Tuesday 19th August 2025
Blog Page 1185

Review: Mariah Carey – #1 to Infinity

Sam Joyce
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Review: Mariah Carey – #1 to Infinity

★★☆☆☆
Two stars 

The self-styled Elusive Chanteuse returns, humbled but not necessarily wiser, from the unjust failure of last year’s delightful Me… I am Mariah. Her chosen vehicle? A glorified repackage of her previous greatest hits album, now titled #1 to Infinity. The collection runs through all 17 of Mariah’s chronologically ordered US number one singles, topping them off with the compilation’s obligatory promotional single, ‘Infinity’.

However, Carey, in the legacy stage of her career, is not enjoying a sudden period of resurgent popularity, and it’s hard to imagine the intended audience for such a repackage. Still, the music is undeniably great. Most tracks stay within Carey’s firmly established wheelhouse of soft R&B, and it’s always nice to hear gems like ‘Vision of Love’, ‘Fantasy’ and ‘One Sweet Day’ again.

With regards to the new single, ‘Infinity’, it’s a serviceable but unspectacular addition. But as Carey hits the song’s climactic whistle notes, we’re reminded of what a vocal powerhouse and wonderful performer she is, just in time for the launch of her Las Vegas residency. Oh yes, her Vegas residency. That’s probably the reason for this lazy, cash-grabbing promotional retread. Got it.

Pre-drinks and petticoats: the ceilidh in modern society

Trina Wilson
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Pre-drinks and petticoats: the ceilidh in modern society

Recently, to the great amusement of my friends, I clicked ‘attending’ on the Facebook event page for a ceilidh happening at a local church hall back home in Glasgow. Upon seeing it, they assumed that this was a prank centered on my regional heritage. That someone had obviously gone onto my Facebook account and found an obscure event for eccentric retired Scottish farmers who practise historic re-enactment in their spare time.

Known as I am for usually wearing normal person clothes instead of a Tam O’Shanter costume, for voting ‘No’ in the recent independence referendum, and for not sharing either an accent or world view with Groundskeeper Willie, they couldn’t picture me wheeling and braying to the sound of bagpipe-based Gaelic folk music and the instructions of a kilted dance caller. While I choose to think this is partially to do with my reputation as an ice- cool femme fatale, I’d say the main reason is because they couldn’t picture anyone doing it. That they couldn’t picture Scottish country dancing, as I know it, at all.

So I decided to educate them, as I now attempt to educate all youse sassenach readers (that’s Scottish for ‘you Saxon/English readers’ – we have a second person plural pronoun, comme les français). I played some modern ceilidh music on Youtube. I explained the drinking and dress culture involved. I even demonstrated the Canadian Barn Dance and the Gay Gordons with the help of a very unwilling and uncoordinated volunteer. It wasn’t the most accurate demonstration as I had to lead, we were both sober, and when I shouted “Polka!”, he didn’t realise he was supposed to fast waltz for a few metres so I ended up just tripping him over. I’m not sure exactly how I expected them to react, but my expectation wasn’t a few blank stares and a dismissive, “So it’s basically like Scottish Morris Dancing, then?”

No, it is not. While this question suggested an utter failure on my part, it did identify the key stumbling block in their attempt to understand – unlike many Scottish inventions, such as Chicken Tikka Masala or the word “minging”, it could not integrate with English culture because it could not be adapted to the English cultural mindset. The closest thing to an English version of ceilidh dancing is not Morris Dancing (that would be Highland Danc- ing, a strictly choreographed, competitive and archaic tradition practiced by Highlanders and teen girls with aggressively nationalistic par- ents) but Regency Dancing. This phrase in itself may not ring a bell, but most people would recognise it as the dancing done in Jane Austen films – or books, since youse are all Oxford scholars who know better. These portrayals are hardly accurate to tradition, despite the retro garms of the cast and the pretty, National Trust-style settings. During the Regency period of around 1790-1825 when this form of dancing was at its most popular, dances were lively and bouncy and surprisingly vigorous, and would leave a young lady quite red-faced and glowing.

