“To be assaulted by a South African film made by a young Durban girl which is totally original and unique and which is made with a total respect and understanding of film language is very rare, She is one the best that we have in South Africa, and her talent should not be ignored.”

-Trevor Steele Taylor, film curator National Arts Festival, Grahamstown

‘’Claire Angelique’s extraordinary Palace of Bone will undoubtedly create a far-reaching impact. Although it is an unconventional film, it is rooted in mainstream popular culture. In particular reality television and the technological devices that have engendered a culture of (self) documentation. Angelique enjoys blurring the lines between fact and fiction, so the reality/documentary mode suits her aesthetic well…. In a way Palace of Bone is a twisted whodunit. But there are so many levels of meaning in this fascinating mockumentary.’’ Mary Corrigall – The Sunday Independent









Remember the night the city burned down. We were trapped in back streets charred, under the influence, faking smiles, the dude in the blue beanie had been sitting in the doorway of the Edgars store since early this morning, he had no ears but rapt attention. There was a group of us, five if I remember correctly, five of us who entered through the makeshift cinema at the Point and took advantage of the confusion. Breaking into modern day refurbished, city ‘rejuvenated ‘projects, mansions of cool, déclassé and worthlessness rolled into a corporate structure. We stole whilst we waded through the waters the foam of the fire fighters. Shannon screamed directions whilst we each took a room, looting and laughing, but that all ended years ago. we have had to grow up. No longer are we guaranteed good press for our sins. Straight and secular is the answer. No life for no lifers or something similar to the Nazi refrain. I’ve sunk all my senses into the new project, battling malaise, inertia, no home cept the lonely depths of mornings sans sunlight. In a room without curtains, they watch me, I’ve seen them. Sometimes I perform for their pleasure, boredom has that great a grip. And eruptions are no longer skin deep. They say    the body holds memories I say slay the body, pray to Harlequin for the rent and pull the tooth. The toothless are wonders that defy the well dressed charlatans that parade the inner city sanctum. I profess the unconscious call at my own demise. They want the film, they don’t want the film. I can make the film, I cannot make films. Reflections in the pink wine of an afternoon and my animas a rare bird stuck in her majesty’s jail. We lose our friends as we lose our memories regain them, have a tequila, figure the morning out. Drench it in sherry and good tidings, good mornings, good nights. The good fight. I listen to symphony I can’t listen to these imbeciles who carry some strange sense of entitlement of good grace, good manners, deportment, ethics…ha, who really knew the little fish girl, who swam with her before she sunk to those gorgeous grips where icy waves became sacred shrouds and failing that superficial glance of heaven fell in love with the oceans dark deep seductive force. Gravity will always win, you have to go down to get up. Fresh eyes are tired, me feels when stationed in their back room, begging infantile demands for that’s what makes a director in their world…a dumb distorted place…it wasn’t what we were looking for they lied, they cannot see so how can they even attempt to pry..and I’ll tell you why because of press because of awards and prowess and like the big independent screen available to all and sundry who care to pay the price they’ll provide shelter…temporarily but then what…oh more mortgage to the soul, more filters, more sanity..yes we are frozen beyond their clutches and I’ll defy god dammit I’ll demand a little bit more..the kid, the tramp the wanderer, the gypsy..taciturn eyes, garters down, petticoats up, more beef than brawn, more nuptials shredded via shredded paper, the age of letters is dead. So in this manic mania we steal, we fight. Temper tantrums, Oedipus and Faust come knocking at the door whilst skin must be clean, the plague on the pavements swept up and the age of wooden sculptures burnt by the fires of the homeless, the weak, the powerful, the cold, the icy cold that will not let up and will not let us sleep this sweet and airy night

is it really so strange?

Inertia, i’ve been wearing these white trainers for 7 years, endurance, laziness, its one and the same really. Wolves at the door, me shivering like a scared child, keep them at bay, I pray, keep me saved. I’m chomping sleeping tablets in the afternoon, fairly commenting on white owl’s eyes, may all your days be gold my child, babies in photos, everyones growing up. 7 years I tell you, walking through mud and shit, tar and divorce, uncertainty, madness is eating the left side of the brain, I feel its inky labyrinth twisted and contorting the still waves.

