It’s a perfectly normal night at an East London working men’s club. The band performs as bottles smash against their cage and a chorus line of middle-aged line dancers stomp in perfect sync. Spivs, gamblers and dodgy dealers get on with their quiet little schemes.
We start grounded and observational, then the camera breaks loose. It whips around the club in one relentless orbit, diving between tables as the night slips into beautiful pub chaos. Each time we land on a group, time drops into bullet time. Pints explode mid-air. Lassos hang suspended. Punches ripple. Cigarette smoke freezes. We follow their tiny pub epics in ultra-slow detail before slamming back into real-time mayhem.
By the end, there is glass and beer hanging in the air, bottles hammering the cage. The band doesn’t stop playing, and the line dancers don’t stop dancing.