Watching moving pictures has changed for good. Beau Willimon, the man behind the Netflix Original series House of Cards, has been quoted as saying that “television is a word that has lost all meaning”. This is a man who would know, and it is time we took notice of the potential of this new broadcasting landscape.

While old-fashioned television sets are clinging on for the moment, once Netflix completes its transition from niche streaming service to broadcasting behemoth, the whole paradigm of recorded film will be radically different. And for the better. 

Last month, Netflix production The Square, a documentary about Egypt’s Tahrir Square, was placed in the final five nominees for ‘Best Original Documentary Feature’ at the Academy Awards, and earlier this year Netflix’s House of Cards was awarded a Golden Globe. This success is telling for the future. Although media giants such as HBO continue to commission big budget, highly successful serials, other organisations like Netflix, without a base in the proverbial airwaves, are muscling in and demanding to be taken seriously. 

The Los Gatos based brand is redefining how we experience recorded drama. The company began way back in 1997 as an American mailorder version of the dearly departed Blockbuster. Yet, for most, it is the exciting prospect of on-demand movie streaming that marks out Netflix’s move from impressive start-up to fully paid-up members of the tech-glitterati. 

To understand quite how revolutionary Netflix is, we ought to consider the technology it utilises. I’m not simply talking about the graphics or the streaming software but the astonishing scale of personalisation and trendanalysis Netflix offers. Recent research by The Atlantic found that the Netflix website offers over 70,000 different personalised genres of film, highlighting the extent to which the company have created an intimate relationship between broadcaster and viewer.

Disconcerting as this is, I really can’t see a drawback in the fact that Netflix now knows that I enjoy watching ‘understated dramas
from the 1960s’. It’s convenient! 

Moreover, ‘Netflix Originals’ as a concept is a game-changer. The site is able to employ its market-reading technology in order to cater for the desires of its user-base in a way traditional media distributors can’t compete with. Take the revival of cult US comedy Arrested Development. The show, which starred Jason Bateman, Portia de Rossi, and a young Michael Cera to name but three, was originally dropped by Fox after just three seasons back in 2006. But last year Netfllix revived it, much to the delight of its niche, but vocal fanbase.

House of Cards is a show which capitalises upon the public’s interest in political thrillers and a general love for Kevin Spacey, but it is Orange is the New Black which best illustrates Netflix’s potential. A show set in a female-only prison and involving a multitude of LGBTQ characters in thought-provoking storylines is groundbreaking. Credit must go primarily to the show’s creator Jenji Kohan, but this is also a multimillion dollar corporation endorsing positive televisual attempts at articulating progressive ideas about gender.

The question is, would a show like Orange is the New Black ever have been commissioned by a traditional company? I cannot imagine regular broadcast channels backing such a radical concept. This highlights exactly how exciting this altered form of media might be. No longer are we limited to television which is bound by the conventions of being, for example, advert-friendly. These days everything from episodic drama to niche art-house films can be targeted at those who’d appreciate it.

What’s fascinating is that sites like Netflix are making millions, despite the thriving world of pirated television available online, by truly offering audiences what they want. It seems a long time ago that we were panicking about recording that episode of Neighbours over The Simpsons on video. The Internet, with Netflix its vanguard, has changed all of that, and we’re only just catching on.

Sweeney Todd, the fictional barber known for cutting his victims’ throats before having them served up as the main course in the neighbouring pie shop, is a figure drawn from Victorian urban legend, and immortalised in the Penny Dreadfuls of the period. What Stephen Sondheim’s acclaimed 1979 musical brings to the table is a large helping of motive and moral ambiguity, in the form of a tragic backstory involving a corrupt judge, and the rape of Sweeney’s beloved wife.

Vocally, the cast are very strong, and are supported by a talented (and tireless) band and conductor. The revolving set is elegantly conceived, and excellent and resourceful use is made of its multiple levels over the play’s two hour and forty five minute running time.

However, the production takes a while to become truly engaging. It is not until towards the end of the first act, when the play reaches its – ahem – meatier portions that it really gets into its stride. There are nonetheless some stellar performances, most notably Helena Wilson’s scene-stealing turn as Mrs Lovvett, Todd’s partner-in-crime, bringing an animated humour to the role which serves to really drive the play forward. Hannah Bristow is at turns hilarious and heart-wrenching as Tobias Ragg, and Nathan Ellis portrays Anthony Hope with an affectingly awkward and naïve quality appropriate to one of the play’s only indisputably moral characters. Andy Laithwaite’s performance as Sweeney is strong overall, but during his character’s less active moments he has a frustrating tendency to lapse into blankness, with little sense of any darker emotions bubbling underneath. This ultimately reduces the impact of his otherwise excellent performance; his interactions – both dramatic and harmonic – with his various “customers,” and particularly Chris Bland’s Judge Turpin are compelling.

