Richard Ayoade and Arctic Monkeys: charming juncture of music and film

I think it’s serious time I do some job writing about Richard Ayoade, man clearly deeply inspired by Arctic Monkeys work.

Now, he is British film director and he’s done quite some work I've found about only now.
I believe all of the Monkeys’ fanbase is familiar with Submarine, film whose soundtrack is made by Alex Turner himself, but let’s not stop here.
Our man Richard directed a short film called Scummy, inspired by all time favourite When the Sun goes down from Monkeys’ debut studio album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not.

To continue about our old sport: he also directed documentary Arctic Monkeys at the Apollo, which is, if I’m not mistaken, included in their official discography.

(Update 20th June 2015)
Richard's 2013 newborn: The Double.
Although it had listed in credits as inspiration only Fyodor Dostoevsky's great novella: at the very start of the film, situated in a train, one can see how Ayoade was strongly inspired by Turner's short story The Choice of Three

signed as Margita

04:00 12.jun 2015.

Treba naglasiti da je četiri ujutro. Spremam psihologiju pa me šolja za mlijeko kafe naoružala noćas.
Tužno je sve ovo. Bilo bi mnogo lakše da me ne proganjaju svi ti odvratni ljudi. Previše imena u previše malom gradu. Tužno je sve ovo. Bilo bi, bilo bi mnogo lakše što ti pamtim konture, teksturu i miris vrata, i što mogu i sad da prizovem osjećaj usne priljubljene na njega, bilo bi sve to mnogo lakše kad me ovaj ološ ne bi trovao, ovaj tužni grad. Sve te neke sandre, i sve te neke tamare, i marije, i djine, i teodore, i jelene, i jelisavete ako treba. Svi ti neki ljudi od kojih ne možeš da pobjegneš, sv ti ljudi od kojih truliš, čije su kandže zabodene duboko u pojedine živote nekih od nas, koji ili traže ili lažu da ne traže da budu pod kandžama. Sav taj neki skam, taj otrov koji prlja dušu, koje te vuče u krug. U jako dubok krug.
Sve bi bilo lakše, sve ljubavi i svi rastanci, u nekom mnogo većem gradu.
Jebite se kvazi-intelektualci, nije to život za mene. Jebite se, daleko odavde.

*

Kad god ti vidim samo sliku, otvori se rana u meni. Zato je ovako i najbolje. Ljepoto moja. Proklet bio, Ljepoto moja. A moja više nisi, ali Ljepoto, nisam ni ja tvoja više. Zapeći će te Ljepoto, kunem ti se, baš zato, kad ti dođe u glavu, kad ti prođu sve slike pred očima, kad vidiš neku novu šaku koju držim u šaci. Pa što je sa tobom, zaboga? Zar može dva prazna mjeseca da se uporedi sa ovim? Zar može? Dva mjeseca ničega do isprazne zaljubljenosti? Zar si baš toliko mali, zar Ljepoto? Lutko moja, oko moje, trepavice moja. Nisam ti glas čula već mjesec dana da se meni obraća, stran postaješ Ljepoto, polako stranac.
A možda dođe baš ovih dana. Doći će.

*

Danas imam

mjestimično kiselo prevrtanje želuca

Što od svih obaveza

koje sam otkazala

iako ne mogu da ih otkažem

Što od crva na tvojim ostacima u meni

koji su se probudili danas

iako im kalendar ništa ne znači.

Preksjutra će oni izaći napolje

kroz moje oči, ruke i uši.

