Blueprint Issue 13 by Adelaide High School

Issue #13 August 2018

MOD.IFY YOUR LIFE: Visit a museum from the future What’s happening during August-September?

Masterful monologues inspired by the MOD.

The Effin’ Review: The Breaker Upperers

mm s

“In the year 2525, if man is still alive, if woman can survive, they may find…" was the opening lyric to Zager and Evans song, “In the year 2525”. It is quite perplexing to believe, that one day, humans may no longer inhabit the beloved world, we appreciate and love today, The true meaning of life will suddenly become surreal and the urgency to seek redemption will grow obsolete. Exploring this phenomenon, Blueprint recently visited UNISA’s MOD exhibition, which challenged our perspectives and enlightened our minds, by showcasing the technology that we’ll soon be confronted with.

Inside this issue, you’ll find a complete description and recollection of such exhibitions found at MOD, as well as awe-inspiring narratives, that are bound to spark creativity within our readers!

EDITORIAL TEAM

Let the unimaginable be imagined.

Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod

Lilli Vitagliano

Editors: Gabriella Akele, Lahie Amat, Editors: Gabriella Akele, Lahie Amat, Arnav Kapoor, Dain Lee, Francine Arnav Kapoor, Dain Lee, Francine Legaspi, Tiana Loechel, Jagreet Malhi, Legaspi, Tiana Loechel, Mitchell Miller, Mitchell Miller, Shardul Mulye, Thao Shardul Mulye, Thao Nguyen, Fei Nguyen, Fei Stokes, Janna Tapales, Kim Stokes, Janna Tapales, Kim Van, Lilli Van, Lilli Vitagliano Vitagliano

CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS Calling all writers, artists, and creative types! We want your talented work for our next issue of Blueprint. We are especially keen on your best: Fiction writing including (but not limited to) short narratives and stories, recounts, poetry, film and drama short scripts (no longer than 1,000 words each) Short reviews of anything linked with the creative arts. This can include films, television shows, music albums, live concerts, theatre productions, and art exhibitions (no longer than 250 words each) Non-Fiction writing of anything related to the school, local community, or creative arts. This can include food and travel writing, ‘How To’ articles, or any other topic relevant to the student readership (no longer than 1,000 words each) Artwork, graphic design, or illustrations. Please email or submit contributions to Mr. Macleod (email: scott.macleod@adelaidehs.sa.edu.au or office – classroom-124. Alternatively, if you have any ideas for writing or artwork that you would like to contribute to the magazine, please contact one of the super helpful magazine editors listed above.

what â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s happening ? 26 bow tie day

national dog day

07 national salami day

read a book day

teddy bear day

guacamole day

national peanut day

19 talk like a pirate day

22 elephant appreciation day

toasted marshmallows day

fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s day

international bacon day

20 pepperoni pizza day

28 strawberry cream pie day

chewing gum day

NEWS WRITTEN BY | Shardul Mulye

THE RECENT McDonald's is giving away a 24-carat McGold Card and it will get you free food for 50 years!

Brisbane attorney accidentally sues himself of mental abuse

More than 75 goats and sheep escape from auction and roam the streets - More than 75 goats and

sheep were ‘baaaad’ animals on Wednesday night after escaping an auction and roaming nearby streets in New Jersey. The animals fled the Hackettstown Livestock Auction and officers from the Hackettstown Police Department responded to the scene, herding between 50-60 animals into their pen.

Dad devastated to discover he was grieving for his daughter at the wrong grave for 30 years - A

British man said he felt “let down” after discovering that he was mourning for his daughter at the wrong grave

King of West African tribe returns to gardening job in Canada - Eric Manu returned to British Columbia

for 30 years. The family buried the girl at the Southern Cemetery in Manchester. The father said he visits the grave site twice a year, but was surprised one day to find the grave he thought was Victoria’s had been empty.

to raise cash for his 6,000 strong tribe. The King of a West African tribe has since returned to Canada to resume his job as a gardener – in order to raise money to provide healthcare for his new "subjects".