Sweeney Todd’s strengths far outweigh its weaknesses, and, once the interminable first third or so is out of the way, it is incredibly entertaining, constituting a fascinating decline from the darkly humorous to the just plain dark. None of its faults are insurmountable, nor do they hold it back from being ultimately an excellent show.

This week, instead of telling you about some dusty ridden gem (or turd) I have found and bought, I’d like to discuss some of the CDs I’ve given away. Why? A little part of me dies every time I see the Britney Spears: Greatest Hits album lurking there on the shelf of Oxfam. That is, every time I enter the establishment.

Oh, how I regret the foolish decision my fourteen year old self made when culling her records, subjecting the orange, shiny, black hot pants-clad Miss Spears to the ‘out’ pile. She, along with Chris Brown’s Exclusive, were embarrassing. A few years later, my ears begged to hear ‘Toxic’ and I kicked myself. YouTube is so not the same.

But clearly, I was not the only teen to remove her puke-pop from public view. The Sugababes, Ne-Yo and N-Sync always seem to crop up on those dusty bookshelves in the back. They’re emblems of greasy forgotten youths that many of us are keen to forget. But these artists, these pseudo-pop icons, were there for us during that awkward stage, stood by us as our skin turned blotchy, and played in the background as we put our hands on the shoulders of our date at the school disco. So don’t just turn away when Britney pouts at you from the CD rack. Pout back, remember and regret.

Most genres with a description including the word ‘experimental’ can suggest one of two things: impressive innovation or incompatibility. Experimental metal band Sunn O))) (pronounced just as Sun) thankfully belong to the former category. Hailed as rock’s most progressive band, Sunn O))) have been wowing and weirding out audiences with their eclectic combination of sounds since 1998. Their latest album is the product of the band’s 200th concert celebrations in Norway, and collaboration with Norwegian band Ulver (Norwegian for wolves), who are similarly known for progressing from their black metal background with self-styled avant-garde ways.

And so Terrestrials is born, opening in a biblical manner with the track ‘Let there be Light’. The band’s characteristic guitar reverberations and distortion give way to a backing trumpet melody, not out of place in a spaghetti western, and a violin riff appropriate for a Hitchcock film. The careful layering of riffs and harmonies eventually gives way to a symphonic explosion, with a broadly minimalist touch. One would be forgiven for mistaking the distinctive guitar drones of ‘Western Horn’ for those of a tambura and the faint voices actual ghostly screams, resulting in something both hypnotic and eerie. And bringing the album to a close is the most melodic track of them all, ‘Eternal Return’, characterised by its slow progression of piano chords, dramatic synthesiser, and the vocals of Ulver’s Kristoffer Rygg – the tone of which would be envied by Mongolian throat singers. The collaboration between the two groups is at its most fruitful here, where the metal past and the experimental future reach their climax.

The name Terrestrials is perhaps ironic for an album which can sound so other-worldly. Together, the three extended tracks form a magnum opus for the bands, paying homage to both each other and a wide range of genres. The experience of these songs live would bring visuals that introduce a new dimension to this esoteric genre. But the audio alone might bring you closer to that musical Nirvana achieved only after cycles of reinvention.

The first time I listened to Burn Your Fire…, I wasn’t sold. I was rushing about on one of those afternoons where all your deadlines seem to come at once. I thought having something described by NPR as “the musical equivalent of a deep, questioning stare from a lover” would be a calming influence. Instead I quickly became frustrated by how derivative it sounded; a less fiery Liz Phair, a more boring Feist, even a Leonard Cohen rip off.

Despite all this I’d heard good things, so I thought I’d give it a second chance. This time it was an unhurried afternoon, the sun was bright and warm, and the change in the music was stunning.

Sitting back and letting the music wash over me, I kind of understood what Olsen was trying to do. The music is wonderfully languid and content, whilst the words paint a picture of unhappiness that gives an intriguing contrast.

Her voice is a little flat at times, but her writing style is engaging and personal, and she’s got some great lines on here, like ‘High & Wild’s’ “I’m neither innocent or wise when you look me in the eyes/You might as well be blind”.

I still think the album is a little boring though, and as I’ve mentioned you have to be in the right mood to listen to it. But when you are, it really hits the spot.

Paris DJs Guido Minisky and Hervé Carvalho have collected sounds from the Middle East and North Africa and, together with a host of producers, exposed it to the beats of early acid house to create the quintessential Saharan sandstorm with Collections, their debut compilation LP.

