Director: Martin McDonagh
Cast: Sam Rockwell, Christopher Walken, Colin Farrell, Woody Harrelson
Showtimes

It's never a good sign when a writer starts writing about writing. That's what I thought to myself while writing this. I made a brew, turned off the radio and figured I could easily knock out a few hundred words on Martin McDonagh's Seven Psychopaths at the London Film Festival.

So, Ivan is trying to pick his favourite quote from the film he's reviewing. But just as he gets going, the doorbell rings. It's the window cleaner asking him to pay some money he owes. Now, Ivan's family piggy bank dates all the way back to the 1800s. It's a real nice piggy bank. But Ivan doesn't have any cash on him and this window cleaner won't take no for an answer. So he goes into the kitchen and gets a hammer - the biggest fucking hammer in the fucking house. We're talking Super Mario-sized shit. Bowser would be quaking in his boots.

Wait, did Bowser wear boots? Maybe. Or did he just wear a shell? Yeah, we'll go with a shell. He'd be quaking in his - anyway, so Ivan's giving this bastard who made him destroy his family piggy bank, which goes all the way to the 1800s, all the money he can get. And then he goes back upstairs to carry on writing. And every now and then he stops writing and get distracted by the Internet.

Why don't they have a porn button on a computer keyboard? If someone invented that, they'd be rich. Maybe Mark Zuckerberg could do it. Maybe I could do it. I could be the next Mark Zuckerberg. Actually, I don't want to be the next Mark Zuckerberg. I like wearing more than one t-shirt.

Anyway, so Ivan reads back what he's written. Then he realises what's happened: he's written himself into his own film review. Fuck. What a mess. This is the halfway point and it needs a direction. I mean, this isn't really a proper piece of writing any more, more just a random thought splurge. And he thinks: "Shit, this is all over the place. But you know what? If I go back and insert some jokes, some consistently hilarious jokes, and get Sam Rockwell to read out half of it - because Sam Rockwell's comic timing is some of the best in the world - then it could probably still be quite fun to sit through."

Why do poodles always look like they're crying?

Christopher Walken could be in it as well. Yeah. It's been years since he's had a decent part to sink his teeth into, especially one where he gets to slit throats open with a knife, causing blood to cascade down people's necks in a waterfall of bright red, sticky goo.

Yeah, insert some graphic violence into the piece too, undercut the format every few minutes to randomly go off on flights of fantasy. The kind of thing that Charlie Kaufman would do. But you know, less polished. And more sweary. I could even give one of the characters in my review my own name. And get a drunk Colin Farrell to read out the lines. He nails that kind of thing.

Hell, if all that happens, my Seven Psychopaths review may not technically be a review, but it's probably a bloody accurate representation of the colossal maze of shite your brain goes through when trying to write something.

Now, where's the porn button gone?