If only I didn’t have to look at my hands, if only I could stop the let down, travelling back from the airport, why didn’t I just go to sleep, why did’nt I just stop the madness. Its movement without breaks this travelling synagogue of soiled dreams i’ve built, what to do but crash, what to do but look out to the hills one last time, mutter under the breadth, bend the forks with a thought, keep moving, keep worshipping, pushed to kneel, a servant of this slave, the gods will eventually do me in, they’ll damn well better do me in. Franciscans be weary, Assissi has burnt down and a single stream of smoke is shaped like my former face, the one I tested my friendship with. Oh mark we miss you.

I dont’ feel real anymore, did you take your tablets, she asked, she said, it will all be better soon, just get the spoon, add the sugar, calm your head..

for one last time, I make my case. You junkie scum, you fuckin addict, you’re a piece of shit, worthless, look what you’ve done to your mother the comments come pouring in, well fuck you all, don’t fuckin read what you can’t deal with, don’t come on here with your sanctimonious words, your advice sucks. And through all the blood and shit and urine soaked corners, and dirty bedlinens, the cracked bowls and I owe you’s I promise you’s I use I yuse, theres always one more chance, aint there?

You get a last one i’m sure, and who are you to dictate when that is. I’ll find it in books, i’ll find it on the last pages burned onto the face of that meteor thats about to wipe out your sorry feat. I defy death, I wink and flirt with it. I cannot be killed. I cannot die..

What makes my story better than yours? I’ll tell you, the very fucking fact that i’m telling it. If you can’t be bothered, don’t bother

Do you know your Nafs? I’m dodging planets, walking on the moon, face down, bled, mislead, a single light is enough sometimes to pull you astray, its one rocky road this, I’ll be damned. This earth is scorched.

I awoke to about twenty faces seated on chairs, looking up, I was speaking, is this me, i’m laughing in my head for whats coming out is confused and inbred. You were wonderful my dear, but you were asleep on my shoulder in the car. That was dear trevor. Four days with no sleep, riding this one into the ground, editing the fuck, I’m on the nod standing up, stabbed my hand with the scissors,…accident…blood all over the toilets, no drivers license, shuttled off, hello computer.

Fake hair breathes fake visions. Speed traps, tracks, community based projects. Wandering around downtown grahamstown. Hooking up with Joseph, we’re so continental, went from zulu to xhosa, to malawi, ghana and back to nigeria. I tip my hat at the small guy who arrives outside the bar with the goods. I’m no missionary but I always find myself in this position. I’m no fake, i’m a fake. I’m the dog that ate your birthday cake. This is your journey’s end, my friend. Just one day at a time, one long day.

And thank you for the well wishes, dear hearts, those who send the thoughts that I can reread whilst trapped in another rehabilitation program, oh they are endless these start again thingamujigs but I appreciate the words, its just you know its just.. too much smoke, too few mirrors, I cut an icy exterior, i’m looking bad, real bad, scars, bloated, wrinkled, forlorn, insecure, dodgy eyes, water gripe water, do you know how long thats been going on for…years I tell ye.

Proclivity and anti climax, new tax for the newly initiated. I have lots to do but feint want of doing it at all. Eyes and spies come at you like fame if you believe the papers. Waggish and ill fitted I bother to stand and walk, talking is another matter altogether, oh what coquettish life we lead when first we practise to deceive. I before eve except after sleep.

Don’t be malevolent she warns me, try just for a while how bad can it get. Bad enough that I gave him his first line, a car wash entrepeneur, jailed for burglary, sitting in my plush 4 star bed and breakfast watching me shoot up, talking about malema, the anc youth league in the eastern cape whilst I flit about, he eyes me with respect, he knows he’s on show.

And the tanzanians are moving in, ill shoe repair benches outside shopping malls are where i’m to be found, good stuff too, bigger prouder, whiter, browner. Omar with a grin that could teach the world a thing or three. Kenneth’s not liking the competition. Thank god for these white walls protectinng me from what I want, thank god for the restrictions on cellphones, the ibuprofen and the warm blankets. Warmest Restoration i’ve had in a while. And he can slap my face, throw viscious words, stop the car, spit at me, hate me, love me, I do not care for I am now…for now….i am just another sparrow.