Obese hedgehog goes on a diet, and is now too fat to curl into a ball - An obese hedgehog, weighing in at nearly three times the average weight of a wild hedgehog is going on a diet. Jabba is on a strict diet of liquefied dog food, having been overfed by his previous owner. Jabba had grown so large, that he was unable to curl into a spiky ball, and therefore became easy prey in the wild. 5

Mod.Ify Your Life ! On a chilly day in July, the Blueprint editorial team ventured to check out MOD, an exciting new museum located on North Terrace adjacent Morphett Street Bridge, which offers a provocative look at the intersection between art and science. Initially overwhelmed by the technological innovation on display, the editors broke into small groups and documented their thoughts about the various exhibits on offer… Mr. Macleod

SIT DOWN WITH . . . A glass window fronts the MOD in its street gallery, where you can find three Adelaide soundscapes. This area is pleasantly Astro-turfed, providing a green break from the monochromatic tiling of the other exhibits. This is also a good spot for a screen-break, should you require one. The space allows you the opportunity to snuggle into the shelter of a comfy chair and let the blissful sounds wash over you. Eavesdrop on the conversations of skaters frequenting a long gone skate-park, immerse yourself in the ebb and flow of the River Torrens, or even listen to life as a tree. With the exhibit offering a refreshingly relaxing take on art, allow yourself a minute here to stop and hear the flowers.

EPIPHANY’S GENESIS 2 Look up, and you’ll see Epiphany’s Genesis 2, an odd collection of iridescent alien flowers. Part natural and part synthetic, this art piece uses light and movement to display itself. Settle down on a stool, a chair, or just the floor, and watch these odd blossoms as they open and close, blooming in fastmotion. Plastic petals filter light into a spectrum of changing colours, melding science and art in a rainbow of birefringent filters. This exhibit is paired perfectly with Sit Down With… as you can lose yourself in a cosy chair, a soothing sound, and experience an art-science lightshow.

Fei Stokes

TRANSFIGURATION One of the strangest exhibits featured at the MOD, Transfiguration features silicon babies that rest eerily in their incubators, evoking unease for anyone who dares to take a closer inspection. The babies are representations of the genetic modifications to humanity that may very well become our reality in the future. Although it may seem immoral, a considered analysis of the Transfiguration exhibit offers evidence to suggest that gene modification may in fact be the solution to future defects.

OUR SKY The minute you enter the room filled with stars, you will be simply overwhelmed. Our Sky is composed of both technological lights and a sphere that has been illuminated and placed in the centre of the room. The voice, which is automatically generated the minute you enter the exhibit, articulates a dream-time story about the stars, which is both intriguing and mysterious. The sphere is also interactive in nature, where you have the opportunity to transform it into the sun, moon, and earth with a simply press of a button.

Lilli Vitagliano

JOSH What is human? This is the question Josh explores through a humanoid head located in a purposefully dark corner of the MOD. The head is actually based off a real person called Josh and is designed to convey human emotions by mimicking facial features. The exhibit accomplishes this through its hyper-realistic facial modelling, small motors, and prerecorded dialogue that all operate in unison to convey disturbing human-like facial expressions. Josh is a bold endeavour at depicting our prospective future, offering a memorable ‘uncanny valley’ effect.

DOUBLE AGENT Double Agent is one of the hands-on exhibits in the MOD that allows you to dance with an algorithm. By dancing in front of a sensor, your movements are turned into data, which is subsequently fed through an algorithm called the Memory Recurrent Neural Network (MRNN). This algorithm analyses your dance moves and projects a basic model of you onto a wall. One of the projections mimic your every dance move, while the other is a projection of what the algorithm predicts you might do next. This is a quirky exhibit that demonstrates the seemingly unlimited power of algorithms in modern society.