A choice of three, by Alexander David Turner

In the tunnel I noticed I had a choice of three. While I thought it very kind of them to offer me this, I do wonder if they realized what a dilemma they were sending to face me.
The trouble was, if I looked at your reflection in the left window I missed the actual image of you and your reflection in the right. And if I looked in the right I had the same problem but the other way around.
At first I thought I should probably settle on one of the mirrors as they were soon to disappear, but that idea quickly wilted, and my attention was drawn back to the center, occasionally checking on either side.
I must say I did question the authenticity of your nap a few minutes before. As the train left Loughborough I suspected it could've been a device to avoid conversation. I'd barely considered this for a moment, however, when a heavy breath and a gulping sound that I decided would be too embarrassing to fake led me to conclude that your nap wasn't fraudulent.
I found it difficult to concentrate on anything else as you slumped beneath your coat. Delighted that we'd waited until this hour to travel so the evening sun got its opportunity to skip across those sleeping cheeks, but unnerved by the prospect of being removed from the opposing chair to yours. I knew it was reserved but hoped that whoever had reserved it had fallen over.
It looked as if today I'd be safe. The train wasn't too busy but I did take a moment to recall the time when I was less fortunate.
I remmebered it with a chilling vivivity we were on the way to Brighton.
I knew it was going to be his seat as soon as I saw him on the platform, unzipping, checking, zipping, and rechecking things. Something about his face suggested that he had for years had a mustache and had not long since removed it. He wasn't going to think twice about disposing of me, especially considering then he'd get the chance to sit with you.
Though his hiking boot-march through the carriage was rather revolting, it wasn't this that made my hands tense up into sour claws of nausea. It was the way he said it.
"You're in my seat."
No "excuse me," no polite uncertainty, just the rigid, hideous fact. The thud with which it landed expelled all my preparation. Before I remembered my plans to pretend to be asleep, deaf, French, or only sat there because someone else was in my seat, I was walking to find another vacancy.
I ended up dwelling unhappily beside a girl with a boys bum. I knew that because she walked too far past when she returned to one of what I thought to be two empty seats when I sat myself there. I fidgeted until our reunion on the platform, where you brutally informed me "That man was really rather pleasant, actually."
Today I thought I'd better make sure that couldn't happen again and I pulled the ticket from the top of my seat. It took a few attempts and the facade of hanging a jacket to finally complete. I was terribly cautious. There's a threat of punishment for such deeds by fine as far as I understand, but those shackles were at the back of my mind as I crushed the reservation in my hidden fist. Folding and squeezing as if it were that beast on the way to the seaside.
Fortunately, there was no retribution. If anything the train got quieter as the journey continued.
And so in the tunnel, unable to decide, my head flicked through this trilogy of angles, angel after angle, until we were out the other side.
My frantic twitching no doubt caused the man at the adjacent table to narrow his eyes at the very least, I imagine.
I don't know for sure.
I didn't have time tot add him to the cycle.

A letter for You to read when you get lonely and nobody's waiting by your side, when you've been running and hiding much too long and you know it's just your foolish pride

Dvadeset i jedan dan bez tebe

Nikad nisam tražila apsolutni osjećaj sreće. Lažem. Možda ponekad. Možda u zalascima sunca na poslednjem spratu parking garaže. Ali, istina je, da sam znala da je to nemoguće, ili da je nisam ni htjela ako to znači neko drugi, nešto drugo. Istina je, znam da si ti bio moja nesreća, i češće, mnogo češće samo gori dan nego bolji. Ali istina je također, da sam htjela vječnost, sa tobom takvim, tada, tako nesrećna. Istina. Jer, ne biraš karte koje dobiješ. A ja sam svoje voljela, voljela ih duboko iako nisu bile visok skor. Istina je da se u dubini duše pribojavam da nikad nikoga više nisam sposobna da volim kao tebe, Radosti. Ne na taj, svaki način, zasigurno.

Ti si bio sva nesreća i tuga, i razočaranje koju sam ja tražila u životu. I gle čuda. Slobodna sam. Osjećam se kao da ponovo imam sebe, da mogu sa sobom šta hoću. Ali, tu je upravo i caka. Ti nisi tu. Osjećam se pomalo izgubljeno, pomalo zbunjeno. Nisam sigurna da li mi nedostaješ. Ali, nedostajaćeš svakako. I, znaj, da svako: Do neba te volim, i Volim te beskrajno su bili teški koliko i njihovo značenje, ako ne i teži, i znaj da mi beskonačno nedostaju naša nasumična trabunjanja i klupe po zabitima, tragično ružičaste i tople. Više nego poljubac, više nego bilo što drugo. One dani i noći gledanja Matrixa i Bebopa u krevetu. Ona beskrajna voljenja. Ja bih te samo grlila. Sve se svodi na to. Nedostaješ mi ti. A ne boli, stvarno ne boli. 

Napravili smo jednu tragičnu grešku . Tragičnu. Onog sedmog avgusta. Trebalo je da nastavimo da pijemo kafu, trebalo je da se napraviš da ne znaš, ili jednostavno da nećeš. Trebalo je da nastavimo da se držimo za ruke još koju godinu, trebalo je. Ali nismo. Ali kako sam ja to mogla da znam tad. Trebalo je da me poljubiš dan prije nego kreneš za Novi Zeland, ako ikad tamo i stigneš. Trebalo je mnogo, mnogo toga. 

Trebalo je da ti rodim Bubu. Ali nisam. 

Dvadesetjedan mi je bio srećan broj neko vrijeme. I dalje je pretpostavljam.

Umorna sam. Laku noć. A imala bih još mnogo da kažem, no ne znam više ni kako, a ne znam ni što. Pričanje u prazno nikad nije urodilo plodom i onako.