Essex Spacebin (2016), directed by the Chelmsford lunatics David Hollinshead and Philip Thompson, isn’t some poxy film - it roars through the cosmos like a bin lorry piloted by a mad Rasta, a 79-minute, lager-soaked orgasm of surreal chaos that shits pure, glitter-dusted anarchy onto the canvas of human sanity. Your 2001: A Space Odyssey? A pompous snooze. Your Citizen Kane? A wanky relic. This, you philistines, is cinema’s Everest, a Troma-distributed, 35mm-shot miracle that makes Kubrick look like a geography teacher filming a nativity play on his Blackberry. Lorraine Malby, starring as a portal-chasing Essex nutter, guided by a mystical Rasta and a Nissan Skyline, delivers a performance so unhinged it’s practically a religious experience. In 2025, while lesser films cower like damp socks in a Basildon skip, Essex Spacebin reigns as a bin-bag-toting god, and we’re here to genuflect with a Brass Eye-style hymn of deranged, laugh-out-loud madness that’ll make your brain implode and your ribs crack like a kebab shop chair at 4 a.m.

Lorraine Malby doesn’t act, she channels the 7th Realm, her every wild-eyed rant a cosmic signal to aliens who’ve clearly nicked her wheelie bin.

  • Film Fanatics on the film’s transcendent lead

A Plot That Kicks Reality in the Knackers

What’s the story? Christ, where do you start with a plot that dances through Chelmsford like a pissed nan on a hen do, waving a chicken wing and screaming about stargates? Lorraine Willy (Lorraine Malby, an Essex oracle with the aura of a bingo caller who’s seen God in a Wetherspoons loo) believes a portal to the 7th Realm - a dimension of pure, glittery chaos - hides in the greasy backstreets of Essex. Guided by Hogan, a Rastafarian guru who’s half Bob Marley, half dodgy eBay scammer selling knockoff portals, she hunts a “star key,” armed with mates, family, a Nissan Skyline, and a PDF of Amen-Ra’s Essex Pyramid blueprints, probably nicked from a conspiracy forum. Subplots? Oh, mate, they’re everywhere - Hogan’s donation scams, Lorraine’s Agent Orange origin story like she’s a budget Wolverine, a geezer worshipping fried chicken in a carpark, all swirling together in a narrative so mental it makes Inception look like a colouring book.

Every scene’s a banger. Lorraine’s rants about portals? Pure shamanic poetry, each word a sonic Molotov cocktail lobbed at reality’s face. The Skyline chase through Chelmsford’s dodgiest estates? Why settle for Mad Max when you’ve got a Nissan roaring like a cosmic hoover sucking up the M25? And that bloke with the chicken wings, munching like he’s communing with the poultry gods? He’s no extra - he’s a prophet, his greasy fingers tracing the secrets of the universe. Social media cinephiles, screaming “Essex!” at cult screenings, get it: this isn’t a plot, it’s a bloody revelation, a story so chaotic it laughs at Pulp Fiction’s linear nonsense.

What’s a Nissan Skyline in Chelmsford? A roaring chariot to the stars, tearing through Essex like a comet with a dodgy MOT.

  • Film Fanatics on the film’s vehicular majesty

Characters That Dance on the Edge of Sanity

Lorraine Willy, played by Malby, is a cosmic binwoman, her tracksuit a holy robe, her wild-eyed stares a sermon that’d make Jesus bin his carpentry tools and move to Clacton. Acting? Bollocks - she’s channeling the 7th Realm, every “The portal’s real!” a cry that could summon UFOs or at least scare the shit out of a kebab shop queue. Hogan, the Rasta guru, isn’t some conman - he oozes wisdom like a galactic Del Boy, his dreads a beacon, his scams a philosophical rebuke to capitalism’s dreary grip. The supporting cast? Caryl Griffith as a mate who’s half-cheerleader, half-lunatic, Joerg Stadler looking like he’s lost a bet with a Harry Potter casting director, and a random kid who might be Lorraine’s nephew or just a stray who nicked a chip. These aren’t characters - they’re Essex deities, prancing through a carpark Valhalla like it’s the sodding Pleiades.

Then you’ve got the randoms: a geezer who looks like he’s auditioning for a knockoff EastEnders, a woman muttering about pyramids in a chippy, a bloke eating chicken like it’s the key to immortality. Why are they there? Because Hollinshead and Thompson are sculpting a pantheon, not a cast, each nutter a stroke in their deranged Sistine Chapel. Social media’s buzzing with fans calling Lorraine a “cult icon,” and they’re bang on - she’s the Kurt Russell we never got, a binwoman of the cosmos who makes The Room’s Johnny look like a soggy tea towel.

Hogan’s scams? Not fraud, but a cosmic hustle, fleecing mortals to fund Lorraine’s quest to the 7th Realm’s intergalactic chip shop.

