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Emotional and physical changes bloom one summer for two 16-year-old girls in Southern England. Mona (Natalie Press) hides her intelligence and wants more than her empty daily life, while Tamsin (Emily Blunt) is well-educated, spoiled and cynical. Wary when they first meet, the girls soon experience a mutual fascination, then attraction. Complicating matters is Phil (Paddy Considine), an ex-criminal who tries to impose his newfound religious beliefs on his sister Mona. Featuring music by Goldfrapp. Directed by Pawel Pawlikowski (Last Resort).
 

 My Summer of Love


Two days before the filming on My Summer of Love was due to start, my producer whisked me out of the rehearsals and told me I had to go to the hospital. Apparently it was something to do with the bond people who insisted I have some additional health checks. I got worried. I'd already undergone all the usual checks back in London. Have they belatedly discovered some sinister black hole on my X ray or—God forbid—a virus?

"Nothing to worry about, honest, a mere formality," the bond man tried to reassure me on the mobile. "It's just that you're an essential element, in fact the only one we've got on this one. There's no stars in your movie and nobody can make head or tail of your script. So if anything happens to you, we're left with nothing. So we just want to make doubly sure."

For a moment I felt flattered. The contents of my head were worth £1,500,000—the budget of our film. But when it hit me that I was indeed the only person responsible for the chaos I've unleashed in West Yorkshire, I began to feel queasy.

To make things worse, the cab driver started interrogating me about the film.

"So who's in it? Anybody I would have heard of?"

The names I mentioned didn't ring any bells, but he wouldn't give up.

"So what sort of film is it? A comedy, a thriller or a drama?"

"I don't know. A bit of everything, probably."

My vagueness failed to discourage him.

"But is it realistic or, you know, like a fantasy?"

"It's hard to say, maybe both."

That silenced him.

Maybe I'm too precious, but ever since I was a schoolboy I've always resented having to explain what I was doing. Things are just too fluid and ambiguous. Why did people always have to put a name to everything? Nowadays there are whole armies of paid experts who do nothing else for a living. And you can always trust them to get the wrong end of the stick. When I used to make documentaries, for example, the experts pointed out that they weren't documentaries at all and I should really be doing fiction; now that I'm making fiction films, they keep going on about their documentary feel. Some call me a gritty realist, others accuse me of poetry and vagueness. And then there's my background to further muddy the waters: While the Brits can't help intuiting gloomy Polish fatalism in everything I touch, the Poles are tickled by my supposedly very British sense of irony. There's no end to this…name calling.

But I suppose what it all just goes to show is that I am a rather unique sui generis hybrid—and thus definitely worth £1,500,000.

As I was sinking deeper and deeper into self-absorption, my cab spun out of control and crashed into an oncoming lorry. The essential, but still uninsured, element of My Summer of Love came within inches of death. Just as well we were near a hospital. After seeing to my cuts and bruises, the doctor made me tick some boxes on a questionnaire and sent me back with another clean bill of health.

In the weeks that followed my £1,500,000 price tag came to haunt me. I first sensed something strange going on when things started falling apart over a flu epidemic. Half the crew were laid low and we lost three days' filming. It was just small hints at first—a furtive little glance from the producer, a whisper in the ear from the accountant. Nothing sinister really. But when the rains set in and our main location flooded, I noticed the first signs of serious intrigue brewing. Wading towards my car, I spotted my two producers hiding behind the fire engine and clearly plotting something. As soon as they felt my look on them, they stopped whispering and put on very suspect smiles. I could sense they were still resentful over my rather brave decision to shoot our summer movie in a spot famous for having the highest rainfall in the whole of the British Isles.

Then my creative insomnia set in and I started spending my nights feverishly scrapping scenes and inventing new ones. It was probably then that it started to dawn on the producers that we'd never finish the film. And I knew my life was seriously in danger. Killing me off made perfect sense. With me out of the way, they could cash in the insurance money, close down the film, go home to their families and forget this nightmare....