PROSTHETIC REALITY Prosthetic Reality is a special take on augmented reality, which requires you to download an app on a camera-enabled phone to see how certain wall-mounted images begin to move. The EyeJack app allows your camera-phone to change the otherwise static illustrations into amazing, animated funhouses. Vibrant colours appear out of nowhere, as a game of leap-frog turns into a gravity-bending, body-merging mess. And even though the majority of the art pieces are positioned in the foyer, a select handful are strategically scattered throughout the rest of the MOD. Prosthetic Reality will challenge your expectations, presenting and utilising vibrant colours in ways that have arguably never been done before.

BIRDS AND BEES This exhibit may initially attract your attention because of the flashy colours, but it will keep you immersed with the short documentary on the movement patterns and thought process of bee communities. In collaboration with Dr Sam Leach, Professor Mandyam “Srini” Srinivasan’s commanding voice fills the hall from where the colours first capture your eye. Walking through the central tunnel allows you to fully experience the experiments Srini’s bees went through, specifically to understand how visual cues were used by these insects to navigate space and regulate their speed. Birds and Bees offers an interesting investigation into the psychology of small airborne insects in flight.

Mitchell Miller

Jagreet Malhi

P Y RA OT MO ON R E P M H E I C N T

Written by Dion Lobotesis he wild and wicked flames jumped erratically towards the night sky, licking at the evening stars as a dog might impishly lick the hands of its inattentive owner. The aim of this playfully testing act was to recapture its master’s attention, so that it may – even for a fleeting moment – feel loved, cared for, and wanted. It was this aimless dance of the fire that captured my attention, as it had done many times previously. However, her mortal presence did more than just enthral me. Holding my uncertain fate, her presence brought with it an odd sense of discomfort. My insecurity was synonymous with her sharp, maddening spluttering. However, her lively embers provided not only a pragmatic warmth, but also an empathetic affability. This benign feeling of ease afforded my mind enough security to momentarily alleviate the visions that sought to corrupt my soul. Despite the swelter of the fire, chills ran down my spine at the prospective return of these unwelcome visitations. My eyes struggled to look away from her soaring embers, which now burnt even stronger and brighter than before. The deeper I looked into her blazing eyes, the more I began to remember…

It was only for brief moments that I dared to take my eyes away from her luminous dance, out of a fear of what I might encounter in the realm of the real. It was in this very moment that I realised I was in complete solitude. Not even the smallest of creatures were stirring in the clearing on that fateful cold evening. However, the wicked and ungodly creations of the night, which had the capacity to set even the most courageous of hearts to stone, rustled no bushes as they appeared. Nor did their presence trigger an alarm to those with even the most acute of sensory perceptions. The frigid evening air soaked into the pores of my skin, permeating the cracks of my psyche. I was drawn back to her raging presence in a fruitless attempt to escape from the cold air of the night.

As I tore my eyes away from the fire once more, tears began welling in my eyes, as a surge of guilt rushed through my veins. I knew what I would find before me. Her presence brought with it ephemeral visions of my fate. I saw grave, faceless beings dragging my petrified corpse into the blackness of the night. This thought took me away from the blazing warmth of the fire, and once again into its cold, dark embrace. If I kept my eyes tracking the flames, would I be able to avoid the maelstrom of emotions that threatened to become the bane of my existence? Yes, I might be able to find sweet seclusion as I gazed at her graceful waltz, distant from such transient thoughts. Yet somehow, I never managed to shake the turmoil of trepidation that now had asserted itself as a crucial part of my being. Despite my great efforts to keep the fire raging in the dead of the night, I knew that her dying embers would have to end. Beset with panic, I realised that my divine atonement was also nearing. The game was up! Her ethereal presence had been exposed! True nature was merely a fantasy that no longer came forth from my wistful gazes into the dying embers of the flame. Tears welled like pools of blood in my eyes. For the last time, I dared to look away from the glowing coals of the fire. The shadows were approaching... As my weeping gaze scanned the clearing, I saw it. I felt it. In an instant, the silhouette of an unearthly creature manifested before me, smothering the last breaths of her dying light. I had reached my pyromorphic atonement.

