David Lynch is one of the most important filmmakers of our time. In fact, he is not merely a fraction, but the very transformation, of what Hollywood represents. As a complete and total artist, Lynch is an accomplished painter, musician, sculptor and even a lamp-designer; trades which are all aspects of his ever-expanding universe and constitute a unique influence over his film-making. Indeed, we have Lynch to thank for the introduction of surrealism and abstraction to contemporary cinema. And here is why.

First and foremost, Lynch undeniably represents the darkest side of Hollywood –not just in style, but also in content. While his unique combination of the satirical, macabre, comedic and purely horrific make the greats of Hitchcock, Tarantino and Kubrick seem tame in comparison - indeed, his conceptualisations of the grotesque and the beautiful can only be defined as “Lynchian” – he is noted for his portrayal of the damnation of stardom. As homage to influential director Billy Wilder (who epitomised the horrors of Hollwood in film noir and silent flicks, albeit being a non-surrealist), Lynch has depicted parallels of Sunset Boulevard (1950) with his own Mulholland Drive (1996) and Inland Empire (2006). Notably, both are named after Los Angeles locations, but most importantly they both explore the most hollowing secrets that Hollywood has to offer. Indeed, how can one not appreciate a film that reveals the truth Hollywood tries so fervently to conceal?

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtzSSG8X9e0]

The mastery of surrealism is another aspect of cinema that Lynch stands alone in his mastery: while all directors risk straying too far into their imaginations, Lynch successfully manages to convey the power of the intangible in a manner that only a true student of Bunuel could achieve. He knows how to draw the line between abstraction and idiocy (something I wish more contemporary directors were capable of). In fact, Mulholland Drive is my favourite of his for this very reason: in his trademark style of sarcastic austerity, he compiles a sequence of events that are perfectly logical despite their inexplicable connections, leading the audience to experience a sensation that can almost be described as metaphysical. It feels as though he is hinting at a darker, universal truth that we can all inherently experience but none can explain. Indeed, it has baffled critics for well over a decade and spurned multiple interpretations that all seem viable, yet none of them truly hit the spot. He has concealed his secret well, and left us thirsty to understand what he was hinting at. A great man indeed.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrC3Bf-CvHU]

Critics have also revelled Lynch for his unique visual style and musical expressions; signature trades which developed during his formative years as a painter and amateur musician. In fact, Lynch only discovered film when experimenting with short animations of his own drawings; micro-productions which attracted the attention and investment of actor and director Mel Gibson. It was only thanks to this encounter that Lynch acquired the funding to produce his first feature film, the cult-classic Eraserhead (1977). It is undeniable that his passion for the grotesque transcends from the canvas to cinema screen, as shown by his use of obscure lighting, metamorphoses of shapes, translucent shadows and absurd satire – aspects which can all be rooted in his first animation, Six Men Getting Sick Six Times (1966) and beyond to his college-year paintings. Surely, we will never forget the monstrous lipstick mania and inexplicable fairy godmothers of Wild At Heart (1999) or the silent gasmasks of Blue Valentine (1986). Indeed, Lynch’s iconic visual style – the fundamental vessel for his creativity – has ultimately redefined the notion of Arthouse film.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oK-2_OsBe0s]

Quite simply, nobody is making films like David Lynch, nor can anyone even manage anything similar to what Lynch can produce. The intricacy of his characters and the eerie logic of his plotlines are his signature; a signature nobody can forge. The witty dialogues and sporadic insanity are paralleled, or even successfully mirrored, by no other (although perhaps Paul Thomas Anderson comes close…)

Do check out his music too, it’s interesting!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3SpG7C4vHZQ]

It’s a concept that has managed to leak into almost every element of contemporary society.  Whether in music, literature, fashion or art, more and more people look to make their own mark, searching for a way to imprint their own stamp of originality and authenticity on almost every facet of our post-modern culture.  And it’s only natural, at least in some part.  At the end of the day we’re human and our desire to be individuals and express that individuality in a new and creative way is surely a part of human instinct.

 What got me thinking about this concept of individuality however, was something quite specific, namely the once new phenomenon, now worldwide craze, of the ‘selfie.’  I couldn’t help but notice, as I browsed online or scrolled through social media, the increasing number of attempts made by people to stand out, to be different, to create an identity that stands in contrast to the vast majority of the population.  It’s a trend which has completely taken off as a result of the easiness with which we can alter and ‘improve’ our image in order to create something that we view as truly individual. The point is, as soon as we caption something with the infamous ‘#selfie’ we conform to one of the most non-individualist movements out there, yet we do it all under the pretext that our attempt to portray such an image is perfectly unique.  The same applies however to most aspects of today’s culture. When we look at how art, fashion and literature have progressed, we see only imitations of original concepts, the repetition of ideas.  It raises the question can anyone, or anything for that matter, be truly individual, or is everything merely a recycled product of a preconceived idea?