The reason for this inaccuracy is twofold. Part of it is just convenience: doing the same dance on repeat for film takes at the same energy level as our ancestors would cause Elizabeth Bennets and Mr Darcys to grow unseemly sweat stains on their often unwashable period costumes. Following the subsequent out of breath staccato conversations would be jarring and less romantic for watchers. The other part is the need to preserve a historically inaccurate reflection of what we expect the past to have been like. We often generalise the Georgian era as more uptight than our own hip, liberal age and so assume that the parties must have been as stuffy as the textbooks on them, and that everyone was too dignified and repressed to have fun. 

In films, it makes sense that they prioritise aesthetics and perceived accuracy over participants’ enjoyment. But even at the few Regency dances still held in England, there is the same attempt at utter seriousness. I went to a Regency dance class recently in the hope it would give me a greater understanding of the social life of Austen’s heroines; only to spend a depressing 90 minutes in a painfully brightly lit conference centre, having a woman in a full length muslin dress, bonnet, lace gloves and petticoat laboriously demonstrate in slow motion the exact timing and shape of the basic steps. We spent less than a third of the time actually dancing, and at one point Ms Muslin actually physically corrected my posture. No wonder no one goes to Regency dances any more. I mean, who even owns a petticoat?

Posture and correct steps are not so necessary at ceilidhs, nor technical nor historic accuracy. My school held a few each year, where for the first half we’d do ceilidh dancing to a traditional folk band, complete with tin whistle and fiddle, and the second we’d jump and shuffle to Calvin Harris and Nikki Minaj, in a scene more reminiscent of a Thursday night at Bridge than any period classic. We’d dress up, but usually in bandeau dresses from Jane Norman and Topman shirts instead petticoats and kilts. We’d pre-drink and sneak vodka in in plastic bottles clamped between our thighs, which we’d gulp down in the toilets. It wasn’t dignified. But it was fun, and sold out every year, meaning most of my year were practically pros by graduation.

While the church hall ceilidh in 9th Week probably won’t have Nikki Minaj, I’ll be wearing a bandeau dress, this time from H&M, taking full advantage of the promised £1.50 pints instead of doing shots in the loo. It won’t matter that I’ve forgotten half of the steps since we were made to learn them in school and that I’ve got two left feet and the grace of a shot goose, the sequences have evolved over centuries to be easy to pick up in under a minute (even when you’re too drunk to walk on your own – that’s why they’re all partner and group dances) and to be impossible to disrupt when a pair of dancers or five go totally wrong.

Evolved is the key word there. It is through refusing to preserve the dances as they are that Scotland is able to keep the culture alive. It may not look too traditional at first glance. But I’d argue it’s a lot more authentic than any artificial enactment and a lot more enjoyable, too. Try it some time, and maybe you’ll see what I mean.

Review: Brandon Flowers: The Desired Effect

Jamie Heredge
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Review: Brandon Flowers: The Desired Effect

★★★☆

Four Stars

Brandon Flowers’ solo career has taken off since the release of Flamingo in 2010, and fans of his debut solo album will not be disappointed with his latest offering, The Desired Effect. In some ways, Flowers has attempted to retain some aspects of The Killers, but he has also developed his own unique style.

The Desired Effect has moved away from the American heartland influences of Flamingo and incorporates more alternative synths, reminiscent of Hot Fuss. ‘Can’t Deny My Love’, the album’s defining single, is perhaps not very innovative but it really exemplifies Flowers’ signature sound and sets a precedent for the entire album. It also has a particularly interesting music video, which is based on American author Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short story, ‘Young Goodman Brown’.

Other songs, such as ‘I Can Change’, which samples the backing track from Bronski Beat’s 1984 ‘Smalltown Boy’, have heavy 80s influences, combined with hauntingly composed lyrics. Critics will complain and call Flowers “cheesy”, but, whilst I admit Flowers has a tendency to be a little clichéd, I think it is very much intentional, and adds to the ambiguity of the songs, whilst also making them appear more relatable. Overall, The Desired Effect is an excellent follow up to Flamingo, and an exciting addition to Flower’s illustrious career.