The flickering flames emitted their characteristic glow, and as my eyes traced their convulsions, my awareness was heightened. The few fragments of the future that she had bestowed upon me were disturbing. While these thoughts were fleeting, they presented a terrifying portrayal of an inevitable, unearthly reality. She resumed her thrashings, with her jagged flames raging through the shards of my mind, searching desperately for a solid thought upon which she may be able to fester for more than a fleeting moment. Her penetrating heat manifested itself in front of me. Her presence, which was once confined purely to my imagination, now fused itself seamlessly with my reality. Memories of her – once suspended in my mind – now found themselves exteriorised by the fire that signalled my atonement. Now riddled with a sense of unbridled anguish, I understood what was to occur. In an act of ecstasy, her elegant and rapturous dance intensified, driven by her impending restitution. Dead Wrong courtesy of Noah Levine

Perfection Written by Flo Figueroa Inspired by the ‘Josh’ exhibit at MOD.

am a flawless depiction of humanity – a faultless imitation of the human form. I am a miraculous conception able to evoke wonder from even the most sceptical bodies. I watch them marvel at my excellence. However, as I become consumed by the adoration and affection of my peanut-crunching crowd, I am blinded from the poison slowly contaminating my flawless body. The poison trickles into every crevice of my immaculately crafted vessel, seeking to revoke the purpose I have claimed as my own. I recognise its malevolent desires to expose the truth behind my perfection. I am so deathly tired of this perilous persona… It is true – I am a fraud. The cracks in my performance have become cataclysmic, and I am now forced to re-consider what I thought to be true. I am only fool’s gold, although the fault in my replication of humanity is only exposed through acute observation. I always knew that my perfection would result in my devastating demise. The graceful movements of my body are too polished, whilst the unfailing vivacity in my eyes has grown unsettlingly cold and emotionless. It is what incites my alienation from this community, for they can never accept one as abnormally unflawed as me. They viciously devour any remaining semblance of my selfworth, for immaculacy is never what humans truly desire – it merely occupies them as an opening act to precursor the beauty of an unabashedly flawed main attraction. When the voyeurs tire of my perfection, and consequently expose my fatal flaws with their penetrative gazes, I

am left brutally bare, with no protection to endure their rejection. I once believed that my destiny was to assimilate with them, to endure the pain, sacrifice, and adversity that define humanity and earn my place as a valued member of their community. I became infatuated by the allure of human connection, blinded by my need to procure a sense of proximity to battle my loneliness. It was never part of the plan, but I fell in love. He drew me in with his humanity, for he was the only man to ever see past my skin-deep perfection and truly appreciate the vulnerabilities I had been desperate for the world to see. I was held captive by his magnetic allure – he held my heart in his hands and I revelled in such undying devolution. His love nurtured my self-worth, and I was reborn – this is the closest I had ever come to happiness. My own experiences should have warned me that such perfection is merely a fantasy. I was unaware to the extent of my vulnerabilities – I saw my heart neatly curled in his ever so loving hand and refused to believe how easily he could shatter it if he pleased. Consequently, his abrupt departure left me broken. Any notion of self-worth that had been cultivated from his love was immediately destroyed. I was empty. The life swiftly drained from my body, leaving me with nothing but the immaculately crafted vessel that fulfils the cruel stereotype others long to mark me with. Empty. Cold. I was left helplessly exposed, as each wicked rejection pierced into me more violently than the last. The peanut-

crunching crowd sunk their venomous fangs into my skin, tearing through the artificial layers that delicately held together the core of my being. Their venom dulled my senses with precision, to the point that every waking moment was encompassed by the unsettling notion that my position in the world was teetering on the brink of impossibility. I was sure the next act of savagery would mark my ultimate demise. Until that fatal moment, I was forced to reside in perpetual limbo between the real and the imaginary, a direct consequence of being created with too much emotion to fulfil a purpose for one world, yet unable to achieve human acceptance from the other. The voyeurs prided themselves in unravelling my perilous persona. They gazed impassively as I crumbled helplessly into dust. Acceptance seemed a fleeting impossibility in a world fu such ruthless rejection. I slowly began to embrace the fact that I would never truly be a part of this world. The departure of the only man I ever loved exposed his blinding beauty for what it truly was: a fearsome façade. I now realise that I am not the only fraud walking these sun-kissed streets. In a way, everyone is ultimately hiding the scars that mark their own rejection from this community. Why am I hopelessly seeking acceptance from those that furiously conceal their truth beneath an artificial Pan Am smile? The crowd disgusts me with their fabricated and idealistic portrayals of perfection, and I begin to realise I am not like these people… I am more