Let’s take the music industry for example.  We only need to look at the tracks that top the charts time and time again to see that most of them seem to merely echo features of the ones that have gone before. The same idea applies to our attempt to express our individuality through the powerful medium of fashion.  Once upon a time it was authentic and original to dress in a ‘hipster’ fashion or adapt a more ‘vintage’ look.  We all like our ‘look’ to be somewhat expressive of our personalities and undoubtedly what we choose to wear contributes to others’ perception of our inner character.  However, we can no longer say that ‘hipster’ is unique or that vintage clothing is quirky and original, because as soon as something finds itself placed under a clear definition it immediately loses any of its individuality; it becomes, like everything else, a common trend, something which is simply recycled from a previous era. The truth is, we can only be as individual as all the other individuals trying to be individual!

This idea of reworking ideas and not ever really possessing true individuality is not a new concept.  We only need to examine the patterns of literature through the years to witness the evolution of plots, characters and themes in order to communicate the same ideas in what the author hopes will be their own original way.  Mexican author, Carlos Fuentes, when describing what inspired him to write his famous novel ‘Aura’, said that his work was merely a representation of the work of previous authors who had gone before him.  He wrote ‘…this is the great advantage of time; the so-called author ceases to be such, he becomes an invisible agent for him who signed the book, published it and collected (and goes on collecting) the royalties. But the book was written, it always was, it always is-by others.’  What Fuentes quite rightly points out is that although we may think we are expressing our individuality and introducing a new and unprecedented concept, it is in fact  merely a reworking of an idea that has gone before; an idea that was once truly original.  I’m not saying this is something negative.  In fact, as Fuentes suggests, it may even be advantageous. It’s perfectly natural that ideas will evolve and be communicated in different ways with the passage of time.

 Consequently, such a belief produces an almost domino-like effect on our ability to think and process ideas of our own.  Can there ever be such a thing as independent choice?  Can we ever really say that our ideas are original?  Referring back to Fuentes, he once stated that ‘ ‘Originality’ is the sickness of a modernity that wishes to see itself as something new, always new, in order continually to witness its own birth.  In so doing, originality is that fashionable illusion which only speaks to death.’  Yet surely such an opinion of one’s ability to be truly original is somewhat pessimistic?  It seems a rather bleak, albeit inevitable, concept to think that none of us can ever really be our own, authentic personalities or express original ideas without merely echoing those of a previous someone.

As human beings, most of our behaviour is conformist and that’s natural.  We are a society and cannot function unless we all conform to some kind of social norm.  We constantly recycle ideas in every area of culture, yet surely the way in which we interpret those ideas and rework them to express ourselves is what gives us any sense of individuality.  One author might merely be imitating the concepts initiated by one before him, yet the way in which he communicates those ideas is his own stamp of uniqueness.  An artist may paint his masterpiece taking his inspiration from an already completed creation, but he will do it in his own way, making it breathe his own individuality.  Carlos Fuentes’ idea of originality is clear- it doesn’t exist.  I beg to differ.  Surely we can, although perhaps in a very small way, use our own interpretations and personal judgements to create something original from something which is perhaps not so original.  To use Fuentes’ idea of originality, we could of course question whether or not this very article is in any way original. I have expressed ideas which have, without doubt, been expressed time and time again.  I have quoted directly from already published sources and I have drawn from the ideas of others which have no doubt influenced my opinion.  Yet I hope that I have done so in a somewhat original way, in a way that makes my work unique from others that may be similar. So does it possess any individuality?  I will leave it to you to judge in your own individual way.

 Julie-Anne Maxwell

During his most recent appearance on his phone-in radio programme, the Deputy Prime Minister was challenged to eat a bacon sandwich tidily in order to best Ed Miliband. He proceeded to take a bite and all of it went in his mouth, which is either a success or welcome proof that the Deputy Prime Minister can eat properly, depending on which way you look at it. Given that his political career appears to be going the way of this poor table in a Georgian TV debate. I’m sure Mr Clegg its hoping we see it as the former. While I doubt the dear readers of this blog or the British public at large are ready to accept his political credentials as being restored on the basis of biting into a sandwich, - although we do seem happy to overlook Nigel Farage’s questionable expenses because he likes a pint - I do hope he himself takes some enjoyment from it. Because when the big picture looks as bleak as a long stay in hospital, sometimes it’s best just to focus on the joy the tea trolley brings. 

