Bethan Tanner worked on Still Pushing Pineapples through the Ffilm Cymru Trainee Producer scheme. She currently works as a Production Manager overseeing post-production for commercials, and is developing her own slate of short films.

To say that Wales has a connection to music would be an understatement. Music is woven into the history and culture of the Land of Song, from the tradition of choral singing, to the Eisteddfod; to arguably our most famous export, Tom Jones. This influence made its impact on me from the earliest age: we didn’t recite the Lord’s prayer at primary school, we sang it.

When I moved to Sheffield for university, I was struck by the feeling that South Wales and Yorkshire were kindred spirits: both full of towns and cities reimagining themselves in the shadow of 20th-century industrialisation; both regions shaped by a working-class resilience, intertwined with creative energy. With a 2022 study finding that there are now half as many professional creatives from working-class backgrounds in the UK than there were during the 60s and 70s however, it is clear significant inequalities still exist in terms of turning that artistic energy into sustainable careers.

Director Kim Hopkins touches upon some of these themes in her new documentary, Still Pushing Pineapples, a film that will resonate with anyone who has spent time in a Welsh working man’s club or a rundown Blackpool ballroom. The film opens on a dark stage; at its centre, a man dressed as a pineapple. It’s an absurd, oddly melancholic image which acts as the perfect precursor to the sweet, funny, poignant film that follows. The distant voice of a Tops of the Pops presenter echoes through the film, “… have you ever wondered who’s in that fruit?”

The man ‘forever trapped’ inside that pineapple is Dene Michael, one of the former lead vocalists of Black Lace, famous for their 80s novelty records, all of which take second billing to their greatest hit Agadoo (“Push pineapple, shake the tree”), (in)famously dubbed “the worst record of all time.” Now, forty years from the song’s release, Dene finds himself at a perpetual fork in the road: to keep the money coming in from nostalgic club nights where audiences pay to hear him sing the song he’s reported to have sung 45,000 times; or to follow his heart and break free of his legacy, creating a new audience for his own music.

The film is an odyssey of nostalgia; a journey through the sweeping cultural changes that have taken place over four decades, as Dene ferries himself, his 89-year-old mother Anne and his new love Hayley, from once-grand nightclubs in fading seaside towns, to Benidorm, home-away-from-home for many of his life-long fans.

When not on the road, Dene lives a relatively modest existence. A small terraced home in Leeds with splashes of past glamour, most notably the Bentley parked outside. It is a stark reminder of how, for ordinary working-class people, there is no safety net or inheritance to help cushion the fall from stardom. Without that buffer, we see Dene’s constant slog. He tells Hayley he’s got “a little bit of money coming in”: a Christmas lights switch-on; three holiday-season gigs. At one point Hayley tells Dene she’s had no electricity all week. When Dene’s home-made single This Is The Moment fails to chart, it is easy to understand the allure Agadoo still has over him.

Nostalgia is a word synonymous with rosy-hued warmth. For Dene however, it’s a double-edged sword, offering him his livelihood but making re-invention almost impossible. What does it do to a person when you are forced to continually play your greatest hits, with nothing from the last thirty years of your life included? What does it mean to grow older and feel as though you still have so much to give but not the opportunities to give it? When Dene’s manager asks him to shave his beard off before a gig, Dene complies without question, frustrating Hayley who continually encourages him to be himself; to live in the present. A fresh-faced Dene Michael – the one they saw on TV in 1986 – is what the audience want however. At times it feels as though he has no choice.

It would be understandable that some bitterness might take hold but no matter what hard knocks Dene experiences, he approaches the world with charm, a sense of humour and a warmth that lights up the screen. Supported by the determined Hayley in what becomes a sweet love story, and his gorgeous mum Anne who has an infectiously joyful presence, they become a delightful trio to watch. As much as it may rain, their sunshine shines through.

Still Pushing Pineapples is a film about legacy and shaping your own destiny. It doesn’t shy away from the sometimes harsh realities of Dene’s life but it’s ultimately a hopeful story about resilience and a deep love of music. As much as he lacked control over his career, Dene has still experienced extraordinary highs. Agadoo may be the albatross around his neck, but it turns out, despite the diminishing returns, it is also the safety net that many working-class artists don’t have.

The highs and lows of Dene’s story highlights how vital it is that we continue to create opportunities to support young working-class artists. It is essential, not only to ensure long-lasting careers, but to ensure long-lasting careers on artists’ own terms.

Still Pushing Pineapples is coming to cinemas from November 28, 2025.

