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BPAL Madness!

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Barry Keoghan, post-Saltburn grave-humping scene, Emerald Fennell’s most deranged gift to cinema. A cheeky sprinkle of improv sweetness, speckled and spattered across freshly turned earth, loamy and dark, coffee grounds worked into the burial mound. Somewhere, twenty miles away, a pale iris sits in a funeral bouquet on a windowsill.

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This is a sour, funky honey blend. I think it has a bit of a russet patchouli happening. It went too far into funky town for me. 

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