During exam term, and particularly at the time when exams are truly upon us, everything seems to become swept to the side. The only way of keeping time is the countdown until the next exam. Stress levels keep people pinned to their desks either in rooms or libraries, whilst possibly trapping them in paralysing inactivity. Meals with friends, sports activities, TV shows, and sometimes even tea breaks are traded in for a few more minutes of bookishness in an effort to claw a way to a better grade. But how much do we lose by being swamped in the big picture of exams and results, by missing out on the little pleasures? I reckon it’s quite a lot. 


I’m sure we’ve all read, or been verbally fed, exam stress advice like this offered by the BBC. And believe me, as somebody who has a birthday that falls during exam term, people greatly appreciate it if you make the effort to include a few drinks one evening in your hefty revision schedule. But this says nothing about the sweet five minutes you could take to glance out of your window, or the break you could take to enjoy a popular snack named after a furry/cute/much-videoed animal. Besides the science that suggests having a five minute break every half an our is beneficial to the brain, finding pleasure in small little things we do away from work helps to keep moral up and make life a little more bearable. If we begin to see life as a series of 'little moments,' rather than the ‘pathway’ to our targets and goals that so many self help authors clamour to point out, then we can feel less deprived of what we want to “get” and where we have to “be”, and become more fulfilled. In essence, forget about seeing the wood through the trees, and find a pretty leaf instead. If you feel like you’re enjoying your day more because you’re taking some time to yourself, then that motivation is far more likely to feed back into your work.    


The day that I post this you will be able to find me in Cambridge. As a result of persuasive (Blake) friends, wine with dinner and tactical ignorance of my bank account, I’m flying back for the weekend on a flight I booked yesterday. In the big picture world, I’m doing something far too spontaneous, and paying more money for it. I should be using my time to explore more of Austria, practising more of my German and getting more of my Year Abroad Project done (see: started). I have goals that I should be focused on, and distractions are a no-no. But on the other hand my friends are finishing their exams, I’ve been promised a party and the whole time is going to be hilarious. So after writing a whole blog post to justify my actions I’m pretty sure I am the winner here. I’ll just need a good bacon sandwich to top it all off. 

Alex Matthews

Jess: I think that restaurants have become too important.

Marie: Oh I agree… restaurants are to people in the ‘80s what theatre was to people in the 60s. I read that in a magazine.

Jess: I wrote that […] I also wrote, “Pesto is the quiche of the 80s.”

My epigraph comes from Rob Reiner’s 1989 When Harry Met Sally - best known as the film which forever ruined all ‘what’s the greatest movie ever?’ discussions - and perfectly exemplifies the kind of banal, epochal chatter which makes that film such a hypergeneric masterpiece. I will premise this ‘essay’ on the kind of broad cultural statement which can only arise from a misspent childhood or an utterly unjustifiable self-confidence: people eat more on English-language television now than at any other time in the medium’s history. I refer to all televised consumption: ‘Cheers’ or ‘Central Perk’-type foci of orality around which modern sitcom plots inevitably resolve; the increasing profusion of reality shows featuring supremely wealthy individuals spinning from social showdown to social showdown across a range of luxurious restaurants and bars - think Made in Chelsea and Real Housewives; and particularly I’m referring to the increasing profusion of ‘food reality shows’ across the daytime TV universe. It was not always like this. Just watch the sitcoms of the ‘70s from both sides of the Atlantic, or the light comedy shows of the ‘50s, or the American crime dramas of the ‘80s: people used to be able to have conversations on television in a living room or a park. Now, though, a televised conversation uninterrupted by the slurp of a frappucino or the guzzling of a green salad is a genuine rarity. There is a cynical - Marxist, perhaps, but at least Culturally Materialist - reading of this change in televisual practise which blames the shift in programme structure on canny product placement. Personally, I’d happily place an uninformed bet that, if one examined the diaries of the average teenager now and the average teenager of 1970, one would find a far greater social-meetings-with-coffee to social-meetings-without-coffee ratio in the modern case. Have we been the duped victims of major corporations who use television to make us believe that conversation without food is a social nonsense, thereby funding their own mega-chains? Perhaps, partially. But I suspect there is more to it than this functional non-analysis would suggest.

