Arc Shorts – The Films

I curated a short film night at the ARC in Stockton on Thursday. It went quite well, and lots of lovely people turned up. I just thought I’d put together links to all the films I screened because… well, mostly because why not?

But also because if you liked any of the films, I’d really love it if you got in touch with the filmmakers via these links and let them know. Once or twice a year I get an email from somebody just saying they’ve seen one of my films and enjoyed it, and it makes my bloody day. It’s a grand feeling, so why not make a filmmaker happy today?

The films were:

Gash by Rong

Le Cheval 2.0 by Stephen Scott-Heyward and Alex Kirkland

The Tales of Donkey the Whale 1 by Chris Corner

Monday Morning by John AC Allen

Head Shot by Dennis Heaton

Cold Calling by Nick Mackie

BigBoy 74 by Tom Marshall

Please Do Not Put Any Ducks Into This Chute by Big Red Button

Six Shooter by Martin McDonagh (clip)

Plus! The three that got away (wanted to show them but couldn’t for various reasons)

Astronauts by Matthew Walker

Sunday by Nacho Vigalondo

How To Tell When A Relationship Is Over by Tony Roche

Friday’s Short Story

To cut a long story short, I travelled back in time and killed Marcel Proust.

Yeah. 15 word sci-fi! And highbrow, too.

(Apologies for the lack of updating this week. I have been busy – it looks like a friend and I may have got ourselves a fun filmmaking job with our own office and pay and everything so I’m strutting round feeling all grown up and buying new trousers. Next week I will have got used to it all and will be writing facts about squirrels and drawing ducks again, I promise. Quack. Hoorah!)


A quietly amazing video for a dreamy-sweet song. A fine way to end a fine week.

And we all had a lovely time.

(Tunng’s new album, …And Then We Saw Land, is the shiznit – that and Gorillaz Plastic Beach is all I’ve been listening to this week – but their latest video isn’t as good as this one. Too many beards, man.)

Friday’s Short Story

Sunday morning, and Mrs. Stevens has her hand up a chicken when she hears a knocking at the front door. She wipes the sage and onion off her fingers, and goes and answers the door. Why wouldn’t she?

It’s Trevor, from next door. Her heart skips, just slightly. She is happily married, to Mr. Stevens, but sometimes Trevor smiles at her and she feels a bit giddy. He has a way of looking at her, like he’s looking past the shop-worn facade of her middle-aged body, to what lies within. She likes Trevor.

“Hello Trevor,” she says.

“Yeah, hi, I was just wondering, could I borrow a drill, if you’ve got one?” says Trevor.

Mr. Stevens joins his wife at the door. He doesn’t like Trevor. Trevor has this way of smiling at his wife.

“Hello Trevor,” he says.

“Hi, yeah, I was just asking if I could borrow a drill. Mine’s broke, drill bit got stuck in his leg.” says Trevor.

“His leg?”

“Table leg. I’m making a table,” says Trevor.

“Oh, I’m sure that’d be OK,” says Mrs. Stevens. She turns to her husband. “There’s that Black and Decker you got for Christmas, isn’t there. It’s not out of the box yet,” she says, looking at Trevor again. “Never uses it. Are you very handy?”

“Well he was certainly drilling this morning!” says Mr. Stevens, lightly. “We heard it, didn’t we? The sound of drilling. Not that it’s a problem. It was quite early, though. What with that, and the screaming…”

“Oh, was that you screaming, Trevor? Did you cut yourself?” says Mrs. Stevens, allowing herself a compassionate twinkle.

“What? Oh, yeah. I nicked myself with a… splinter. Paper cut. Whatever. So, the drill…”

“Is that what all the…?” she gestures at the apron Trevor is wearing, the apron glistening with fresh, wet blood.


“The blood, is that where the blood is from?” she asks.


“Is it from the splinter?”

Trevor looks down at his apron. There is a great deal of blood on it. “Yeah, must be,” he says. “So do you have a drill, or what?”

“Go get it then,” Mrs. Stevens chivvies her husband, who disappears into the house.

Trevor and Mrs. Stevens smile at each other for a while.

“You’ve got a bit of…” she says, gesturing vaguely towards Trevor’s face.

Trevor cocks his head, brings his hand to his ear, dislodges something that has been dangling from the lobe. Something pinkish-red and stringy, which lands on the doorstep with a little wet sound.

“That’s got it. I’m glad you popped round, actually,” says Mrs. Stevens. “You haven’t seen Sammy anywhere have you?”


“Our son? He’s just back from Uni for the weekend. Only he went out last night and he hasn’t come back.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes. I’m sure he’s just at a friend’s house but you know what it’s like, we parents do worry don’t we?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Do you remember what he looks like?”

“What does he look like?”

“About 6 feet ta…”

“Haven’t seen him.” interrupts Trevor, as Mr. Stevens re-emerges from the house, bearing a drill, mint in box.

“Here’s the drill,” says Mr. Stevens.

Trevor grabs it off him with both hands. “Great.” says Trevor. “Three speeds. I like the slower ones. Fun. So if you don’t mind I’d better get back to him.”

“Him?” smiles Mrs. Stevens.

“The table. I mean I’ve done one of its legs, but it could still run off, eh? Haha.” Trevor laughs, an odd, hollow sound.

Mrs. Stevens laughs along, even though she doesn’t get the joke. Mr. Stevens smiles politely.

“Will you bring the drill back? When you’re done?” says Mr. Stevens.

Trevor says “Listen, tell you what. I’ll be finished with… the table in a few hours I reckon. How about you…”, he points at Mrs. Stevens, “Come and get it? Just you,” he adds. “By yourself. How would that be?”

There’s that smile again, think both Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, for different reasons.

“Of course,” says Mrs. Stevens, her mind conjuring various scenarios that will absolutely not happen. “I’ll pop round later. In the meantime, you will keep an eye out for Sammy?”

Trevor turns and walks down the path, leaving sticky red footprints as he goes.

“Eye out?” he says, mostly to himself. “There’s an idea… I’ll keep an eye out. Or two. Or more. I could keep a jar full of them out if you wanted. Haha.”

“Haha,” laughs Mrs. Stevens, and she goes back to the chicken.

The Drill
by Harris
more tiny tales

Limmy’s Show

Have you been watching this, from BBC Scotland? I love it. It’s not necessarily hilarious, but it’s warm, distinctive and personal and this clip shows what shading of depth, meaning and chuckleage can be achieved within a simple three minute desk sketch.

“I don’t wanna be here any more.” Sweet.