(Sonali Campion)

(Shaun Thein)

(Shaun Thein)

(Michelle Tan)

(Lauri Saksa)

Chaos as his concubine, what we witness on tonight’s stage is the Word made flesh. The poetical prophet has made his entrance, and he doesn’t need a microphone. “Are you nervous?” he asks as he steps under the spotlight. Well, we should be: Oxford doesn’t know what it’s in for. In a simple grey shirt and beat-up trainers, Saul Williams takes us from the streets of Detroit to Blakian ecstasies, transmogrifying the stuffy surrounds of the Grove Auditorium into an altar of dirty angels heralding a new poetry of which Allen Ginsberg would be proud.

Hailing from Newburgh, New York, it was whilst studying for his Master’s Degree at NYU that Williams first encountered the New York café poetry circuit where he quickly gained popularity, winning the title of Nuyorican Poets Cafe’s Grand Slam Champion in 1996, spring-boarding him to fame. A polymath professor of the University of Life, Williams is more than a mere fountain of Genericanisms and has a lot more to debate than identity politics.

With frankness and ease Williams opens the floor to questions, leaning in past the first row and into the crowd. Rather telling about our audience was a question about when things go wrong, a worry that plagues the minds of most here given the exigences of the University. When asked how he dealt with this, it was refreshing to hear a light mockery of this mentality, stating that there was no need to worry about error, and that it isn’t a “glitch in the Matrix”. The audience received an equal teasing for spelling mistakes in the email to his booking agent. So much for the OED.

To say that you have “seen” or “watched” Williams would be an inadequate choice of verb, as there is nothing passive about the encounter. Perhaps there is something of the preacher in the prophet: I wear my loin cloth over my eyes and ejaculate too soon. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. There is an unashamed nakedness to him, in his frank responses and in the nature of his poems. From the moment Williams takes to the stage, you enter a relationship with him. Together we bear witness to the young, skin-bleaching Black Stacey, then slide to engage with the older, smoother, lithe morning love-making thighs […] parentheses, holding silence and light.

When asked about his creative process, Williams said that writing for him was “like dancing”, an unconscious process – a fact that resonates in the liquid lucidity of the imagery of his poems, taking the spectator from inner space to outer space in one fell swoop: “we unravel our navels that we may ingest the sun” (Coded Language). Williams’s presence is all-encompassing and his poetry seizes all the senses with its velveteen depth and electric contentiousness. We were kept happy under the hypnotism of his tongue all evening – only to have to be told to leave and somehow shake ourselves from the blissful haze.

A great success for the Oxford Poetry Society with more speakers to come later in the term, I can’t wait for their next event.

This year, you will find a variety of films in the Best Motion Picture category, where the pretentious (Black Swan) battles it out with the playful (Toy Story 3), and frustrated lesbian parents (The Kids Are All Right) come up against desperate mountaineers (127 Hours). On the whole, however, a relatively small number of films dominate the spread of categories.

The King’s Speech comes to mind with its 12 nominations and all sorts of smear campaigns about King George VI and his actual likeability are circulating across the media as the envious attempt to knock the British film industry’s pride and joy off its throne.

Following close behind it with 10 nominations is the Coen brothers’ Western remake, True Grit, whose 15 year-old actress Hailee Stanfeld has been nominated for Best Performance by an Actress in a Supporting Role. When such a young actor or actress receives a nomination in such a hotly contested category, alongside more seasoned performers such as Amy Adams and Melissa Leo who are both nominated for The Fighter, one can never help but wonder if the judges are just impressed that someone so young can put in a half-decent performance. But that is probably unfair because Stanfeld’s performance is actually very strong, her age notwithstanding.

The male supporting actors are in equally hot competition this year: Christian Bale’s powerful performance as a down-and-out former boxer in The Fighter is rivalled by Mark Ruffalo’s nuanced, laid-back interpretation of a Californian sperm donor in The Kids Are All Right and Geoffrey Rush’s engaging speech therapist in The King’s Speech.

Colin Firth is, of course, in the Best Actor category, alongside Javier Bardem for his intense performance in gritty Barcelona-based Biutiful and Jesse Eisenberg for his remarkable incarnation of Mark Zuckerberg in so-so film The Social Network. It is perhaps a surprise not to see Leonard Di Caprio in the running, after his excellent performances in both Nolan’s Inception and Scorsese’s Shutter Island. In fact, Shutter Island has, unfairly, been completely overlooked.

Annette Bening has beaten co-star Julianne Moore to the Best Actress nomination for The Kids Are All Right but her performance in this comedy drama is unlikely to triumph over those of Nicole Kidman (Rabbit Hole), Jennifer Lawrence (Winter’s Bone), Natalie Portman (Black Swan) and Michelle Williams (Blue Valentine) as we all know that the darker, more miserable parts tend to attract the awards.