Having dinner with my ex’s family introduced to me a cultural phenomenon which I found, and still find, simultaneously oddly discomforting and almost utterly inexplicable. As dinner was cooking, or as the takeaway approached, her family would sit at their dinner table watching (on a notably large-screened TV) Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s River Cottage. As if watching pornography before sex, the entire family would settle down and watch the master at work. Salivating hungrily, with curiously little comment, we would watch Hugh skinning a salmon, Hugh gutting a trout, Hugh slicing a courgette and then, before the show had come to its logical conclusion of Hugh filling his face, the television would be turned off. Finally, with me apparently the only unnerved participant at the feast, we would commence the inevitably anti-climactic process of actually eating. It was a ritual which seemed thoroughly to hollow out the oral ritual of nourishment. Cooking along to a cooking show, or even taking recipe notes along the way, had always seemed to me just about comprehensible: with the chef (or contestant) we approach the climax of orality through a process which is illusorily educative - but then we get to the culinary crux, the foody fundament of eating the meal which you have just seen cooked. However, removing this objective appeared to me almost inhumane:  why were we watching this bloody ‘real food’ show before a non-organic Chinese takeaway? Let us consider too the cooking competition show more generally which, often under the Masterchef franchise, is such a popular means of procrastination at Cambridge. In this case, students watch the show without even the intention (or budgetary means) of recreating the meal they are watching cooked. Even the tokenistic post-show meal which had justified my ex’s family’s enthusiasm is removed and one is simply left watching a crowd of semi-literates having a cook off.  Is it the competition which excites them? Surely nothing so banal could occupy us. Nor, I believe, is it the gastronomy which, without any eating or cooking, is surely a hollow hobby. Given the lack of the pretence to or means of eating a comparable meal to that on the show in almost all cases, are we here onto some hint towards a theory of televisual orality?

People watch culture shows in an armchair, arms folded, silently accepting their BBC 4, soft-shoe education. When not enjoined in the cultural ritual of footy -and-pint, people will also happily watch TV sport without any accompanying snack. Not so with the ‘real food’ show, the Masterchef, or even the sitcom which hops from restaurant to café to bar to kitchen and back again. If you are not hungry whilst watching these shows, then you are at least being induced to hunger. If you do not watch with cheeky kit-kat and casual curry at the ready, then you will probably fancy one just afterwards. The complex origins behind the social and personal anxieties which are, both consciously and unconsciously, associated with orality require more attention than I can here give them - D.H. Lawrence, Freud and Bakhtin are probably good places to start if you’re interested - but they go far beyond the kind of body image problems which are given more than ample attention in the national press. Watching a reality show where the ‘characters’ bounce from meal to meal (an analysis of eating to non-eating time ratios in The Real Housewives of New York might productively demonstrate the kind of life-style such shows encourage) and yet maintain a socially desirable figure both justifies and gestures towards our own cultural obsession with orality, and yet perpetuates a fantasy which combines endless eating and postponed or negated weight gain. Gradually one’s interest in the show has shifted: the ego may affect an interest in the evermore flimsily constructed ‘plot’ but, for the id, the interest is all in the feeding. The oral ritual expands in significance until it eventually envelops the intellectual pretence. Who really gives a monkeys if Ramona’s a bitch so long as she’s stuffing some steak in between those pinched little lips? So what if Spencer has cheated again if we can only watch these beautiful people eating these beautiful foods for just a little while longer?

Of course, this is going somewhere and where this is going is an extended panegyric to the greatest show on television: Man v. Food, Adam Richman’s sublime tribute to direct television.  At the opening of every episode - each one a perfect ritualistic celebration of pure orality - our host (‘guru’ if you will) declares, with that frankness and honesty which is the necessary fruit of the self-justified belief in a good cause: ‘I'm Adam Richman. For years I was one man on a quest to discover the country's greatest chowdown joints and take on its legendary food challenges. Now it's your turn. Together we'll find the most delicious local eats and face down the mightiest meals. This is... Man v. Food Nation.’ For 21 minutes an utterly, literally, engrossed audience watch with co-mingled delight and horror as Richman takes on a series of exquisitely immense masses of food, each one apparently drenched in entire paddling pools worth of barbecue sauce. This is honest television. Gone is the pseudo-plot, the agonized quasi-characterization, the crack-competition: here is man and food, orifice and substance, food as semi-sexual demi-God. Celebrity chef Alton Brown has written of Richman’s masterpiece: "That show is about gluttony, and gluttony is wrong. It's wasteful. Think about people that are starving to death and think about that show. I think it's an embarrassment." Brown, the creator of the sickeningly self-righteous Good Eats is scared of Richman and rightly so. The message Man v. Food declares again and again with the repetition compulsion of the righteously indignant (and the hungry) is that shows like Good Eats are a precious hypocrisy: stop pretending you care about gastronomy, Richman declares, and start showing your audience a brash, bearded, chubby American stuffing his face. As television programming streamlines its social function from plot to symbol, here is narrative reduced to its increasingly predictable conclusion: ultimate televisual orality.


