Directors don’t tend to appreciate having their films eviscerated by critics. And us critics, well practised in lobbing proverbial grenades from the safety of our pretentiously book-lined, Cahiers du Cinéma-strewn offices, don’t tend to look an artist in the eyes and tell them that their work sucks.
This is, however, exactly what I do to the Australian film-maker Anthony Frith. I’ve even prepared a zinger for the occasion. “Your film is a lemon that’s been eaten by a turkey then dumped into a vat of curdled mayonnaise,” I say.