Some days I just wanna up and call it quits,
I feel like I’m surrounded by a wall of bricks,
Every time I go to get up I just fall in pits,
My life’s like one great big ball of shit,

If I could just put it all in to all I spit,
‘Stead I always try an’ swallow it,
Instead of staring at this wall and shit,
While I sit writers block sick of all this shit,
Can’t call it shit,

all I know is I’m about to hit the wall,
If I have to see another one of Mom’s alcoholic fits,
This is it, last straw, that’s all, that’s it,
I ain’t dealin’ widdanother fuckin’ politic,

I’m like a skillet bubblin’ until it filters up,
I’m about to kill it, I can feel it buildin’ up,
Blow this buildin’ up, I’ve concealed enough,
My cup run’ith over, I done filled it up

The pen explodes n’ busts, ink spills my guts,
You’d think all I do is stand here and feel my nuts,
Well I’ma show you what, you gon’ feel my rush,
You don’t feel it then it must be too real to touch,
Peel the dutch, I’m about to tear shit up,

Goosebumps, yeah, I’ma make ya hair sit up,
Yeah, sit up, I’ma tell ya who I be,
I’ma make you hate me, ’cause you ain’t me,
You wait, it ain’t too late to finally see,
What you close minded fucks were too blind to see,
Whoever finds me’s gonna get a finder’s fee,
Out this world, ain’t no one out they mind as me,

You need peace of mind, here’s a piece of mine,
All I need’s a line but sometimes,
I don’t always find the words ta rhyme,
To express how I’m really feelin’ at that time,
Yeah sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, just sometimes,

It’s always me, how dark can these hallways be?
The clock strikes midnight, 1, 2, then half-past 3,
This half-assed rhyme with this half-assed piece a’ paper,

I’m desperate at my desk if I could just get the rest,
Of this shit off my chest, again, stuck in this slump,
Can’t think of nothing, fuck I’m stumped,
But wait here comes something,

Nope, it’s not good enough, scribble it out, new pad,
Crinkle it up ‘n throw that shit out,
I’m fizzlin’ now, thought I figured it out,
Ball’s in my court but I’m scared to dribble it out,

I’m afraid, but why am I afraid, why am I a slave to this trade,
Cyanide I’ll spit to the grave, real enough to rile you up,
Want me to flip it I can rip it any style you want,

I’m a switch hitter bitch, Jimmy Smith ain’t a quitter,
I’m a sit here ’til I get enough,
For me to finally hit a fuckin’ boilin’ point,
Put some oil in ya joints,
Flip the coin, bitch, come get destroyed,

An MC’s worst dream I make ’em tense they hate me,
See me and shake like a chain-link fence,
By the looks of ’em you would swear that Jaws was comin’,
By the screams of ’em you would swear I’m sawing someone,
By the way they running you would swear the law was comin’,
It’s now or never and tonight it’s all or nothin’,

Momma, Jimmy keeps leavin’ on us, he said he’d be back,
He pinky promised, I don’t think he’s honest,
I be back baby, I just got to beat this clock,
Fuck this clock, I’ma make ’em eat this watch,
Don’t believe me watch, I’ma win this race,
and I’ma come back and rub my shit in ya face,
Bitch, I found my niche, you gon’ hear my voice,
‘Til you sick of it you ain’t gonna have a choice,
If I gotta scream ’til I have half a lung,
If I have half a chance I grab it, Rabbit, run.

eminem – rabbit run

pray do not talk so loud you might be overheard

I’m a always shooting. I’m a fiend, I’m a sniper.

The inner arm, the highway, in the back rooms

I pay my piper,

inside toilets, petrol stations, in bars or lost friends squats,

abandoned factories, in my bedroom and late night parking spots .

You see, I’m intrigued I’m fascinated,

I’m serene whilst assassinated,

I’m committed I am focused,

me the piranha, me the locust..

I will shoot for me, I will shoot for you…I will shoot when you don’t really want me to.

I shoot when I feel good, I shoot when I feel low, I shoot because I have to, I shoot, I shoot to blow.

Its a trying one this, the curious always ask,

from where does it originate? How do you decide?

What sparked the idea? Why oh why oh why?

I cannot fathom answers, I have no correct reply,

I only know the feeling and the mantra ‘have a try’.

It soothes me all this shooting, it keeps emotion live,

it feeds the soul, it has it role in this dire life of mine.

When the adrenaline is rushing when the eyes are bright with lust,

if a similar vein is mentioned, I know I feel I must.

The humdrum always softens, the madness steps one back,

I like to be here often, I like to bear this cross.

My vices cause me trouble, my calling keeps me broke,

I cannot stop this shooting and gossip I provoke.

What is man if not destined, to kill all that she loves,

and grotesque her thats sinned and excluded from above?

Shooting the sky at all cost, shooting the squalor the pain,

shooting my fellow scholar,shooting for loss and for gain.

We all have our defects, our iniquity lies so tame

And I?  I have my shooting, my fault I cannot blame

my facebook account was hacked and all i got was this shitty flat