The film I am currently obsessed with is 'Gentleman Broncos'. It's very, very funny, Sam Rockwell is brilliant, to be honest the whole cast is pretty solid. Jermaine Clement is also wonderful. But there is something else about the film that I loved.

The story follows teenager Benjamin (Jack's son from Will and Grace) who writes kitschy science fiction and has one of his stories 'Yeast Lords' (such genius) plagiarised by washed up sci-fi author Chevalier. The story splits between Benjamin's odd life with his widowed mother (played by the ultimate MILF from American Pie, ) and new found literary friends and the imagined story of Yeast Lords with Sam Rockwell fleshing out Benjamin's father substitute Bronco.
The set pieces are spot on, the weird Barbarella-esque sci-fi world and the oddly dated present day Utah.
I am sure I am one of many once geeky teens with whom the film really struck a chord. In the film Benjamin writes his stories and also designs the covers, one of the first scenes shows his room, his shrine to his dead father and home-made set for his novel complete with dolls. In that short scene director Jared Hess succinctly demonstrated just how much this world meant to Benjamin.
When I was a teenager I spent most of my time in my bedroom reading comic books, writing, make weird models out of wax listening to Tori Amos, Radiohead etc and watching films on my little red TV. My room was my world, and far from missing out on my teen years, I felt they were really import and a time I look back on fondly. Most of all I look back amazed at my ability to immerse myself in my imagination then, my endless creativity. Where did it go? Was it hormonal? When I left university I spent a few months writing my first novel, obviously it was rubbish, but I got up every morning at my parents' place, made myself coffee, went up to the spare room and wrote for two hours on an electronic typewriter. Now I'm in my thirties struggling to get together the motivation and momentum to write regularly, I can't believe that twenty-something was really me. Perhaps I need a room, maybe I need to listen to The Throwing Muses again. My hope is, that if I was like that once, I could be again.