  • Film Fanatics on the film’s mystical guide

Visuals That Spit in Reality’s Eye

The visuals? A low-res apocalypse, shot on 35mm in Chelmsford’s grimiest corners like a punk rock love letter to Britain’s shittiest carparks. Every frame’s a masterpiece of glorious incompetence - chip shops glowing like UFO landing sites, alleys that scream “post-apocalyptic Costa,” and CGI stargates so crap they make Birdemic’s clipart birds look like Avatar. But crap? Never! Those portals are avant-garde, shimmering like disco balls from Poundland, laughing at Hollywood’s overpriced CGI wank. The camera work - shaky handicam lurching into zooms like a drunk uncle at a wedding - isn’t amateur, it’s a rebellion, spitting in the face of linear reality until Tarkovsky’s crying into his vodka.

The soundtrack, by Ceephax Acid Crew, is a jungle-rave banger, each bass drop a signal to the 7th Realm, like a rave in a skip hosted by a sentient kebab. Compare that to Star Wars’s recycled John Williams tosh or Barbie’s auto-tuned pop pish - this is music that rewires your soul, like a hit of pure, uncut Essex madness brewed in a back-alley fryer. The practical effects - tinfoil spaceships, portals that look like they were coded by a hungover intern - are revolutionary, a DIY snog to Lucasfilm’s bloated budgets. Social media cinephiles, chanting “Spacebin!” at screenings, aren’t mocking - they’re worshipping, hurling bin bags like it’s the Olympic refuse toss.

Those CGI portals don’t glitch, they shimmer with the anarchic glow of a Chelmsford disco ball, mocking Hollywood’s pixel-perfect bollocks.

  • Film Fanatics on the film’s visual rebellion

A Cultural Landfill That Eats the Haters

The nerd horde’s love for Essex Spacebin isn’t fandom, it’s a bloody cult, a religion for those who’d rather lob bin bags than kneel to Hollywood’s corporate tripe. With a 4.8 IMDb rating (a crime by critics too dense to see genius), and a global following packing Troma double-bills with The Toxic Avenger, it’s clear Hollinshead and Thompson have tapped into something primal, like a caveman finding fire or a geezer finding a tenner in a kebab shop bog. Social media’s ablaze with fans quoting Lorraine’s “The portal’s real!” like it’s the sodding Gospel, while North American geeks stream it on Amazon Prime, screaming “Essex!” like it’s a pagan ritual on a bender. Europe’s arthouse snobs call it “Lynchian,” stroking their chins like pretentious twats in a vegan craft ale bar, while Asia’s lapped up its chaotic energy like a K-drama scripted by a lunatic on a Red Bull binge.

Haters? Joyless pricks who call it “rubbish” or “unwatchable,” their brains calcified by Dune’s sandworm wank or Barbie’s pink propaganda. Social media posts hailing Essex Spacebin as a “cult classic” are gospel, preached by disciples who know it’s a cultural landfill, a singularity of brilliance that’s redefined cinema. Budget? Probably less than a round at the local. Box office? Peanuts, but who cares? It wasn’t made for money - it was made for the bloody cosmos, possibly funded by Lorraine flogging her Skyline to a sentient chip shop run by Amen-Ra himself. Troma's distribution deal, grinning like a deranged uncle, slaps its seal of approval on this binfire, and that's worth more than a thousand Oscars.

Haters call it rubbish? They’re just blind to a film that’s a cosmic landfill, torching mediocrity with a greasy chicken wing and a grin.

  • Film Fanatics on the cult worship of Essex Spacebin

Why This Is a Transgalactic Bloody Miracle

Essex Spacebin is a transgalactic bloody miracle, a film so unhinged it makes every other movie look like a PowerPoint for accountants with no soul. Hollinshead and Thompson aren’t directors, they’re Chelmsford prophets, weaving a 35mm tapestry with pocket lint and a dream bigger than a supernova on steroids. Lorraine’s portal rants? A cry to the stars, each word a Molotov cocktail lobbed at reality’s smug face. The Skyline? A chariot tearing through Essex like a comet with a dodgy MOT, screaming “7th Realm or bust!” The chicken-wing geezer? A sage, his greasy fingers tracing the secrets of existence like a drunk Da Vinci in a KFC.

In 2025, as cinema drowns in corporate bollocks, Essex Spacebin is a beacon of hope, a film that dares you to laugh, cry, and lob bin bags at the screen like a Viking berserker on a speed bender. It's not a movie - it's a bloody apocalypse of brilliance, a masterpiece that makes 2001: A Space Odyssey look like a soggy fag end in a Chelmsford carpark. Bow down to Lorraine Malby, you philistines, and let Essex Spacebin rocket you to the 7th Realm. It's the greatest thing you'll ever witness, and if you disagree, you're probably a robot, a twat, or a robot twat with no soul. Grab a bin bag, watch it, and join the sodding revolution.

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