I went up to the Picture House and, along with four other locals, saw THE MAN WHOSE MIND EXPLODED, concerning the last days of a Brighton weirdo who had lost most of his short term memory after surviving two terrible accidents.
In his youth, Draco was a handsome dancer, but according to his sister, not a very likeable person. Losing his marbles turned him into a sort of cracked Zen master. He was living in a really gruesomely squalid flat, with lots of strings hanging from the ceiling, bearing notes to himself, photos from porn mags of unfeasibly endowed young men, and religious pictures. You could practically smell the place, and him. Still, he appeared to be thoroughly content with his lot and insisted he loved every moment of his sordid life. Magic moments included the popeyed terror of a young fridge delivery boy, as the semi-naked, heavily tattooed Draco loomed at him out of the shadowy murk to enquire if he was still a virgin, and Draco's gleeful demonstration of advanced nipple tugging. (He made holes in all his jumpers for quick access, whenever the spirit moved him.) He had a lonely death on the floor, of course, putrefying for several days before he was discovered. He was sincerely loved by his family and friends, though, so there you have it. I have to say it depressed hell out of me, as most films about old age and mortality do. Too near the knuckle. It's worth seeing, anyway.