The one certainty is that the tearful winners will thank their studios for `making it happen,’ their opponents for losing and their hamsters for sticking with them through it all.

‘The Fighter (blah), that’s like (blah) this year’s The Wrestler (blah)’. Indeed the comparison is inevitable; they are two high profile, Oscar-bait fighting films, helmed by two arthouse directors who were clawing back to the mainstream after two relative box office failures. Aronofsky’s The Fountain (2006) was an elegiac and beautiful box office failure, David O. Russell’s I Heart Huckabees (2004) was a quirky, smug and self-aware box office failure.

However, it is this element of smug self-awareness that makes Russell’s The Fighter such a joy to watch, and not what one would expect from the sports-drama-by-numbers trailer for the film. The opening shot pans down to a film crew following former boxer Dicky Eklund (Christian Bale) as he makes his way through the streets of his home town. ‘This is the start of my glorious comeback,’ he slurs through his crack-addled face. Dicky seems convinced that he is the star of the show and that his story will be one of a glorious resurrection, the feel good hit of the year. However, Russell’s gritty direction does not let the audience believe this for a second, as he captures the numb and self-destructive element of Dicky’s character with a sympathetic eye devoid of hope.

The obsessive emphasis which Dicky places upon his ‘comeback film’, which we later realise is a documentary about crack addiction, infests the mind of his brother Micky Ward (Mark Wahlberg), supposedly the film’s actual dramatic epicentre. Micky is convinced that his own film should follow suit, he thinks that he is attempting his own glorious comeback, when the truth is that he is fighting for the right to get started. ‘I’m done fighting, I don’t need it anymore,’ Micky says to his love interest Charlene (Amy Adams). ‘That’s dumb,’ she replies. The film charts Micky’s growth as an individual more than it does his rise as a fighter, as he slowly comes to terms with his right to the role of leading man and decides not to condemn himself to the position of silent witness to his brother’s downfall.

The film’s only major flaw is to be found in the last act, which returns the focus wholly to Wahlberg, and transforms the story into a ‘rise of the underdog’ affair, injecting simplicity into the film as it shies away from the complexity of the relationship between fighter brothers Dicky and Micky. In the sub-plot concerning Dicky’s film, director Russell revels in the post-modern as Micky decides that he now wants to star in a film of his own, which is of course what this has been, and we are invited to view Dicky’s own film, on the other hand, as a joyless parody of The Wrestler. With this in mind, Micky’s wish to separate himself from his self-destructive brother seems to represent Russell’s goal of separating his film from thoughtless and banal Wrestler comparisons.

Mark Wahlberg is on form as the effortlessly charming Micky, whose only fault is caring just too much about everyone in his life, whether they are good for him or not. However, the star of the show was always going to be Christian Bale, whose performance as the deluded and drug-ugly Dicky is Oscar-worthy (and Golden Globe-winning). However, the strength of Bale’s performance leaves one questioning the meaning of the film; Bale’s character Dicky is a man who, albeit questionably, seems to come to terms with having his brother in the spotlight. However, because the emotional strength of the film is always with Bale, this idea is undercut, and he out-acts Wahlberg at almost every juncture.

When you say ‘comics’, most people think of simplistic goodie/baddie tales, stilted dialogue, terrible fashion and KAPOWs. And quite often, they have a point.

Many comics have been ongoing for decades, with the characters barely ageing – if not for the so-called ‘elastic timeline’ the X-Men would be octogenarians. So it can be quite difficult for writers to find new situations for our characters to find themselves in, which leads to inconsistent characterization and some jarring plot twists or reveals, as writers struggle for a new direction.

Death is almost comically impermanent in superhero-land. There used to be a saying at Marvel that everyone comes back except Bucky (Captain America’s sidekick) and Uncle Ben (of Spiderman fame). Sadly, this was somewhat undermined when Bucky was revealed to have been abducted and brainwashed by Soviet spies, while in a parallel universe Uncle Ben popped by for a visit.

This isn’t the only problem with the genre. It can often be overly simplistic, cutting down big issues to patronise its audience. It can also be unbearably cheesy – anyone looking back at 1970s comics may wince at the dialogue as much as the haircuts and clothes on display. Despite all this, there is something wonderfully positive about traditional comics. They’re hopeful, and funny; they’re escapist, yet they deal with issues ranging from heroin abuse to nuclear disarmament.

Comics are a unique media – somewhere between film, visual art and literature – and as such they can do unique things. Take Alan Moore’s Watchmen, for example – aside from the miniseries itself, in the graphic novel are countless documents and background information relating to the characters, their predecessors in The Minutemen or confidential correspondences, not to mention a comic within the comic.