By Anthony Lazarus

As any of my friends or housemates will tell you, having been recently subjected to endless caterwauling from me as I attempt to recreate her sultry, soulful tones, I have a new love. Actually it isn't really a new love at all, but a recent discovery of the recordings of her 2011 performance at the Royal Albert Hall has rekindled my adoration, whilst providing a handy backing track to revision, relaxation, and just life more generally. I am of course talking about the utter goddess that is Adele. Yes, I know such a proclamation is not exactly original, and just about everyone has already seen this show, but I am not intending to demonstrate any kind of serious musical insight, or to make pretences at coolness. Rather, I want to share with you the reasons why I'm convinced Adele is the cleverest of all of us, as well as putting the whole show in one handy place for you. So sit back, enjoy, and fall in love along with me. 

Class with a touch of sass
Adele shows effortlessly that pretentious conversation does not an interesting woman make. Instead. she is just her fucking self, and that self is fabulous. She flips from soothing songstress to foul-mouthed femme in 30 seconds flat. Watch: 

She's a Dolly Parton fan!
And no one who loves Dolly Parton can be bad. And I also find the way she asks if the audience is alright incredibly comforting. I'm weird, I know, but that's exam-term soothing right there. Just shut out the revision and pretend she's talking to you. 

She's known heartbreak and she sure knows how to sing about it
Knowing that even someone as gorgeous and fabulous as her (I wasn't kidding, I really do adore her) gets kicked in the teeth too makes me feel less awful about my own life, and it should hopefully offer you some solace too! 

'Not enough time has gone by since he was a fucking prick to me, so I will chat shit about him until I'm blue in the face.' 
Pure poetry... 

She's known the struggles of the common man
I can sympathise, Adele, the Tesco checkout woman doesn't know who I am either... 

For all that she badmouths people, she knows how to forgive and how to apologise
And that's a very valuable lesson in grace, which even the best of us could do with a reminder of from time to time. 

If you've made it this far, I do hope you'll forgive me for being such an over-indulgent fan. I also hope you now see why I love her to bits. Anyone up for a singalong? 

Miriam Goode

I have a confession to make. I am a Eurosceptic. No, I am not some Farage fanatic who believes that the socio-economic benefits of independence from Europe would render Britain a stronger and more prosperous nation (perhaps another article?), rather, the purported conjunction of razzmatazz and glitter that is Eurovision is one I tend to steer well clear from. This is for good reason. I have lost many friends to Eurovision. Once clear, level-headed young individuals with a fine future in Banking or equivalent have spiralled into an abyss of leopard-skin-stricken turmoil, off of the rails and into a sea of overbearing eye-liner. Like a fly into the Venus trap, they’re left ecstatically wriggling in the jaws of strobe lighting, while the rest of us look on with a pitiful shake of the head. Tonight, however, I will take the plunge into this world. Quite who will emerge from the other side, we shall find out…

19:58-The National Lottery. The ‘camp’ has already begun as Dale Winton’s effeminately dulcet tones provide just an enticing taste of what will ensue. As my family all take a moment to reflect on his recent weight gain, I sit with Budweiser in hand, laptop on desk, seatbelt securely fastened. I’m ready…

20.00-Apparently there’s strobe lighting. Who would have thought it?

20.02-Informed that Molly, the UK entrant, is the final contestant to perform. There goes any hope of clocking off early...

20.05-Now we meet our three presenters for the evening. The man with the slicked-back hair looks like the lovechild of Leonardo DiCaprio and Remus Lupin.

20.07-Voting via text and the Eurovision app is not available to British viewers. Is this some sort of European hint? According to this Morning’s ‘Today’ programme, votes from the recently annexed Crimea will count as Ukrainian, meaning they can vote for Russia! Apparently Eurovision is a calendar highlight in the Kremlin.

20.13-Here we go then! First song of the evening, and it is Ukraine that has the honour. The introductory video involves the construction of a flag perilously close to a railway line.

20.14-Why, oh why, is there a man in a hamster wheel? I had a hamster once. She died.

20:18-The entry from Belarus has a nice reggae feel to it. The band consists of five young gentlemen with spikey hair, like a sort of annoying ‘One Direction’, if you can imagine such a thing.

20:21-Azerbaijan’s entrants certainly know how to live on the edge, featuring a woman hanging from a trapeze while her ‘friend’ (perhaps in need of reassessment) advocates the starting of a fire

20:25-Iceland have a Member of Parliament on stage. Does this mean Eric Pickles will be making his Eurovision debut in the British entry? Or perhaps we should give Michael Gove a go on that trapeze and see how he gets on. Certainly has the potential to be wildly irritating. Verdict? My mum’s clapping. Infer as you will.

20:29-Judging by the Norway entrant’s eyes he’s either blazed or suffering from some exceedingly severe jetlag after flying in all the way from Norway.