It received funding from Ffilm Cymru and was co-produced by Welsh producer Nan Davies at One Wave Films.

This article was commissioned by Film Hub Wales as part of its Made in Wales project, which celebrates films with Welsh connections, thanks to funding from Creative Wales and the National Lottery via the BFI.

James Ellis writes extensively in Wales and the UK for a variety of publications with a focus on classical, opera, music theatre and performance art. He is a multidisciplinary artist and founded the theatre company Weeping Tudor Productions. James’ performance channel can be found here.

The arts in Wales remain in a very tender predicament. With various difficulties after the pandemic, things are just not back to normal. Through the broad palette of artistic mediums today it would appear, rather shockingly, that only one new feature-length Welsh language film will be released in cinemas this year. This is Tanau’r Lloer or Fires of the Moon, directed by Chris Forster.

Filmed entirely in Wales, specifically Llangollen, Bethesda and Blaenau Ffestiniog, Fires of the Moon goes back to the real location which inspired Un Nos Ola Leuad, or Full Moon in English. Arguably the best novel written in Welsh, Caradog Pritchard’s story of a 1930s slate mining community in North Wales depicts a blistering, harsh world. Though Fires of the Moon is not entirely based on the novel, it heavily leans on it for dramatic and thematic punches. 

Opera on film is a rare event. Most notably, the 1980s saw a golden era of La Traviata (1982), Parsifal (1982) and Carmen (1984), all getting defining cinematic offerings. Can it work as well as its over-four-hundred-year history on stage? Through this, I did wonder: is a black and white opera film in Welsh a hard sell?

My enthusiasm for the source material was evident thanks to a rather strong film version of Un Nos Ola Leuad, directed by Endaf Emlyn. From 1991, this was a gateway delight, the acting was well honed, with a noteworthy score by Mark Thomas, perfectly oozing with choirs and lush orchestration. I wish I’d read the novel in translation. It’s rare for me to see a work of media and want to seek out the source material. That must be Pritchard’s power. 

With the orchestra of Welsh National Opera under the baton of Iwan Teifion Davies, Gareth Glyn’s Fires of the Moon opera is in good hands. The music, often subtle, doesn’t always have an edge to it, yet is seemingly romantic in tone. The percussion is fairly extensive and you can hear it throughout. The Welsh vocal line glides with the harmony of the orchestra, the words seemingly ironed into the score. The libretto by Iwan Teifion Davies and Patrick Young harkens back to the novel and is inflected with little moments of consideration and pondering. The mood of the novel never really feels evoked; however, the film creates its own ambience from within its illusive atmosphere.

A fantastic array of Welsh talent make up the cast. Huw Ynyr as the leading character Hogyn is good, although may not be mature enough to play a man looking back on his life with so many mixed emotions. Annes Elwy is Jini, a sprite seductress of sexual awakening for Hogyn. Elin Pritchard as the Mam is great in this heartbreaking role, committed to an asylum by her own son. Gossip, shame and shunning all bleed out of the story and Mam is one of the worst to be affected by the deeply toxic community she lives in. While there are few stand out moments, Forster’s direction is solid and cinematography by Ben Chads is fittingly black and white, the monochrome textures adding to the dreamlike story. Imagery of the era’s trains, lakes, the moon (naturally) and woods are all pleasantly ethereal. 

The overall result is original and fresh. Sometimes subtle where you wish it would go grand, Fires of the Moon will nonetheless be a milestone in Welsh film and opera. Perhaps unfortunately, there are elements of the film that modern audiences will have no trouble relating to: the film explores the original novel’s themes of loss and mental health, something that nearly 65 years after the novel was published, are still relevant today. There is thankfully more awareness around mental health in 2025, yet the effects of inadequacies across our current mental health provision are still felt across Wales. Perhaps the film’s message is ultimately one of hope; that artistic creation and self-expression might not be the answer to everything, but it can be a means to alleviate suffering.

This being the only new Welsh language cinematic release in 2025, I’d strongly encourage people to go out and find a screening near them. I’ve often encouraged and introduced people to opera and it is one of life’s best things. Seeing Fires of the Moon on the big screen could be a whole new discovery, in an iconic story that isn’t afraid to show another side of Wales. So take the plunge and go savour Tanau’r Lloer. 

Fires of the Moon is coming to cinemas across Wales from November 14, 2025.