The main problem with Zack Snyder’s cinematic take on the comic wasn’t that he wasn’t faithful enough – it was that it was impossible to be fully faithful with the huge wealth of content in Moore’s original. Moore himself stated he created Watchmen not just to explore the ideas of superheroics, but show what comics could uniquely do as a genre.

Many comics are world-class: stories like Kraven’s Last Hunt, The Dark Knight Returns, Dark Phoenix and countless others. They’re more sophisticated than you might think. No prior experience is needed – just dive in. And who knows, in a few months you could be in the cinema to see Thor, grumbling about the inaccuracies – I bet it’ll be nothing on the comic.

Huw Fullerton

I wouldn’t quite go as far as artist Eddie Campbell and declare that the ‘comic book has become an embarrassment’ to us all. But I have to admit my favourite graphic novels are those that show that there’s far more to the genre than superheroes.

Yes, I’m thinking of stuff like Art Spiegelman’s Maus: one of the first to prove, through stark black and white drawings of the Holocaust in which Jews are depicted as mice and Germans as cats, that comic books don’t have to be comic. Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, a memoir of growing up in Iran rendered in a similar woodcut-esque style, has become pretty famous too, having beaten Harry Potter to become the best-selling novel in Foyle’s bookshop in 2008 and been turned into an award-winning film. But Satrapi’s talent didn’t stop there: Embroideries, her tale of Iranian women getting together while the men are sleeping to exchange sex tips, is made particularly hilarious by the way she captures expressions: when people laugh, their wide mouths fill almost the entire page.

Good graphic novels don’t have to be about the unfamiliar. Ethel and Ernest, by the creator of The Snowman, Raymond Briggs, is a simple but affecting cartoon strip tribute to his parents, with all the minutiae of their lives- from each brick on their house to each wrinkle on their faces-shown in painstaking detail. Posy Simmonds’ Tamara Drewe recently hit the big screen, but it is in the original comic-book portrayal of rural life that you can really see her skill at conveying personalities in just a few words matched by meaningful poses.

But if you’re looking for something a little more out-of-the-ordinary that still doesn’t involve superheroes, try John Porcellino’s Diary of A Mosquito Abatement Man, which, as the title suggests, depicts the artist’s unfortunate early career pouring chemicals into swamps of larvae, in minimalistic line drawings. Or Julian Hanshaw’s Art of Pho, a ‘deliciously surreal’ graphic novel/travelogue/recipe book about a creature almost but not quite resembling a pig, who discovers a passion for spicy noodles when abandoned by a mysterious man in Vietnam.

Some say that books with too many pictures prevent the reader from using their own imagination. But to be honest, left to myself I doubt I could dream up such a range of beautiful art, that can tell all types of stories, big and small, almost without any words at all.

Ella Sands

It is one of those days, when nothing – not even the phone – works, but David Pearson, award-winning Penguin designer, is blessedly kind and obliging. As a junior designer he had the fortune of being selected for an experiment: a series of books to be called Great Ideas which would publish sections of larger works (like St. Augustine’s Confessions) in an inexpensive throwback to the days of pamphleteering. To everyone’s surprise, the Penguin Great Ideas series have been bestsellers, making the works of Marcus Aurelius, Rousseau, Marx, Woolf, and Sartre affordable and undeniably cool.

It was fate: as a child, Pearson occupied himself by playing with and rearranging the contents of his parents’ box of colour-coded Penguin paperbacks. The designer also shares my personal preference for print (the correct and moral preference). Books, he said, are unashamedly beautiful, tactile and tangible.

Pearson studied general graphic design at St. Martin’s College, London, specializing in typography. With his admiration of Penguin ever in mind, he kept an eye on their webpage for job postings, breaking in with the junior design position which led, two years later, to the Great Ideas gig.

Though most designers tend to prefer working with big name living authors, where they can expect high marketing and the establishment of a name or partnership, the Great Ideas was a publishing experiment in the manner of Penguin founder Allen Lane’s original vision of cheap, well-designed books. And, given the project’s experimental nature, there was a greater degree of independence for its designers.

A typical design meeting consists of the heads of each major department of a publishing company, each head laying claim to the finished product’s authorship. The response to the first Great Ideas series’ design was both approving and uneasy. The predominance of white covers (a no-go for advertisers) and lack of Penguin logos prompted Stefan McGrath, Penguin Press’s Managing Director, to admit that though there were faults, if the designers changed one thing, they’d have to change all of it, and he regretted to lose the designs’ visual confidence.

So, in a radical move, all covers were approved in toto. (Remembering this watershed moment makes Pearson a little emotional even now.) Seven or eight years down the line, Penguin’s Great Ideas has gone on to make five series. Pearson sees the first two – red and blue – as delicately considered and safe, becoming more confidant as the series developed into the green, gold, and purple incarnations.