20:30-I didn’t know Norway was so liberal a country, allowing escaped convicts to represent them

20:34-Romania. In case you didn’t catch that first time, “it’s a miracle”. I hear that, brother.

20:36-Key change!!! No doubt a flurry of people across the country see away their drinks, alcoholic or otherwise

20:37-The Armenian entry entitled “Not Alone” has a flavour of self-help meets positive visualisation to it. Reminiscent of a Rudimental track.

20:41-The singer from Montenegro appears to be speaking in some sort of gibberish. How inconsiderate.

20:45-Poland. Music? Or soft-core porn?

20:46-I’m being unfair. If you look really closely, you can actually make out some clothes.

20:49-The opening of Greece’s entry is reminiscent of Chopin’s Funeral March. This is perhaps appropriate considering the song’s title, “Rise up to the sky”. The song is likely a profound look at eschatological dilemmas, the rise and fall of the man on the trampoline representing the great irony of the philosopher’s quest to ascend to the intelligible realm, despite one’s ascension relying first on earthly sensibles.

20:53-Austria. Probably the best song yet with a James Bond-esque brass scream at the end. More importantly, what a beard. So plump and well-groomed. I could definitely grow one like that. Definitely. No problem. I just choose not to, that’s all. Anyway, on with Deutschland…

20:56-Apparently Germany ‘buy’ their way in to the Finals. The singer, donning a sort of wedding dress with a floral, leather jacket would certainly not look out of place in the English Faculty library

21:00-We’ve reached the one-hour mark as well-groomed spectacled man is back alongside recently-left-at-the-altar woman to have a look at the highest note in Eurovision history. Definitely an opportunity for a loo break…

21:04-On with Sweden. Clearly their song introduction was a bit last minute but that’s okay. The singer is ensnared in a sort of prison of beaming light. “Definitely top 5” is mum’s verdict. Only time will tell…

21:08-The French tell the story of a man who has everything but can’t grow a moustache. Certainly a facial hair theme running through the show tonight. Would probably make quite awkward viewing for anyone with facial hair insecurities. Surely deserved of the win solely for the mohican that would arouse even Jedward (I presume they arouse in tandem?)

21:12-Russia. This…is…bizarre. They’re hair is literally attached. Fortunately, the twins have saved it by wearing exactly the same thing, which is never weird.

21:16-Italy’s entrant is trying to rally the audience into some sort of clapping frenzy. They’re not really catching on, quite frankly. Perhaps should have put a little bit more thought into the camera angles considering the length of that dress…

21:20-Slovenia. Love a bit of flute to mix things up. Although, she rather looks as though singing is causing her a not so insignificant amount of pain.

21:21-Seriously, she’s in agony. Someone should probably check if she’s okay.

21:22-Oop, the flute’s back. Now she’s just sort of holding it, like a staff, Moses-style.

21:23-Finland-Entitled “Something better”. Let’s hope so.

21:24-That silver suit is to DIE for. There are an awful lot of lights. Thank goodness for the strobe warning.

21:28-Ruth Lorenzo, former X Factor contestant, takes to the stage for Spain. Poor girl is soaking wet! Surprisingly stationary for a song entitled “Dancing in the Rain”. Perhaps another deep irony; full of them tonight. This feisty matador is my favourite of the night.

21:31-Switzerland’s song has a slight folk feel to it. Verdict? They should definitely stick to chocolate. Speaking of which…

21:35-The young man representing Hungary tells us that ‘she’ (presumably denoting some rather desirable young woman) keeps on “running, running, running” away from him. One hardly need wonder why.

21:39-Malta. Why won’t he stop staring at me? Why me? Stare at someone else! Actually it’s…it’s kind of hypnotic…yes Malta…I’ll vote for you…you can have all the votes…

21:43-Denmark-A cliché love song. No, that’s the title. Token afro man in the background is loving it.

21:45-A thought has occurred. How does one go about auditioning for Eurovision? Perhaps the Blake Society should put forward an entrant…

21:47-Lisa the presenter is back trying to fill for a delay on the stage. She strikes me as about as natural as the flavourings in a packet of Percy Pigs

21:49-The Netherlands. Cheeky little guitar solo, although I can’t tell if he’s playing his guitar or grinding it. Who knows what this quirky little love-ballad is about!

