Expect a message of hopeless addiction and a song that’ll make you hate or celebrate this 'Vape Nation'.

There are many things to be thankful in this beautiful world – a woman baring her pearly teeth as she rubs her sex nest against your rod, for one, a fiery diamond ring worn on a pinky finger, for another – but nothing comes close, I will argue, to the films of Nick Pollet and Vaughan Blakey.

Together, Nick and Vaughan have collaborated on Postcards from Morgs – a film on the one-time world title contender Morgan Cibilic prior to his catastrophic failure to re-qualify for the tour and the explosively popular Free Scrubber whereupon Tom Curren is revealed to have a personality worth close examination.

If that wasn’t enough to establish the pair as the greatest double-act in surf filmmaking since HooleMcCoy, it was the dollys-with-cocks animation The Greatest Surf Movie in the Universe that demonstrated their breathtaking range.

Complying to its usual form, the always-on-the-wrong-side-of-history NY Times, noted for downplaying atrocities against Jews in World War II and its denial of the Holodomor Famine in the Ukraine, slammed the Pollet-Blakey classic.

The climax of the movie features the dolls, many of them with faces smeared with brown goo, fighting each other with sex toys. After this, it looks as if a longer segment of surfing is in store. One’s relief then is palpable. But brief. The doll nonsense soon resumes, and then, mercifully, come the end credits.

Today, we see the release of DUNNO, a showcase of Rip Curl’s teeny riders, which is a thrill itself, but it’s the use of the vaping anthem, Juice Stick that will forever be on joyous recall.

In an interview the band, Purple Disturbance, described the song thus: “It’s about underage vaping, and the viral craving that our generation has gained, no matter how many times vapes are banned people will source their way into getting them. Expect a message of hopeless addiction and a song that’ll make you hate or celebrate this ‘Vape nation’.”

No word yet from the Times.

Essential.

A masterpiece woven from chaos.

Rage 5, the latest surf flick from Toby Cregan and co’s Rage brand, is an unpolished middle finger to the glossy surf cinema that’s been clogging our screens.

Directed by Cregan, part-owner of the anarchic surf accessories outfit born from a hungover epiphany in a Japanese bar, this film is less a movie and more a primal scream—a raw, skillful chaos that knows the rules of filmmaking but delights in torching them. It’s a love letter to the renegades of the surf world, and I’m here for it.

The film’s beating heart is the duo of Noa Deane and Creed McTaggart, two surfers whose brilliance feels like a cosmic accident. Deane, with his feral grace, attacks waves like a poet with a switchblade, carving lines that are equal parts precision and madness.

McTaggart, meanwhile, is a wiry alchemist, transforming mundane swells into kinetic art with a devil-may-care smirk. Their synergy is electric, a reminder that surfing, at its core, is about rebellion and joy.

Then there’s Wade Goodall, the ageless wizard who defies time with a quiver of tricks that feel plucked from a future dimension. His airs are audacious, his turns ferocious, yet there’s a zen-like ease to his style that makes you forget he’s been at this for decades. Goodall’s presence grounds Rage 5, a living testament to the idea that true skill never fades—it just gets weirder.

The women steal their share of the spotlight, and thank God for it. Holly Wawn, with her power carves, is a force of nature, slicing through waves with a ferocity that’s both elegant and savage. Her turns are like thunderclaps, each one a statement of intent.

Jaleesa Vincent, meanwhile, is the film’s wild card, a big-wave warrior whose near-blinding injury—an eye nearly carved out in a brutal wipeout—only amplifies her fearless aura. Vincent surfs like she’s staring down death itself, and it’s impossible to look away.

Kai McKenzie, Rage’s gutsiest team rider, is the film’s emotional spine. In July 2024, a Great White took his leg off Port Macquarie, a brutal twist that could’ve ended his story. Rage 5 captures McKenzie before and after—first as a shredder whose fearless, fluid style rivaled Deane’s, tearing through waves with a grin.

Then, impossibly, as a one-legged survivor, back in the water, surfing with a different but undimmed fire. His leg washed ashore, was iced, and ferried for reattachment hopes that didn’t pan out. Yet McKenzie’s humor—posting “Spot something missing?” on social media—shows a spirit unbroken.

Cregan’s filmmaking is the glue that holds this anarchic symphony together. The edits are jagged, the angles unconventional, yet every frame pulses with intent. It captures the messy vitality of Rage’s origin story—a brand built by four mates over eight years, scraping by as the “cockroaches of the surf industry”. The result is a film that feels alive, unfiltered, and unconcerned with pleasing the mainstream.

If you’re chasing drone porn or cookie-cutter surf narratives, scuttle back to your Red Bull reels. But if you hunger for surfing with grit and soul, this is your gospel.

Toby Cregan and his gang have woven a masterpiece from chaos and craft. The film’s genius lies in its alchemy: raw, unfiltered energy spliced with moments of high-definition brilliance, where polished visuals punctuate the grime.

It’s this dance between rough and refined, elevated by Cregan’s thoughtful framing and daring angles, that makes every shot sing.