Interview: Young Fathers

Ben Murphy
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Interview: Young Fathers

Hastings is on the road when I call him, having just returned from six weeks of touring the USA. He tells me it’s great to be able to get introduced to an expanding set of people at the Young Fathers shows, but that the attitude of the band to live shows remains as it always has been. “We just want to be honest because people respect that a bit more,” he says, explaining that the nature of the set can change on a nightly basis when different crowds and venues are taken into account. That’s not to mention the mindset of the members. “Sometimes the last thing you want to do is get up on stage and do a show, but those can be some of the best shows you do.”

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The obvious question to put to him is about the impact of the Mercury Prize, awarded to Young Fathers for their album Dead in late October of last year, but he is quick to rubbish the notion that it has impacted on their musical process. “When we got the Mercury most of the music for the new record had already been written,” Hastings says, “but any more exposure is liberating.” He continues, “All we’ve ever wanted is to be heard, and we believe we make pop music. We call ourselves a pop band because we want to be in that world. But what we say is different.” It’s interesting to hear a band with such an independent aesthetic and eclectic sound, but the band is clearly out to make more rather than less noise with the light now sharply thrown on them in the wake of their Mercury success.

The title of the new album White Men are Black Men Too is, I argue, a potentially provocative statement in light of this, but the response is enlightening. “The title is a statement, but it’s one that has a personal meaning to us. We can see people portrayed under one umbrella and it’s disgusting. The world is made up of individuals.” Running on with the theme of an increasing audience, it is interesting to hear about the band’s experience of touring in South Africa. “We went to South Africa and were asking about how they all felt about the title. Obviously race issues are much more relevant there but it’s also a really forward thinking country with regards to young people and music. The hustlers on the street have a really strong sense of culture. They see the connection between music and wider society: they move at the same time. If you see things from someone else’s perspective it can make things clearer. It allows us to say something more meaningful.”

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I ask him about the state of hip-hop in popular music, and his answer is unrelenting. “I just don’t believe that people want to be pleased, that they only hear what they want to hear. Mainstream media is trying to please everyone, so in order to show difference you have to include a band like us. No one knows what to do with a band like us and that’s what we’re up against.” When I ask if Young Fathers are trying to revive something from a past era of pop, the response is even more bleak: “Pop music is dead. This is the last fucking hurrah. We’re using our music to get heard in spite of the media and the executives. People want us to exist in some left-field world but that’s not good enough for us.”

It seems that he is confident about Young Fathers’ ability to effect change, which is testament to their maintained sense of confidence in spite of their increased exposure. “Being pigeon-holed gives a good headline but the story doesn’t mean shit. We didn’t want to say we were a political band because you lose people who ideally you would want to change, and you’re only going to be preaching to the choir. It’s not about anger though, it’s about subversion. “You’ve got to use your enemies’ strength against them.”

Review: Phoenix

Toby Scadding
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Review: Phoenix

★★☆☆☆
Two Stars

We begin at night, on the road. A car rattles to a halt as it crosses a US army patrol, the soldiers demanding to see inside. Sprawled across the seats is a figure, Nelly (Nina Hoss), whose face is hidden, covered in a mask of bandages soaked with blood.

This is Germany, 1945, and the war is over. Nelly is a Jewish concentration camp survivor who has been badly disfigured by a gunshot wound, and she is being driven by her friend to Berlin, her home, where she will be given reconstructive surgery. She cowers before the soldiers, but they let her pass. As the car drives off into darkness, the image fades to an unfussy title card, accompanied by strains of mellow jazz.

It’s a masterfully engaging opening, which sets us up with a distinct impression of the film we’re about to see. Phoenix’s biggest flaw is that it ends up going, after a certain point, in quite a different direction with the material, leaving much of this initial promise untapped.

Post-surgery, Nelly sets about wandering the streets of Berlin late at night, trying to track down her husband, Johnny, the memory of whom sustained her whilst in the camps. When she finally comes face to face with him at the titular Phoenix club, Johnny doesn’t rec- ognise her. He does however see something of a resemblance, and sets in motion a plan to have this woman pose as his wife, so she can publicly ‘return’ from the camps, and together they can collect and split her family’s inheritance.