Surprisingly, Pearson informs me, the world of book design is incredibly small. If you’re lucky enough to break in, you’re in. Unlike the popular competitive and cut-throat world of music design, book design is an ‘industry of hobbyists’. But alas, publishing is not the breezy industry it used to be. The book business as a whole is still anxious about the inevitable effect of e-readers on the market.

Pearson’s own prediction is that cheaper paperbacks will continue to fall away, and we should see publishers producing once-off editions to ‘flag up the physical book’. Eventually, he suggests, both mediums – print and digital – will be published side by side. Though Pearson is from the first generation of designers to have always worked on a Mac, ten years later he’s trying to find ways of getting away from it and back to tangible design.

Pearson’s design heroes come (no surprise!) from the Penguin annals: the work of the typographers Jan Tschichold and Hans Schmoller – ‘fastidious, elegant, balanced, timeless’ – and the dynamic designs of the 60s and 70s by Derek Birdsall and David Pelham. When I expressed my admiration for the boxes of postcards Penguin released last year and the wonderful range of design, Pearson said the magic words: ‘it was just a small snippet from the archives…’

I saw this book’s cover before knowing what Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper was about and thought it was quite mundane and just a little bit ugly. After picking it up later and actually bothering to read it, I saw it in a different way.

Once you know the nature of this short story – a collection of journal entries written by a woman confined to her bedroom by her husband, and in a state of nervous depression that leads to psychosis and a paranoid obsession with the wallpaper – the staid print now conjures up her sense of fear and entrapment.

Oppressively intricate and sickly yellow, even the whirlpool swirl in the bottom left threatens to draw one in – just as the narrator comes to believe that she has been imprisoned in the wallpaper by the end of the book.

I now find that this cover draws its strength from both its mundanity and its heavily detailed and insipid ugliness. The first seems to reflect the suffocating boredom prescribed to her as a treatment which only leads her deeper into depression, and the second, with the layering and twists and turns of the pattern, seems to relate to the irrational thought processes which confuse and come to gain control over her mind.

The use of silhouette foregrounds the ideas of racial distinction and identity which Toni Morrison consistently explores: white is separated from black as society demanded both in the novel’s setting of 1850s America and for a considerable period of the author’s life. However, the fact that the silhouette is not entirely monochromatic belies further artistic consideration. The crimson marks on the child’s face refer to the central event within the novel – the mother (Sethe) murdering her own child (Beloved) – and the white discolouration on the mother figure may imply her motivation to commit such a tragic act. The novel is based on the true story of fugitive slave Margaret Garner and explores how the atrocities committed by the white plantation owners of ‘Sweet Home’ convince Sethe to murder her own child rather than be made to suffer herself. This white discolouration of the silhouette thus shows that Sethe is not solely culpable for her act, but that her experiences have driven her to infanticide – just as when she is called an ‘animal’, it is clear that only the animalistic tortures she has endured have made her an instinctive creature. Morrison’s exploration of the guilt Sethe feels for destroying her own ‘best self’ is reflected in this cover art as the novel’s title – the name of the murdered child – springs from and is connected to Sethe’s mind.

The cover becomes a total reversal of the idea of the colour white as indicative of ‘good’ and black of ‘evil’. Whilst Sethe is never able to escape her guilt, here ‘white’ is free of such a sense of moral culpability. The influence of white atrocities appears as an indelible stain on her moral purity and figure.

Between blades of grass we lie watching, waiting on the ground in the middle of a clearing; the smoky mist creeps towards us as we peer over a woman’s legs like an animal inspecting its prey. The woman lies listlessly, her body cropped out of the picture. She is anonymous, identified only by the straps of her red leather shoes, her pale skin and the petrol blue of her silk skirt that has been hitched up over her knees. Thrust against the picture plane, our relationship with this unidentified body is intimate: she is the object of our gaze, and perhaps the victim too. Are we lying with her? Or do we crouch over her? The image is pervaded by a sense of mystery almost like a still from a film noir. With whispers of violence and murder, we immediately get a sense of narrative, underpinned by an eroticism emphasised by the fetishistic focus on her red shoes.

This photograph is taken from the Prada Autumn/Winter 1997 campaign and is the front cover of the newly published Steidldangin catalogue of Glen Luchford’s work. Luchford uses the camera here as a peeping device, almost cinematic in his approach whereby the viewer is dramatically involved in the narrative of his work. Blown up, the image’s murkiness seems to permeate our own space, pulling us into the photograph. The thick white band across the top of the cover, emblazoned with the artist’s name in bold black letters, stamps the image with a tag of reality. This is an image of an image: an enticement not for the viewer but the buyer, calling to be picked up, purchased and placed upon a coffee table. Ultimately its promise of mystery and drama makes it the perfect picture to represent this seminal collection of Luchford’s images, a tantalising tease of what lies behind the cover.