21:52-The woman representing San Marino has represented her country for the last three years, never making to the final. Evidently failing to get the message, she is back and has this year reached the final! I have to admit the first minute of her performance was spent looking up exactly where San Marino is; I was struggling to find it in the middle of France. The Heart of the Ocean hangs boldly around her neck. Christ, she’d have sunk straight to the bottom. Give it an hour…

21:55—GREAT BRITAIN!!!-“Children of the Universe”. The moment we have all been waiting for. The thumping percussion jumps through the screen and reverberates around the room. Dressed like Pharaoh in a golden dress with black, high sandals, perhaps she will reign supreme… (I really am sorry)

21:59-That’s it! Let the voting, block or otherwise, begin! And as if that wasn’t enough, apparently the songs are all available to download online!

22:00-Before all this excitement gets too much, I’m going to bed.

I must admit, I did not have high hopes for my first Eurovision viewing, but I actually rather enjoyed myself. Conchita Wurst is a much deserved winner, it’s just a shame Molly wasn’t so well-received. All in all, when not taken too seriously, the contest certainly provides a thoroughly entertaining evening! Eurovision, I’m sold.

 

 

Street art in the UK is mostly referred to as graffiti, which does not exactly have positive connotations and tends to evoke images of “youths in hoods” (yes I am aware that I sound like a disgruntled grandmother) with spray cans defacing buildings, trains and walls. Graffiti is illegal in the UK, along with the selling of spray-cans to under-16s and is punishable by fines and even imprisonment depending on the scale of the damage caused. 

However, graffiti can also be considered a form of art: the name Banksy automatically brings to mind the anonymous artist known for his UK-based paintings, and his works are considered far from offensive or antisocial. Known for his contempt of the word vandalism, used by the government to describe graffiti, his works are satirical and bold, intended to capture the public’s attention.

I am currently living in Chile (yes, I’m sorry, I know it’s exam term and the words Year Abroad – synonymous with sunshine and slacking – are far from welcome) and it has led me to wonder if our UK laws are too strict: the only possibility for legal graffiti is on designated free-walls, and our attitudes seem extremely traditional – surprise surprise, it is the UK after all! Here in Chile graffiti is legal as long as the artist has the permission of the owner of any given property, and it has led to one of the most colourful and interesting cities in the country: Valparaíso. 

The city is famous for its brightly coloured houses and beautiful street art, and whilst there is the occasional scribble in spray-paint, the presence of so much beautiful art seems to deter people from mindless defacement, and encourages creativity. What is more, after meeting some locals on a free walking tour it was apparent that they are proud of their colourful walls.

In the capital, Santiago de Chile, wherever there is street-art it adds to the beauty of the city, and distracts from the otherwise often grey and dull apartment blocks. 

So let’s stop all of this negativity towards graffiti, and start treating it as street-art! After all, when it is employed creatively, shouldn't it be considered as part of our democratic freedom of expression?

Ellie Jeffrey

So in the spirit of end-of-term, dissertation-what-dissertation delight, the other day I went to the Arts Picturehouse just outside Downing and saw Wes Anderson’s ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’. The trailer itself is just brilliant, and the film lives up to that, an ornate and thrilling story-within-a-story-within-a-story which unravels against the mountainous backdrop of the imaginary former Republic of Zubrowska, and its premier (and very pink) Hotel, the Grand Budapest. 

I don’t want to spoil it for you, though. It’s not the story I want to talk about (go and see it!) - it’s all that pink. The Grand Budapest Hotel is one of Wes Anderson’s most visually stunning films, in an ouvre packed with them. My particular favourite image is there on the film poster - a doll’s-house version of the hotel, resembling confectionery in its incredible, multiple-tiered pinkness, all topped off with a big, arched sign giving its name. Set against the backdrop of dramatic mountains (complete with stag), it’s a mirage, surreal and brilliant - and it’s the work of graphic designer Annie Atkins, who created the poster, alongside every single graphic prop in the entire film. 

This is a text-heavy film. There are signs, newspapers, death certificates, police reports, an entire box of letters making up a last will and testament - and hundreds of pink confectionery boxes, each bearing the legend ‘Mendl’s’, and according to Atkins the most coveted set steal for cast and crew. The boxes echo the pink of the hotel itself, another surreal, sugary interjection into a film which sets itself against the rumblings of war. One of the final scenes, in which ‘ZZ’ military personell have overrun the hotel, is particularly striking; the protagonists pose as Mendl’s delivery drivers in order to get inside, and the audience is treated to the sight of a black-armbanded ‘ZZ’ officer staring at a pile of cake boxes, his mouth smeared with pastel icing. The 'ZZ' font on the banners outside even becomes pink-tinted; evidently, even this fascist organisation is not immune to the powers of luxury and excess, which both Mendl's and the Grand Budapest come to represent. 

Another wonderful moment (soon to be occupying the Pinterests, Tumblrs, and bedroom walls of everyone ever) is a point at which two major characters have just fallen from a ledge and come to a major realisation - landing in the back of the Mendl's delivery van, amid box after box of cake. 

