★★★★★
Five stars

Across a beautiful vista, we’re invited to stare upon the wonder of the Swiss Alps. We watch expectantly as clouds idle by across the gleaming peaks. Gradually, they begin to coalesce into a new form, winding, snaking into a stream that runs through the crests of the mountains. It’s majestic. And then it dissipates, its wispy matter dispersing into new, unknowable forms. This is the Maloja Snake, a beautiful geographical phenomena, and the central metaphor of the Clouds of Sils Maria. The film is about the nature of time, expectation and uncertainty, expressed beautifully in the Maloja Snake, a brief moment where humans can ascribe meaning and definition to a ceaseless natural process.

The cycle of life colour the film from the off. Following the death of one of her former directors, Juliette Binoche’s french film star, Maria Enders, is asked to consider preforming in a revival of the play, also titled the Maloja Snake, which ignited her career decades ago. But now, rather than playing the hopeful, conniving ingenue, she will play the older woman who is driven to suicide by her charms. Taking the job, she retreats to an alpine house with her personal assistant, played by Kristen Stewart in tow, so as to begin rehearsal. And so the stage is set for seduction – that of ingenue and elder, servant and master, performer and audience, art and critic.

The relationship of these two woman becomes the film’s driving force. Binoche and Stewart spar magnificently, living, breathing and responding on screen. It’s no surprise that Stewart won France’s prestigious Caesar Award for her role – the first american actor to ever do so. Their beguiling performances are aided by Olivier Assayas’ deft screenplay and direction. He begins new scenes mid rehearsal, leaving us unsure as to where the characters begin and their performers end, whether what is being expressed belongs to actor or character. It seems to be a little of both. Assays’ obsessive interest in these women, and indeed the project’s genesis with Binoche as his muse, never make for an uncomfortable or leering film. His interests are cerebral, and the women’s relationship is intelligent and intellectual, a fascination of the mind rather than the body.

Of course the film operates on a meta level too, with Binoche essentially starring as herself – the queen of European cinema – whilst Stewart is granted the opportunity to defend the blockbusters that Binoche’s famous young costar regularly appears in. And Chloe Grace Moretz plays supporting as a wild child tabloid starlet looking for a credible role. A debate between two styles of acting emerges. Is Binoche’s character’s more theatrical, trained method outmoded by her Moretz’s charachter’s emotive, untamed style? Her assistant seems to think so, and so Ender’s need for admiration turns to jealousy. It’s a debate that Stewart’s presence provokes too, with her unique ability to experience authentic emotion on screen. The actors lose themselves in the roles, but at the same time Assayas slyly evokes their public personas. It’s a testament to the skill of all involved that the narrative remains entirely compelling. The film merges all boundaries of character and actor, and invites us to wonder at the alchemy of performance itself.

Can Enders truly stop herself from becoming out of touch? Or is this inevitable, even as in many ways she sees herself as still believing in and identifying with the ingenue’s youthful spirit. Assayas toys with these ideas of expectation and constriction, playing the vastness of the story’s surroundings against the claustrophobia of the intimate interior scenes. He evokes theatrical staging in the way the characters arrange themselves in public spaces – hotel lobbies, restaurants and parties – and in the formal compositions which place his human cast before backdrops of colossal rock formations, constraining both inside a rigid aspect ratio.

The narrative also concerns itself with the nature of modern fame, examining celebrity and their lives-as-performance that play out in gossip magazines, televisions and all manner of pocket sized devices. As Binoche examines her costars’ various mugshots in the pixellated glow of her iPad, we see someone entirely different from the shrewd, cultured young woman who later arrives on the cinema screen. Though the film’s third act loses a little momentum, and hits the occasional false note (jarring only for their complete absence to that point), it’s easily, instantly forgiven. Assayas has crafted a dense, cerebral, engrossing film.

Long after it ends, Clouds of Sils Maria will twist, turn and writhe around in the mind, taking new forms, and revealing new wonders. It’s a film as sublime as the clouds and mountains from which it takes its name.

The ‘Save Subfusc’ Campaign paid off and our ancient tradition is here to stay. You can continue to don your impressive costume to sit your exams in beautiful surroundings, and perhaps the fuss of pinning that fiddly carnation to your lapel might even distract you from the three hours looming ahead.

1. ‘Back To Black’ – Amy Winehouse

For a terrifying moment, you thought subfusc might be gone, but no, Oxford has gone back to black.

2. ‘Goldfinger’ – Shirley Bassey

Don’t act like you haven’t pretended you were James Bond while wearing subfusc.

3. ‘Suit and Tie’ – Justin Timberlake

“As long as I got my suit and (bow)tie”.

4. ‘Carnation’ – Oasis

Oasis might see carnations as depressing, but you’ll love red carnations for the rest of your life.

5. ‘Feeling Good’ – Nina Simone

This song sums up exactly how you feel in subfusc. The combination of the two can make you invincible.