It was funded by S4C and Creative Wales and has various connections to Wales including producers Patrick Young, Ed Talfan and Emyr Afan, director Chris Forster, screenwriter Marc Evans, and a score performed by the Welsh National Opera orchestra.

Fires of the Moon was filmed in Dragon Studios (Bridgend) and Great Point Seren Studios (Cardiff) and on location in Bethesda, Llangollen and Blaenau Ffestiniog.

This article was commissioned by Film Hub Wales as part of its Made in Wales project, which celebrates films with Welsh connections, thanks to funding from Creative Wales and the National Lottery via the BFI.

With Chapter’s David Lynch season recently concluded, I wanted to reflect on some of the films I watched. As a film fan, Lynch has always loomed large. I’d seen and been delightfully confounded by Blue Velvet (1986) at a young age and had tepidly dipped my toe into the uncanny waters of Twin Peaks (1990-91). In the wake of his death, I, like many others, decided to dig further into his work and Chapter’s season provided the perfect opportunity.

Over the course of the season, it became clear to me that Lynch’s filmography has long been preoccupied with fragmentation. I’ve always been drawn to the theme- the way identity, perception, and experience can splinter and overlap- and in Lynch’s work, this fascination felt amplified. Watching him wrestle with fractured subjectivity made the films feel both unsettling and alive, and it’s this tension that kept pulling me deeper into his worlds. In Lost Highway (1997), Mulholland Drive (2001), and Inland Empire (2006) specifically, this fascination takes a distinct trajectory: what begins as fragmentation as a symptom ultimately culminates in fragmentation as a condition.

Lost Highway: Fragmentation as Escape

Lost Highway begins with the paranoia of being watched. Fred Madison (Bill Pullman), a jazz musician, receives videotapes filmed inside his own house. The tapes arrive anonymously, and are terrifying because they suggest an external, spectral eye. His subjectivity unravels under this pressure. His sexual inadequacy, jealousy, and inability to communicate are compounded by guilt- likely for murdering his wife, Renee (Patricia Arquette). “I like to remember things my own way,” he says early on, insisting on control over memory. It’s a fragile defense. Soon, his psyche generates an escape route: Fred becomes Pete Dayton (Balthazar Getty), a younger man who is confident, desired, potent.

This transformation, which Lynch called a “psychogenic fugue,” is part plot twist part psychic rupture. Pete offers Fred a way to continue for a while, to live inside a fantasy of vitality. But fantasies cannot hold forever. The recursive line “Dick Laurent is dead” becomes both the spark and the implosion of this psychic construction. Fred is caught in a Möbius strip: both the man receiving the message and the man delivering it. The loop closes, and the fantasy collapses.

Fragmentation in Lost Highway is thus a symptom; a psychic defense against guilt and impotence, a way of buying time in the face of trauma. The self fragments because it cannot endure.

Mulholland Drive: Fragmentation as Dream Logic

If Lost Highway uses fragmentation to repress trauma, Mulholland Drive structures it around dream logic. The first half of the film plays like a fairy tale: Betty (Naomi Watts), bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and gifted, arrives in Los Angeles full of promise. She discovers Rita (Laura Harring), an amnesiac brunette, and together they set out to solve a mystery.

For a while the fantasy works, and Lynch treats it with deep reverence. Hollywood glows with potential. But eventually the frame cracks. Betty becomes Diane, Rita becomes Camilla, and the romance collapses into betrayal and humiliation. The fantasy was Diane’s dream, a desperate attempt to rewrite her failures and rejections. In this structure, fragmentation serves as a hinge: dream versus reality, fantasy versus trauma.

Diane’s tragedy is not that the fantasy was false, it was real enough to genuinely sustain her for a time, but that it could not hold. The kiss between Betty and Rita embodies this tension. It’s tender, charged, but ultimately folded into the dream logic that unravels into despair. The recognition it offers cannot last. Like Lost Highway, fragmentation here derives from something and feels narratively coded; in the dream context, the doubling makes sense. However, in Mulholland Drive the dream world is less a cover, and more a lived space, vivid and real, almost equal to the ‘reality’ that follows it.

Inland Empire: Fragmentation as a Way of Being

By the time we reach Inland Empire, the logic develops considerably. Nikki Grace (Laura Dern), an actress cast in a mysterious film, becomes Sue, a character within that film. But from the beginning, the boundaries are porous. Nikki bleeds into Sue, Sue into Nikki. Other figures emerge: the Lost Girl watching from a room, the prostitutes, the rabbits in a sitcom-like set, a Polish woman, various doubles. Identities multiply, overlap, and dissolve.

