2015 means it's been ten years since I first saw Capote (this year also marks the 50th year anniversary of Hickock and Smith's actual execution). I still remember being rooted to my cinema seat long after the credits had rolled, such was the power and twisted beauty of this film. Seducing me with its opening shot of a depleted, saturated and somehow disturbing wheat field shuffling calmly in the breeze, for the next 110 minutes I was absolutely captivated by story, performance and direction in equal measures.
Capote himself was no doubt a tormented but terribly irksome individual, and if it hadn't been for Seymour Hoffman's extraordinarily empathetic performance, we might even have lost interest in Truman's tragically self-obsessive destruction over the writing of his finest book In Cold Blood...yet we never do.
As a writer it affected me greatly, to see how far one might have to go in order to achieve success and there is no doubt that the work is a masterpiece. However as a human being, there was just something wholly sad about witnessing his desperate downfall.
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