After opening in symphonic style, the trademark Berber-esque beats become apparent in danceable drum riffs. In many, the vocals of popular singers, such as Hanaa Ouassim and Omar Souleyman are combined with manipulated melodies originally played on the traditional Arabian instruments and fleeting synthesiser interludes. Other tracks, such as ‘Couronne’ (produced by Professor Genius) reach the heights of plain off-the-wall psyche- delia, culminating in the track produced by Acid Arab themselves: ‘Berberian Wedding’. Finally, some tracks such as ‘Sahra Min Tahab’ purely focus on the integration of Arabic instrumentation and acid house beats.

While it could be said that the more experimental tracks do not sit so easily side by side with those with characteristic loops and drops produced with the dance floor in mind, the album as a whole is unmistakably an oasis of well-executed experimentation of two genres not seen since Chemical Brothers’ Galvanize.

Garage rock duo Royal Blood have done a lot in a year. They formed, made Matt Helders of Arctic Monkeys their number one fan, and became one of 2014’s biggest ones to watch in almost every new year music forecast, after only one single and B-side.

“It’s incredible. It was only a year ago that we were at our regular jobs,” says vocalist and bass player Mike Kerr. “It’s hard to know why people like Royal Blood, but probably for the same reasons we like it. I think that’s the best way to do it really, trust your own taste and hope that others share the same taste.

“I guess we’re unique in that there aren’t many two pieces, but we like to think we make a big noise for the amount of people there are.” And they do. Debut single ‘Out of the Black’ is overdriven, shouty, loud, and totally addictive. “You made a fool out of me,” barks Kerr over frustrated minor riffs, as Benji Talent, drummer, slaps out a competitively rowdy drum line in perfect mirror to the bass. It’s pure, unadulterated rock music.

“There’s definitely something very exciting about where rock music is going at the moment. The trouble for me with being in a rock band is the connotation of some crummy CD you get free with the Daily Mail. We just like to write songs, and do it in a really primitive and aggressive way. And yeah, you can call it rock for now, that’ll do.”

I ask him why he uses the word aggressive. “Obviously I’m not an aggressive person, but there is something about music which I suppose is quite similar to sport. You get this release, and you can almost be someone else.”

Has rock music always been his genre of choice when writing music? “The last five years for me have been about rock. That’s where my heart lies. That, and heavy blues.”

But the passion for music has been ever present. “I originally started off playing piano when I was six, and by the time I was twelve I was obsessed with music. But when you write songs at fifteen, you don’t know who you are, and you don’t really know what music you want to make. I’ve been in a band that sounds like Coldplay and I’ve been in a band that sounds like the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. You find and explore yourself as you grow up and this is what I ended up doing.”

Having grown up with his band mate, Mike sees his and Ben’s friendship as a key to their success. “It’s amazing. It’s like a school trip everyday. It’s never difficult, because we started this band to have fun.

“We started writing songs together a year ago, but I’ve known Ben for years, since I was 15, so this year doesn’t feel as rushed as it does for people who have just discovered us.”

But of course, a lot of those discoverers have arrived since the summer, owing to the powerful free patronage from one of the world’s most famous drummers, Matt Helders. Less than a year after he sported a Royal Blood t-shirt at the Arctic Monkeys headliner Glastonbury set, Mike and Ben will be performing in front of 50,000 of Alex Turner and co’s fans as they support them during their Spring tour. If you can’t wait until then, they’ll be stopping by the Oxford Art Bar on the 26th of February. Be aware though; Mike says, “someone might get hurt.” You’ve been warned.

Marty McFly, the fresh-faced hero of Back to the Future, is the quintessential gawky movie teen. The familiar frustrations of being 17 and in love and pursued across the space-time continuum by Libyan terrorists are adeptly captured by the film’s star actor, Michael J Fox. At the time, he was 29 years old. He does a decent enough job, but other attempts by adult actors to channel the teen zeitgeist are less successful. Speak to anyone who was watching TV in the early 1980s and watch their eyes glaze over as they recall with horror the cheesy mugging of 29-year old Henry Winkler as teen heartthrob ‘Fonzie’ in Happy Days. 

By and large, though, I can overlook the elasticity of these casting decisions. Real resentment only sets in when I watch cringingly inaccurate depictions of the teen experience. I’m sure I am not alone in feeling a deep-seated resentment, bordering on pathological hatred, toward Holden Caulfield.

The snotty teenage brat around whom J.D. Salinger based The Catcher in the Rye is deeply irksome and mind-blowingly self-involved, and I hate him and I wish he was dead. The themes of teenage angst and alienation, which supposedly make the novella such a draw to the young adult audience, only serve to make my skin crawl. Holden Caulfield is supposed to be an icon for teenage rebellion- in reality, he is an icon for pseudo-existential teenage whingeing.

