Garry lives somewhere between the faded seaside town of his birth and a silver screen. Once when he was seven, he enlisted some local neighbourhood kids to mount an archaeological dig in the copse of trees behind his house, convinced he'd unearth the remains of dinosaurs. When his parents and friends told him that all they'd found that day were the bones of long dead cats and foxes, he refused to believe them, insistent that they were dinosaurs he held in his hands. In defiance, he sterilised the bones and carried them with him in a plastic bag for a month before finally giving in and burying them. He still has trouble accepting realities but these days confines this as much as possible to film-making and photography, fascinated by the human capacity for performance and deceit and the places it leads to.