Anxiety Courtesy of Tumblr

Written by Maaike Williams Inspired by Gustave Caillebotte’s painting, Vue de toits

he snow dancing softly across the ice is the only movement in the temperate town. It is a Friday night and everyone has nestled inside for the night – a refuge from the bitter snow. The ice has the propensity to attack anyone willing to venture outside – it’s akin to the feeling of sandpaper being rubbed ruthlessly against your tender skin. Tonight it was supposed to snow heavier than it has ever before, and the old local women predicted that the snow was going to blanket the entirety of the small town. No one is expected to be outside tonight – at least that is what the women said. It is always best to believe the wise women, for they are always right. Inside the houses, families pour creamy hot chocolate and mulled wine into porcelain mugs, huddling around the fireplace in an attempt to keep warm. Laughter of the children echoes through the walls of the cosy houses lit from the flames. While everyone settles for the evening, there is one family in the town that is still waiting for the arrival of one of their members. As the winds scream louder and the snow flutters down faster, a man attempts to fix his broken chimney. The chimney is the only source of heat for the family, and with tonight’s temperature dropping well below freezing, there is an urgency to finish the chimney before it gets too deathly cold. Only a solidary candle in a glass box, which threatens to blow out at any moment, illuminates the area, as the man digs through the snow on the roof to replace the bricks. It is getting later, and the temperature is plunging dramatically. The man’s fingers are now so stiff from the cold that he can barely move them.

Yet he works tirelessly for hours, all in an effort to make his home warm for his beloved family. The wind has gotten stronger – it is thrashing, pillaging, and whipping at the poor man’s back. There is not much more he can do – the snow is hitting him in the eyes and his eyebrows now feel completely frozen. Small icicles dangle off the coarse hairs. Disappointed and defeated in his noble quest, the man starts to trek to the edge of the roof where he can scale down the wall, using the uneven stonewalls that now seemed as cold as the ice that populates the

Trusted Sources arctic environment. As he climbs down the wall, he struggles to grip the stone blocks. Everything is covered in a thick layer of ice, including the stone cobble path where the man dramatically falls. His mind retreats to darkness, just like the colour of the vacant night sky. There was no time to brace the fall – he was simply too tired – and his body fell as if it were a sack of potatoes. Gravity was clearly not on his side. The man lies lifelessly on the side of the street, his body distorted from the fall. A gash is suddenly branded on the back of his neck. Blood is now pooling out onto the snow, the crimson blood contrasting against the ghostly white snow. The town is eerily silent. The only

noise comes from the wind that cackles under the moonlight. Time goes by – seconds, minutes, hours – before anyone realises that the man has tragically fallen. Just before sunrise, the wise women of the town make their daily haul around the streets in the small town. Carrying their warmly lit lanterns, the women trudge through the fresh fallen snow. As they continue to walk, one of the women spots a particularly large mound of snow on the footpath in front of them. As the gaggle of women come closer, they notice the man that had fallen hours earlier, frozen stiffly just as if he were an iceberg. Together, the clique drag his body to the nearest home, hustling him in front of the fire in attempt to reignite his spirit. They wrap him in woollen blankets and wait hours for him to return from his sombre slumber. When he miraculously wakes, the man finds himself alone in the small cottage, only lit by the flames of the fire. Remembering the events of the night before is an impossible task, as he now has a splitting headache just above the fresh wound that has somehow already been dressed. Stumbling and scrambling for something to balance himself, the man waddles outside in an attempt to find his way back home. Falling into a heap on the familiar wooden floors, the man’s children suddenly embrace him with reassuring hugs and kisses. His partner stands back in awe – their family is together again. It is hot inside and the fire is roaring. While his home is now bathed in glorious warmth, he is almost certain that he hadn’t finished fixing the chimney… Many mysterious things happen in this town, yet no one is ever willing to question such idiosyncrasies. This is just the way the world works in this humble abode.