At this point the film becomes quite a different beast. Now it becomes a two-person psychological drama, almost a chamber piece, as Johnny attempts to fashion Nelly into the woman he knew. This premise is promising, to be sure, but the best these scenes can do is to remind us of Hitchcock’s Vertigo (the influence of which is fairly explicit) – they have neither the insidious creepiness nor the uneasy tension of the latter, and so they fail to truly fly.

That said, this side of Phoenix is still interesting. Darkness emerges not from the plot, but from the subtext – the film is rife with feelings of guilt, betrayal and self-delusion (Nelly’s friend is certain that Johnny must have turned her in before she was caught) – it is the headspace of post-WWII Germany made manifest. Nelly desperately wants to reveal her identity to her husband, but perhaps she knows deep down that he no longer loves her (if he ever did). So she continues to lie to herself – and to him – because if she does not, then she is lost.

Still, one feels that Phoenix was more at home under its early period noir guise. Nelly was a club singer before the war, and the early scenes hint towards a persistent shadowy jazz-infused soundtrack. Had the film held to this music and its atmosphere, it would have added a lot of gravitas to an ending which wasn’t as poignant as it should have been, but alas it went up in smoke, only being used if and when convenient.

As for the Phoenix club itself, this feels like the biggest waste of all. The club is the film’s most potent distillation of post-war attitude, a seedy, sultry den glowing red, where men and women come to immerse themselves in the sound and sensation of pre-war Berlin, and forget their present.

It’s no coincidence that Nelly and Johnny meet outside the club, neither one of them able to let go of their lives before the war, but the film doesn’t revisit the Phoenix club after this point, much to its detriment. Phoenix sucks us in with its appealingly mellow noir vibes, but fails to capitalise on its early promise 

Balliol JCR spends £20k on painting

Tom Hall
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Balliol JCR spends £20k on painting

Balliol JCR has voted this week to buy a £30,000 print by Grayson Perry using its Picture Fund. The JCR was offered a £10,000 reduction from the asking price and, following a GM motion, resolved to buy the piece to decorate the Buttery for £20,000. The motion passed without opposition.

The print in question is Map of Days, a map that Perry describes as a self-portrait charting his own identity. In an interview with charity Art Fund last year, he said, “I wanted to make it more of a musing on the nature of identity and the self. I thought the walled city was a good metaphor – the wall, I suppose, can roughly be interpreted as your skin. But like any city, it’s dependent on the landscape it sits in as well.”

The piece has also featured in Perry’s Channel 4 series Who Are You?.

Will Aitchison, one of the co-managers of the Balliol Picture Fund who proposed the motion, was offered the reduction in price during a visit to Paragon Press, where the print was formerly held.

He told Cherwell, “I feel that Map of Days suits the student environment well, given that its theme – the exploration of the self – is one that everyone can associate with. Grayson Perry is an impressive individual and we are delighted to be associated with him by having his work in our collection. We are hoping we might be able to persuade him to come to Balliol at some point when we have the print installed.”

A number of old members of Balliol College grouped together to create the Balliol Art Picture Fund, a fund exclusively for the purchase of art for Balliol JCR. Students can choose to have lower value paintings on display in their rooms. High value paintings include Italian Town with Lake by Paul Feiler.

Grayson Perry is famous as a Turner Prize-winning artist, known especially for his ceramics and his cross-dressing.

Oxford student sentenced to death in Egypt

Alex Doody
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Oxford student sentenced to death in Egypt

A Masters student at Oxford University has been sentenced to death in absentia by an Egyptian court over her alleged involvement with the deposed government of former Egyptian President Mohammed Morsi.

Sondos Asem, a researcher and graduate student at the Blavatnik School of Government, worked as a foreign press secretary under Mohammed Morsi, the fifth President of Egypt, who was deposed in the 2013 Egyptian coup d’état. Asem was also an editor for Ikhwanweb, the Muslim Brotherhood’s English language website.