But then I am a snotty teenage brat myself, and would be the first to concede that I am deeply irksome and mind-blowingly self-involved. Occasionally I even dabble in a little pseudo-existentialism. Perhaps the reason I abhor Holden’s constant self-loathing is because it strikes a little too close to home. Adult critics can read the book and glance back with a knowing wince at the petty tribulations and earnest anguish of their teenage years, while my own notebooks full of heartfelt doggerel with titles like “Late-Night Poem To My Future Wife” and “Thoughts For A Girl I Saw On The Train” are a painfully recent memory.

Maybe the problem is not with the adults constructing insufferably self-indulgent teen characters, but with my inability to look past the manifold embarrassments of my own youth and young manhood.

Cuntry Living’s website is emblazoned with the slogan, ‘CUNTS NOT DEAD’ and it was with this in mind that I took my very much alive cunt down to LMH for a cut and stick session which would set the wheels of the Hilary 2014 issue in motion. For those who have not come across it, Cuntry Living is an Oxford-based feminist zine which publishes articles on all aspects of gender and sexuality and opposes all forms of oppression, subjugation and degradation.

The website’s fairly militant assault on all things patriarchal is written entirely in Caps Lock and accompanied by the contact email, ‘[email protected]’. This kind of irreverent campaigning is a far cry from OUSU’s polite calls for change, and conjured up images of a modern-day feminist Baader Meinhof network, operating large-scale clandestine printing outfits from deep within the recesses of the Rad Cam. With this in mind, the fairly genteel surrounds of the LMH Old Library came as some surprise – the frustration expressed in the articles was set against a delightful neo-classical frieze, and the thick plush of the carpet was bouyant to my militant footfall.

The ‘cut and stick’ sessions are a cornerstone of the zine’s history: in order to produce a publication it’s pretty cost-effective to cut up other publications and stick them back together with a different message. Thus Levi’s ‘Let Your Body Do The Talking’ slogan can be pasted ironically next to an article on consent, while Page 3 boobs are slapped onto a chiselled Adonis. The process by which Cuntry Living is created nicely corresponds to its content: by cutting out magazines’ objectifying photos and lazy headlines and transplanting them into a sheet of A4, the reader can see them in a new light – out of context, they seem ridiculous, and  serve as a neat and funny accompaniment to a heavier article.

The lo-fi feeling of chatting about identity politics with a pair of scissors in one hand and a Pritt stick in the other also conjures up a pleasantly grassroots, Instagrammed vision of activism before the internet: it’s what one vaguely imagines university would have been like in the 60s, before change.org could assemble all the causes in one stock petition format and render them all slightly less compelling.

I was welcomed by houmous and discussions on vegetarianism before getting down to some deeply therapeutic cutting and sticking. Three out of four hand movements quickly devolved into an undextrous grab at a nearby bag of Malteasers, but I did manage to decorate an article on the feminist dimension of Girl Scout camp within an hour.

The zine has spawned a Facebook group by the same name which swiftly eclipsed Wadham Feminists as Oxford’s go-to page for feminist-minded debate. As a predominantly passive member of the Facebook group, I’ve come to consider myself a well-intentioned and passionate feminist whose theoretical understanding of issues discussed is less extensive than that of its more vocal members. Debates feel like a fast-paced but enjoyable tutorial, where you’d never have come to the conclusions your tutor is outlining but you try to write them down as quickly as possible so you can use them in the exam. The arguments I skim read as they are drip-fed to me via my newsfeed flag up new considerations to bear in mind when applying feminist thinking to real life, and have provided me with a handful of ideas that are now impossible for me to un-know. I find myself dissecting rather than laughing at jokes that play on gender tropes and stereotypes, for example;  jokes that I previously  accepted without question.

These positive aspects are hindered by Facebook’s inherent drawbacks. You can’t see faces or judge  tone of voice, and the currency of likes creates arbitrary ‘winners’ on every post with a woeful lack of nuance. There is also a conflating of opinion with identity when debating on the relentlessly ‘personalised’ medium of Facebook – your photo and name preface every immortalised comment, meaning that, in Oxford’s tiny bubble, words can alter people’s perception of you, for better or worse.

This fear of silent hordes watching you from their laptops as you misrepresent your understanding of intersectionality may be irrational but it’s still there: you can’t see your audience and they can’t see you. Being challenged by an individual in such an echoingly vast forum can feel as if every one of the 1748 members is against you. You flounder, imagining that your silent audience has branded you less feminist than Robin Thicke eating a sandwich prepared by Pussy Riot under duress. Posting can be rewarding but also opens you up to the unappealing binary of ‘likes’ versus a fairly nerve-wracking and potentially time-consuming public exchange.

So the zine can be read but is not interactive, while the Facebook group is interactive and enriching but in a very Facebook kind of way. The humble cut and stick session, therefore, gets rounds these problems by actually letting you meet people face to face and talk about things you think, or are unsure about, in a genuinely pleasant environment. CUNTING AND STICKING ARENT DEAD.