Barry Keoghan and Emerald Fennell are sitting at opposite ends of a bathtub in an attic room of the George Tavern, a 19th-century east London pub, immersed in what looks like blood. Keoghan, who is wearing a pearl necklace and, to preserve his modesty, black shorts, poses as Fennell wields the camera. “It looks like I’m giving birth to Barry,” she observes. “It’s a water birth.
Burberry coat, shirt, and pants; Hood London balaclava; vintage gloves and boots from National Theatre Costume Hire, London. So, what needs to change? Fennell is reluctant to answer. “Whenever I talk about the craft of the work, I find myself drawn into the politics of it, and I always want to pause and ask myself, Are male filmmakers asked these same questions? I’m not sure they are.” Instead, she turns to her immediate plans: “I need to lie face down with a cold compress like an institutionalized Victorian woman. It’d be a huge relief to have a lobotomy. And then the next thing I’ll do, well, nobody knows.
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