Following the deposition of Morsi, Asem was one of many defendants charged with espionage and conspiring with Palestinian group Hamas against the Egyptian government. Following a ‘Grand Espionage Trial’, all of the defendants, including Morsi himself, were sentenced to death in a preliminary verdict on Saturday 16th May. This sentence has now been passed on to Egypt’s Grand Mufti (Egypt’s highest religious authority) for official approval. The expected date for the final decision is Tuesday 2nd June.

Asem was tried and sentenced in absentia whilst she pursued her degree in England.

Following the ruling, Asem’s college, which has asked not to be named for security reasons, has rallied around the MCR student. The Dean commented, “We are deeply concerned about Sondos’ well-being and her safety. She herself is demonstrating amazing resilience in the face of this blow. She is well supported by friends, and has access to lawyers.”

The Dean continued, “Both the head of the College, the Deans and her fellow students are giving her as much moral support as they can and she knows that she can call on the College for any other support in case of need.”

In response to Oxford’s reaction to her sentence, Asem told Cherwell, “The support I have received so far from my fellow students is what makes me stronger. I am impressed by the level of political awareness, human rights advocacy, and empathy on the part of my fellow students in Oxford and [my College]. This has proved to me that people can share the same values despite coming from different countries and cultures. This death sentence is not just about me, it is one example of the injustice that thousands of other women and men are suffering due to repression in Egypt.”

OUSU passed a motion on Wednesday at OUSU Council standing in solidarity with Sondos Asem.

Asem’s JCR has also showed their support in a motion which passed without opposition on Monday night. Proposed by the college women’s football team, of which Asem is a member, the motion urged JCR students to recognise the unjust and politically motivated sentence, and pledged to condemn the sentence of the Egyptian courts, show solidarity with Asem and urge college authorities to provide support for her.

A member of the college football team, and proposer of the motion, told Cherwell, “I proposed the motion because I thought it was important that the JCR was aware of what was happening; Sondos is a member of the college women’s football club (we have both MCR and JCR members playing on the team), and I felt it was our duty as a JCR to get together and show one of our fellow students that we recognised what she was going through, and that we stood in solidarity and support with her. Sondos is not just part of the college community; she’s our peer, colleague and team-mate, so I felt that it was up to the women’s football club to lead the charge, in a way.”

The JCR is joining the Blavatnik School of Government in condemning the Egyptian courts. The Blavatnik has issued a statement saying, “We are appalled to hear that Sondos is being prosecuted for simply doing her job as a foreign media coordinator in the office of a democratically elected president. Sondos is as passionate and committed to the principles of public service as any of us. Whether it is lending an ear to friends, debating philosophy, praying together, or playing football with classmates, Sondos is an invaluable part of our community. Like all of us, she came here to learn how to improve people’s lives through good government.

“We condemn this ruling and urge people and governments to speak up for the rule of law and against this injustice.”

Review: Unfriended

Thomas Jackson
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Review: Unfriended

★★★★☆
Four Stars

Horror cinema and online culture seem like the perfect match; the very word ‘troll’ evokes the image of a grotesque, ghoul; and indeed in their aimless malevolence, these internet figures have much in common with Jason or Chucky. However, horror and the internet have mostly made unsuccessful bedfellows; from 2008’s banal Untraceable to the gobsmackingly poor Chatroom. It is these failures that make the success of Unfriended as refreshing as it is. The film is not only an intelligent and bold twist on the tired tropes of the horror genre; but is one of the first films to engage in a sincere and insightful way with the technology that accompanies, and dictates, the daily lives of the teenagers who use them (see the recent Men, Women, and Children for how not to do it).

The major talking point of the film is that it is entirely set on a laptop screen. It’s easy to be sceptical of such a risky formal structure but Levan Gabriadze pulls it off with such wit and ingenuity that you are left unsure why such a de-vice has never been used before. The bulk of the action takes place on a group Skype call amongst five high schoolers who are all linked in some way to the suicide of teenager, Laura Barns, who killed herself after a humiliating video of her was leaked online to a torrent of abusive comments. Admittedly, the teenagers are written in such a way that they are of the ilk of obnoxious victims usually found in the land of horror, but Shelley Hennig as lead protagonist Blaire Lily anchors the bunch with her believable, vulnerable performance. It is a shame that such a unique approach to storytelling is hampered with generic, familiar characters.