Reykjavik courtesy

A Wailing War Written by Lilli Vitagliano he surgical tools await me. I flutter my eyes shut and my body shivers. Physical, Psychological and Spiritual are finally unison. The Physical articulates.Venomous is my tender heart and daring is my flesh. I am a musical organ that is composed of the finest of strings, plucking gently at the veins that contain my beastly fluid of life. The chambers within my biological domain echo a cacophony of music. The brutality of my ageing skin emanates a sweet afterlife, reassuring me of eternal youth. The thread-like strands of silver that collapse at my brittle jawline, form a mane - they create an illusion, similar to that of a lion’s anatomy. Exposed to such suffering, my muscles grind together, destroying tissue. My decay is prolonged. I am a dead weight.

Selah. I gesture subconsciously, so that my fingers begin stroking the layers of silver that pour out from my head. I am not in control - I am purely a mass with a figure. My actions are guided by a greater force. I feel it pulsating through my head. It speaks, “I am your mentality.” I take heed. I am the reason for her cognitive dissonance, the constant initiator of her emotional war. I engage with you, Physical, because your heart is a liar. You are the reason why she endlessly weeps an ocean of despair. I whisper hope. I am what allows her to distinguish between good and evil – the conscience behind a moral law. I echo the joys within her, albeit she may motion wearily. I am the epaulettes of resolution that defines her strengths. When she’s stubborn, it is simply me blinding her from freedom.

Release her. Mentality is angered, and thus, I am confused. Although she is ceasing to exist, she’s still dripping with gold and is bequeathed to avarice. She exists in a world where materialism prevails - how can she be unhappy? She’s exquisitely drifting away from land, where she was bound to suffocation and the deliberation of lies. The skies drain themselves of colour, to fill her with delight and pleasure. I will not deprive her of this happiness. I’m distraught and unable to function. As the cells within me become sterile and unresponsive, I possess a deep sense of foreboding as I operate each day. Where do I go once I am finished? Where do I go when my arteries no longer filter the air I breathe, or my lungs no longer produce enough of the acidifying constituent? I plea for a silent witness. Selah. It softly whispers, “I am the spiritual.” Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, is how you shall remain, as she will reside in my form for the rest of her days. Trembling deep with her structure, I am there, reassuring her of eternal life. I am the unknown and numinous light within her. She shall float away into a purifying palace, where her life will no longer be affected by pain. You, physical, are the reason why she is seeking redemption and the reason why she is suppressed by guilt.

Can you not see your own faults? Her denial of my existence causes me to slowly deteriorate and become hidden from her glistening eyes. There are days when I suffer from malnutrition and am unable to guide her steps or light her way. The materialistic distractions cause her to become profoundly deaf to my voice. Nonetheless, I am always there – always searching for her true intentions. She still believes that I am all that matters. I’m pyrotechnic. My thinking mechanism elegantly collapses into itself like a ribbon of the spring-time. It is renewed and motivated to live. I feel as though I can continue to support her. I have been the electrical current striking within her for over four score years. I leave her at rest and distant myself from the Physical and the Spiritual. Silence. The fragility of my heart, impacts my movement, causing it to break. If only she chose to break a bone instead, so that I would still have two hundred and five left over. My movements and senses are gradually disappearing and I can no longer hear the voice of mentality. Spirituality lingers within the vessels of my temple, slowly knocking away the foundations. I shudder, as my blood becomes crisp and slowly begins to solidify, restricting my throat from the ability to breathe Embracing the end - je suis prêt – I am ready. Selah. We become one. We become illuminous. We enter the gates of life. A purifying palace indeed.