Unlike Lost Highway or Mulholland Drive, there is no clean binary. There is no dream to wake from, no fantasy to collapse. There isn’t even a single doubling. Multiplicity proliferates without axis. Nikki/Sue doesn’t fracture because of an identifiable trauma; she was never whole. She is always already multiple: actress, wife, prostitute, ghost, watcher, watched, victim, comforter.

Shot on digital video, the film’s grain and distortion are inseparable from its content. The camera is no longer an outsider intruding, as in Lost Highway. Nor is it the machinery of fantasy, as in Mulholland Drive. In Inland Empire, the camera is reality itself. It shapes the very condition of subjectivity, especially in the modern age, where Lynch seems especially prescient: to be filmed, to be seen, to perform endlessly.

Unlike the other two films, fragmentation in Inland Empire doesn’t seem to stem from anything; it’s not a symptom, or a narrative device- it’s a state of being and doesn’t necessarily lead to revelation. Nikki/Sue fragments not to withhold truth or conceal trauma but because, in her world, that’s what the self does. And then there’s the kiss. Unlike the Mulholland kiss, this one is not eroticised or doomed. It arrives as a recognition: one woman truly seeing another, outside the mediation of roles and screens. Multiplicity doesn’t disappear, but for an instant, it coheres into recognition. It’s not a cure, or a return to unity, but an instant that acknowledges fragmentation and continues regardless.

Watching Inland Empire last of the three films felt appropriate. Not just because it was Lynch’s last feature film, or his longest, or arguably most difficult- but because it feels like the culmination of a journey. Where can you go after rejecting not just narrative resolution but fragmentation as a means to an end? The earlier films still hold out for the possibility of wholeness, even if only in fantasy, even if only for a moment. By contrast, Inland Empire makes peace with fragmentation as the default; suggesting that the self is never whole, never singular, never ‘off-camera’. And yet, the film doesn’t grieve this. If anything, its final moments are joyous: smiles, dancing, a room full of women and doubles and ghosts simply being. This notion struck me then, as it does now, as radical, deeply honest and profoundly moving: the subject may not unify but she does endure.

(3 / 5)

Out of all the strange and wondrous animated work under the Adult Swim banner comes rare jewels and underdogs. From Gonzalo Cordova comes Women Wearing Shoulder Pads, set in 1980s Ecuador. Hailing from Spain, business lady Marionete Negocios (voiced by Pepa Pallarés) is met with scorn and conspiracy as she plans to make guinea pigs pets as opposed to being on the menu. Within this culture clash (the animal in Spanish is called ‘cuy’) lies the main thread of the plot.

This is stop motion and their uncanny appearance is slightly jerky, though that is part of the charm. The only apparent surreal feature is the larger than life cow used as a replacement in bullfighting. Corruption was rife in this era and here is no different. Matador Coquita Buenasurete sleeps with Marionete and hands over breeding contacts. In the second episode, Coquita is in conflict with her new love and her work, the first big pull of the story. Hugely successful Chef Doña Quispe appears as the villain in her attempts to keep cow as a food stuff, blocking the plans to domesticate them. Marionete offers a duck as a piece offering to Doña and things fall apart pretty quickly. Further scheming seems to be afoot from all parties and should emerge as delicious in their execution.

I’d like to say I’m convinced by the whole premise, but at this stage I’m undecided. The hands of the characters in close up appear as real human live action clips, not as disturbing as you’d think. The stop motion figures are subtle and not the most eye catching. Some humour may be lost in translation and some crude jokes seen in past animation might not work well today. The setting of the its era is also convincing, as the name would suggest. The leading lady cast and Spanish/Latin American identity should find an audience away from the bonkers work often seen with Adult Swim. Yet, a mere ten minutes a piece, it leaves you wanting more from this subtle, curious offering.

Watch on Mondays live on Channel 4 & streaming after.

(5 / 5)

What is rare for me is a return to the past, of the television kind anyway. Those who know me are aware of my rewatch of Twin Peaks, after David Lynch’s passing. That is the true exception. 

Through rough, AI looking videos on YouTube I had the seismic shock of nostalgic flight. From this, I can proudly say I do remember The Odyssey and it is easily one of the finer shows made for  kids television, so much so that adults can easily find a way in as well.