Cast your minds back to the shadowy depths of 1985. Banks are booming: profits are almost as high as cocaine use in the city. The Smiths are busy touring their latest funeral dirge/album. Dire Straits are playing yet more guitar solos upon solos. In the midst of this quagmire comes forth a collaboration of legendary tour de force. After immense success, Mick Jagger and David Bowie are finally working together on a charity single for Live Aid. Musical publications wait with bated breath as the long hours pass before the track’s release, pens at hand to proclaim the new musical messiah. And then their cover of motown staple ‘Dancing in the Street’ drops. Everyone’s jaws hit the floor.

It could have been a brilliant exploit. After all, these men had penned some of the most successful albums of the 1970s and 80s. But for some reason what we end up being presented with is a cover which lacks any originality. Originally recorded by Martha Reeves and the Vandellas and co-written by Marvin Gaye in 1964, the toe-tapping track not only got people moving on dancefloors but brought people out into the streets in protest, becoming a civil rights anthem. The song is regarded by many as the precursor to disco. Mick Jagger even lifted a line to use in his own protest song, ‘Street Fighting Man’ (1968).

Now, hear me out. I’m not for a second going to pretend that The Holiday is a great piece of cinema – it isn’t – but I can’t deny falling victim to its uncompromising, irrepressible, mushy charm every Christmas when it’s reeled off on loop on ITV2. I suppose it’s what one might call a “guilty pleasure”.

Nancy Meyers is almost single-handedly responsible for bringing feel-good warmth to the world of film over the past 30 years, with such gooey classics as Father of the Bride, The Parent Trap, and Something’s Gotta Give to her name. In The Holiday, it’s more of the same. The world’s most unnaturally good-looking British siblings (Kate Winslet and Jude Law) cross paths with serenely gorgeous Cameron Diaz and – well – Jack Black in a whirlwind “holiday” romance. You certainly can’t argue with the sheer star power going on. There are supporting roles from Rufus Sewell, Edward Burns, and a gratuitous cameo from Dustin Hoffman in a video store. And who could forget then-90-year old Eli Wallach’s uplifting turn as the lonely screenwriter of Hollywood’s Golden Age?

You’ve made it – the days are getting longer, and being free from exams is so close you can almost touch it, so what better way to unwind over your long and productive summer than go on the world’s least hygienic camping trip? That’s right, it’s festival season. So here I am, trying to help you out on choosing the best way to waste around £200 of your student loan.

We’ll start with Reading (28th – 30th August), where you probably lost your festival virginity (and quite possibly your actual virginity too). There’s some decent bands floating about for you to scream along to pretending you’re not far too old to be there. Then again, a lot of the Main Stage just looks like the smaller tents from two years ago (Fidlar, Palma Violets, and Panic! At The Disco). And for those of you being dragged along by mates with a different music taste from you, you can always go see Dope D.O.D. (whoever that is) on the 1Xtra Stage.

Alternatively, you could go to Glastonbury (24th – 28th June), where you’ll still be the wrong age as this will be the first time you’ve seen The Who live. There’s some huge names – Paul Weller, Mary J. Blige, Motörhead – but the burning question is this: can you actually sit through multiple hours of Kanye West tripping off his own ego? Will he play songs or just rant at you that he didn’t win an award? If that tickles your fancy then go for it, I guess.

You could go to Secret Garden Party (23rd – 26th July) and gurn your nut off to bands you’ve never heard of but pretend you love. Or you could not. Your call.

Equally, you could go to Bestival (10th – 13th September) and gurn your nut off to bands you have actually heard of. Again, your call (go for it, your 15 year old self would never forgive you for passing up the chance to see the man himself – Skrillex).

T in the Park (10th -12th July) seem to have just taken acts who are playing everywhere else (The Libertines, The Prodigy, The Wombats, Annie Mac; the list really does go on). So, it’s probably a pretty good call. Then again, you won’t be able to brag to your mates about the really cool act you saw that they’re really jealous of. And actually, that’s the only reason you’re going to a festival anyway, so it’s probably not a good call. I take that back.

The one to go for, then, is the Isle of Wight festival (11th – 14th June). It’s got a little bit of everything. Blur and Fleetwood Mac will sing songs you actually know, you can go crazy to The Prodigy and there’s even a bit of Kodaline for when you need a nap. At the end of the day though, this is all a bit academic anyway as you won’t have a good time anywhere – there’s only one day of British summer and it definitely won’t be while you’re there.

Dashes weave between three distinct lines, topped by a flurry of musical notes. Spindly feet stick out left and right, approaching and distancing themselves from the central line around which they are grouped. On closer inspection the little cross- ings begin to resemble forms and one can make out the traces of figures being described by this seemingly random assortment of shapes.

The question of dance notation is one that has plagued the medium for years. How do you record the exact angle at which an arm should be raised? Or in what way can you make sure that a dancer moves their foot on the fifth beat? The accurate translation of a medium reliant not only on movement but also sound onto flat paper seems an impossibility.

The Beauchamp-Feuillet notation method of the Baroque period traced patterns of steps across the dancefloor, with different lines being assigned to different movements. The Romantic period moved towards stick figure representation of tiny dancers moving across the page in a variety of poses that indicated different turns in combination with the timings and musical notes placed above.