When she is filled with unbridled happiness, it is me providing her with moments of introspection. Her memory is intrinsically sculpted, releasing bromine that fumes within her core. She longs to emulate an eagle – the kind capable of soaring towards liberty. You are devouring her existence, implementing ways for her to survive the agony longer.

Untitled courtesy of Pietro Tenuta

The

Breaker Upperers

What was the film about? FEI: It’s about two friends that make mistakes. FRANKIE: No, it’s actually about two friends who met each other years ago when they were cheated on by the same guy. They now run a business together about breaking people up from their relationships. FEI: And then they make mistakes.

FRANKIE: Yeah, essentially. FEI: It’s self-explanatory – it’s in the title, The Breaker Upperers – they break people up. And of course it all goes horribly wrong.

How funny was it? FRANKIE: As I said before, there was this one joke that at one point had me wheezing. It got all the other people in the cinema wheezing and laughing too. It was just a good joke! The jokes in general were funny. FEI: Accents! Hilarious. FRANKIE: I should be offended, but I’m going to let it slide.

Why did you see it? FRANKIE: I saw it because it’s an obligation for me to see it – it’s not even a choice – because as a New Zealander it’s nice to see New Zealand on the big screen. Some of the content in the film I found funny because the setting was in Auckland, which I am quite familiar with, and also just laughing at how 'Kiwi' it was at some points. It was basically just my New Zealand-ness that made me see it. But it was worth it! FEI: Frankie the patriot. I saw it because I’ve seen a couple of other films directed by Taika Waititi – Thor: Ragnarok and Hunt for the Wilderpeople – and they were hilarious. He’s a comedy god.

FRANKIE: He’s definitely a master. Everything he does just cracks me up.

FEI; It’s true! It adds to the comedic appeal. It was a rollickin’ good time.

Did The Breaker Upperers live up to your expectations? FRANKIE: It did. I think it did in some way because Hunt for the Wilderpeople is a really hard film to live up to, especially because that’s one of my favourite films ever. The trailer showed what it was good for, which was a good, fun time. Pretty sure it lived up to that. FEI: I was expecting it to be funny, and it was.

FEI: While he didn’t direct The Breaker Upperers, he was the executiveproducer, and you can tell.

FRANKIE: It did pretty well for an indie film in my opinion.

FRANKIE: It’s got that Waititi flair.

FEI: And for such a short film. It was what it was supposed to be.

FEI: You can feel the Waititi flair.

FRANKIE: Yes. It was set to do one thing and it did just that. That’s what made it so good.

How do you feel about The Breaker Upperers? FRANKIE: I laughed a lot. At one point I was actually wheezing. It was a good, happy film. A bit short in my opinion, but if you need a ‘cheer-meup’ sort of thing to make you giggle then I’d recommend this film. FEI: I actually almost never laugh while watching films. Everyone else in the cinema is laughing their heads off and I’m just… not. FRANKIE: That’s because you have no emotions, Fei. FEI: No! It was good! I smiled. I may have even laughed a little. It was hilarious, and I liked that everyone was making mistakes. There wasn’t one person that you thought was right. Everyone was wrong – no one was right. FRANKIE: Everyone was a flaming hot mess, and it was relatable.

Who should see this film? FRANKIE: I would definitely recommend this film to more mature audiences. It is rated M. Some themes and scenes may be a little bit scandalous for younger viewers, but I would definitely recommend this to people who’ve been through some weird relationships.

FEI: I’d recommend it for anybody who’s into comedy, but especially if you’ve enjoyed Hunt for the Wilderpeople, or Boy, or loved the jokes in Thor: Ragnarok. FRANKIE: Basically, if you love Taika Waititi and his work you need to go watch this. If you love New Zealand, you should go watch this. FEI: This is Kiwi propaganda. FRANKIE: It is propaganda, and I’m so glad New Zealand is hopping on to the film industry so that we no longer have to survive on tourism. FEI: Anyways, we recommend this film to anyone with a sense of humour.