It would have been either Nickelodeon or Channel 4 that I watched it. What I do remember most are the opening credits and the impactful, defining moment of the story. Yet, have I engaged in the Mandela Effect…I am sure the show was called Coma? This leads into the story…

Made in Canada from CBC Television, the success of the series had to an impressive three seasons, though not all plot threads were wrapped up as expected. Created by Paul Vitols and Warren Easton, I do wonder if there was any inspiration from Twin Peaks, The Odyssey would have just been aired as the cult show was losing its main allure. 

The premise is layered, especially for its main audience. Jay, an 11-year old boy is keen to join a local tree-fort club, the lead of which is Keith. Jay brings his late father’s precious telescope as an offering into the club. Things get murky with bullying, Donna, Jay’s disabled friend tries to keep things cool. In a desperate attempt to leave, Jay uses ropes to slide down to the ground. This gives way and he falls in epic fashion only then to have a might thump on a stone. For most of the next two seasons, Jay is in a coma, yet another realm is revealed as he appears to create stories in his head about The Tower and its surroundings. No adults live in this land and children appropriate numerous adult jobs and cultures. The show is fantasy, yet is still rooted in reality, as the event mirror in both worlds.  The show never had the intent to speak down to children and this is one of its best assets. 

I’m now aware I cannot speak of the show with out a dreadful sense of tragedy. Both male and female leads have passed both extremely young, Illya Woloshyn in 2023 and Ashley Rogers back in 2007. Their deaths have led to some unsavoury fake news about what caused this and I must write with care here. Watching them grow up so fast over there three seasons is touching, but it was still a hard watch. Woloshyn had promise growing up into the dashing main character, yet at times his acting didn’t quite gel with the script. Other times he seems to really get it, his obsession with his apparently dead father (I won’t spoil too much here) and general teenage angst are absorbing. Im amazed just how much a show from the early 90s sucked me in like this. 

I don’t recall watching till the end back in the day, but what we do get at the finale is a fine wrap up that could have expanded on the dynamic between children becoming grownups and adults respecting this. Many 90s tropes are here: the music…good lord the fashion! Though dated in may respects, the story still holds. A remake, which has apparently been in the discussions would not rival this rawness and clever sense of theatre. Ashley Rogers as both Donna and Alpha, was such a great young actress, who found praise also in the film Now and Then. Her sensibleness grounds Jay in both roles and her bookish persona is very charming. The trio is completed by Tony Sampson, best known later as Eddy in Ed, Eddy, n Eddy (fans of the show will know I’ve spelt this right), the bully who becomes friends with Jay. As the third season goes on Sampson changes with clear weight loss and the gruff traits of the role are still their. His fashion choices might just be the most “radical”. 

What must be of note is the fact that a young Ryan Reynolds is in the fold, playing Macro and Lee. Dressed up like a fascist, even in this early role you can see he’s having fun, no doubt all the cast must have found this eventful. Macro is the make shift right hand man to Brad (again won’t spoil here) and  no doubt had acting lessons from an early age. Even his line “My poochy needs me…” could easily be from Deadpool. Andrea Nemeth as Medea and singer Sierra Jones, is fine casting, an actress who didn’t go on to do much else, yet really shines here. Her on-again-off-again pairing with Finger and Mic from a rebellious Mark Hildreath is also funny for its frustrated puppy love murmurings. Finger’s later doomsday plot is also absorbing. 

Also surprising that a compassionate Janet Hodgkinson as Jay’s mum, Val didn’t do a huge amount of work either. In season three she is not seen for a few episodes, yet her vast efforts are to make sure her son comes out of his coma. There appears to be some rather dated methods of aiding someone in that condition: do we really think a bag of ice and loud noises could wake someone from a coma? It almost reeks of cult, the care facility Jay is sent to. 

How does Jay know of this other realm when he is awake? Will he find his father in either place? Many questions arise. Broad themes are tackled and the troubles of being a young person are never belittled. I just adore this show for such a gentle and fine handling of the children. This is easily watched on YouTube, those who binge might be a little shocked with the darker edge of the third season, arguably the best. 

A treat down memory lane, well worth the trip. 

Hi I am James Ellis, artist, journalist and member of Get the Chance. I have been using my Tempo Time Credits at Chapter Arts Centre in Cardiff. It’s wonderful to book loads of cinema screenings, seeing old classics and new features alike. I’ve recently had the thrill of experiencing The Brutalist (twice!) and Memoir of a Snail.

I’m also seeing lots of David Lynch films and really cannot wait for the full showing of the iconic Twin Peaks and its follow on film, the season and more. Let’s rock!

You can find out more about Tempo Time Credits here

James Ellis, artist & journalist