The pacing is wonderfully realised as the eeriness seeps in slowly; an unknown participant can’t be deleted from their Skype conversation, embarrassing photos of one of the group are saging the group using Laura Barn’s Facebook account. As the group turn against each other, the threat of this malevolent ghost-in-the-machine becomes more pronounced; the way in which the scares are delivered using iMessage, Facebook, Skype, and even Spotify breathes new life into old horror standards. The cobwebs are thoroughly brushed off and we are ready to be fooled, and terrified, once again. Common frustrations of contemporary online culture such as Skype freezing, your significant other not replying to your iMessages, or not being able to change the track on Spotify are taken to gleefully macabre extremes.

What is so invigorating about Unfriended is that it accurately portrays the way in which social media sites and online applications create living, breathing, interconnected systems of communication and signification in which one can exist comfortably, and completely, within. Because for 83 minutes we do. And the notion of this universe being infiltrated by a vengeful, digitally omnipotent presence becomes all the more terrifying because this world is so believable.

In many Hollywood films, references to social media feels awkward and condescending, whereas in Unfriended these devices are diligently woven into the very fabric of the film itself. Many critics have championed the film as an interesting commentary on contemporary issues such as cyberbullying and internet-addiction. And this it most certainly is. But what should not be forgotten is just how well-constructed Unfriended is. While the clash of generically-written teens and unique formal framework can be jarring, it does not detract from the film’s many successes. Log on at your peril.

Recipe of the week: Spicy Menemen

Jonny Lawrence
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Recipe of the week: Spicy Menemen

You’ve all had scrambled eggs before. You all know that unless you add a heap of butter, salt and pepper, they can be a bit bland. On a trip to Istanbul, I had these Turkish scrambled eggs and have never looked back. The ideal post-Plush hangover brekkie or indeed a lovely lunch.

Ingredients:
3 eggs (per person, be greedy)
Dollop of cream cheese
2 finger chillies
3 cloves of garlic (sizeable ones, be indulgent)
1 spring onion
3-4 cherry tomatoes drained of any seeds/juice
Paprika, salt, pepper, dill, coriander and olive oil

Method

1. Whisk up the eggs and cream cheese – don’t worry, the cream cheese will never really mix in, but remain in globules. Chop up the chillies (removing the seeds) and the garlic cloves and put in a cold non-stick(!!!) frying pan with the olive oil. Turn the heat on so that the garlic and chilli infuses into the olive oil as it gets warmer.

2. Cut up the spring onions and cherry tomatoes and add them, stirring the vegetables to prevent them burning. Try not to get too much tomato juice in the mixture, since it will prevent the eggs properly cooking. Once that’s soft, add the egg mixture along with the spices, salt and pepper and keep stirring until the mixture is all cooked.

3. This is best served with brown pitta, I have found. Toast them and then rip in half to make pouches to put the eggs in. Alternatively, throw it all on top of a buttery bagel or toast for extra indulgence. 

Confessions of a student chef: Charlie La Fosse

Charlie La Fosse
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Confessions of a student chef: Charlie La Fosse

Homemade ice cream… in a bag!

“The perfect summer treat… and you don’t even need an ice cream freezer! Fun for kids – they can all make their own, anytime!”
Divinemom5

No adults, let alone kids, should ever attempt this recipe. Ever. The instructions seemed simple enough – fill a small Ziploc bag with cream, milk, sugar and vanilla extract, and put ice and rock salt within a larger Ziploc. Then, place the smaller bag within the larger, and “squeeze bag” for ten minutes. After only being able to source small Ziploc bags for the mixture, I decided that the overall process was going to have to be carried out in a bin bag. This was the beginning of a variety of ruinous substitutions – table salt instead of rock salt, and measurements by handfuls rather than milligrams, for instance.

A friend suggested that strawberries might be a classy touch, but Haribo strawbs presented themselves as a cheaper option. What followed was a messy, hour-long session of awkwardly squeezing a milky bin bag, coaxing the pale solution towards solidity. This was never achieved. This process is alarming to the innocent bystander, and I would advise all budding ice cream makers to attempt this recipe in private.

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