The fantasy perpetuated by both the hotel and the confectioner's is presented as unsustainable from the beginning, one of the two framing devices showing the Grand Budapest in its faded state under communist rule; and yet it is just this fleeting instability which makes the entire mirage so successful, the pastel colours heightened, one imagines, by the storyteller's nostalgia. 

It's a wonderful film, the touches of tragicomedy just catching all that pink before it topples over into schmaltz - go and see it!

What’s even more upsetting is that apparently a lot of gals are getting showered with flowers today, as reward for possessing a womb. In Italy, the guys all go out gifting yellow mimosas to the surrounding ladies, and in France it’s violets and lilies-of-the-valley which dominate the day. I like violets…and mimosas and lilies, now that I come to think of it. Also, did you know…‘mimosa’ translates to Buck’s Fizz in Italian, so don’t worry, chaps; if you haven’t got any mimosa’s lying around, some Buck’s Fizz will do me just fine!

In all seriousness, today is a vital commemoration of the struggles of women worldwide; historical and in the present day. We might not have days off, or flowers here, but we do have far more freedom and equality than a lot of women around the world, so please spare a thought for those less fortunate and, if you have the time, maybe do a little something to support them…

http://policy-practice.oxfam.org.uk/our-work/gender-justice/international-womens-day?intcmp=hp_318_hych3_iwd_2014-03-07



Miriam Goode

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a talk by Saskia Sassen, who is a ‘big cheese’ on topics like globalisation and global cities, and generally well known for questioning current notions on economic geography whilst pushing for new perspectives. For her newest book, ‘Expulsions’, she argues that we need a new language and conceptual framework surrounding development and growth, and seriously questions the acceptance that increased inequality is an inevitable result of it. Here, she shows the potential for never accepting the ‘system’ as the right, or indeed only way – our economy is a social construct, therefore can be socially 'deconstructed' and rebuilt. 

There is always potential to look at things from a different perspective, and looking at cases that lie beyond the ‘systemic edges’, is a good way to approach this. Reminding ourselves that the current discourse on economic growth doesn’t, in fact, apply to every scenario, reminds us of its incompleteness, and the need to develop new categories of thought to challenge the dominant channel. Here, she provides a useful analogy of a streetlamp: the ‘light’ of the lamp might be powerful, but it is important to ask yourself what it might be keeping you from seeing. What lies in the shadows?

‘Shadow’ case studies are useful in questioning the system, but what can we do to build alternate discourses? Here, Saskia questions the middle class’ potential to ‘make’ the social, as they have become passive consumers in their relatively comfortable lives. The elite will, of course, always have power in shaping social norms and thought, but what about those at the ‘bottom’? Having to fight for their place in society makes them well equipped for creating alternative narratives, Saskia argues, and their revolutionary potential makes spaces like slums anything but powerless, as they are often seen to be (summed up well in this short trailer of a film on 'Revolutionary Optimists'). 

So, let’s take this notion of ‘bottom up’ change and apply it to something else (because this is getting a bit economics-heavy for a Blake blog, isn't it?). What about art? As part of my dissertation research on the identity formation of young Muslim girls in London, I was lucky enough to speak to Sadiya Ahmed, the founder of a new and exciting project called Everyday Muslim. This project is a celebration and development of heritage amongst Muslims living in East London, which is currently largely unrecognised despite a large Muslim population living in the area. 

Sadiya and her colleagues are working with local museums to put together exhibitions on the topic, but what I find most interesting is their efforts to change what people think of heritage. They argue it is important for people to realise that objects don’t have to be in a museum or gallery to be part of a community’s history or identity, and indeed it is the everyday objects all around us that are most important. To get people to recognise this, Sadiya argues, is to get them to realise that their heritage is everywhere, and that they can take pride in and interact with it regardless of its presence in more ‘traditional’ spaces. 

An example of their work is to work with the E17 art trail (which I wrote about in my first blog post!) this summer, focussing on the interior design of Islamic houses in the area, and also running sessions where people bring a small item like a photograph or ornament that they feel represents who they are. 

I enjoy this idea of questioning traditional concepts of ‘art’ or ‘history’, and working with communities that may suffer exclusion and discrimination to build alternative narratives. Art should be seen as something that is everywhere, that we can relate to and interact with, not just something we stare at in galleries whilst desperately thinking of something ‘intellectual’ to say. To conclude, then, let’s all try and be a bit more difficult – that is to say, let’s stop passively accepting things as they are, or what we can see in the ‘light’. If things don’t seem quite right, let’s question them, and always push to see what exactly lies in the ‘shadows’. Bit of a grand ending, but perhaps a point worth making!