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Interview: Sin Nombre film Director Cary Fukunaga. Words Anna Leach.

Director of knuckle-gnawing thriller Sin Nombre talks to Anna Leach about danger, research and why his next film is a musical.

Studiously modest, square-jawed and possessed of a sense of social responsibility that would make Nelson Mandela proud, Cary Fukunaga is the thinking indie kid’s film-maker.

The 32-year-old Californian has just written and directed a film about immigration and gangs in central America: Mexico and Honduras. It’s called Sin Nombre and it’s out in cinemas now.

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Naomi's Style - Aug Tips

Another month of minxy dressing up with a fair dollop of recessionista chic.

The night that Camden banned //Shop Socials //1920’s Lawn Games// Reviving the Country House Party //Become a pin-up! .

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Review: 'Scottee - Eat Your Heart Out' words by Anna Leach

Hackney Empire 11th July 09

“Scottee doesn’t like it when men in wigs lip synch – so that’s what I’m gonna do” said one of Scottee Scottee’s performers in his performance art variety show Eat Your Heart Out.  

And several of them did just that. My favourite wig-wearing lip-syncher was Nando, a very skinny boy in a shirt who kept his eyes covered by an amazing fringe wig while mouthing to French opera with a magnifying glass over his lipstick-smeared lips.  

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Review: 'The Moonshine Jamboree' by Anne Kapranos

Perching on the side of a couch, surrounded by young artistic types sitting cross legged on the floor around a drum kit, I swayed and stumbled, trying to gulp down a tiny bit of bile that rose with a belch in my mouth.

Drunk? I hear you accuse – eyes narrowed suspiciously like my mother. No. Just a little bit seasick. I was on the good ship Tamesis on the banks of the Thames to sample the sounds of The Moonshine Jamboree, a new (fairly) regular live music night taking place in the wonderful surroundings of a converted barge.

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'La Traviata', or 'The Fortissimo Consumptive'

There’s a story that when Verdi, that most Italian of composers, traveled by horse and coach to Russia, he went clutching a suitcase of spaghetti. To offset the fur and the ice, his wife purportedly said. I sat on the 18 bus from an unmentionable part of zone four with a greasy wodge of pizza and a beer on my way to the ROH’s big screen presentation of La Traviata at Trafalgar square. There was no fur and ice. It was the hottest day of the year, but the sentiment, I like to think, was similar: deracination.

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