I’ve tried all of the classic resolutions at some point, and they’ve all been abject failures. Losing weight. Getting that elusive six pack. Reading the Bible. Writing in the diary every day. Being lucky – a less common choice, but my dad cracks it out every year.

The problem is that they’re about self improvement or, to lose the euphemism, making yourself do something you don’t like. Yuk. But why do they have to be a chore? This year, I’d like to choose a resolution I might actually keep. For a whole year, I resolve to make my reading fun, a source of guilty, guilty pleasure.

I remember as a child I used to read like a cat in a fish factory, devouring everything in sight. But sometime in Upper Sixth I started to get these niggling feelings that I should be reading somebody French in translation, or something in Scottish dialect without punctuation, or any of those books that sit in pairs around the house as both my parents have a copy left over from their English degrees. Reading stopped being fun.

But how I loved books. I think I shall begin by revisiting all my old favourites. Scrap Borges, I’m going to read all of the Just William stories I couldn’t get my hands on as a kid. Then there are all the books I’ve been too snobby to read: Mills and Boon novels, Vampire romances, action novels, celebrity biographies. Perhaps I’ll give Stephenie Meyer a try, or look out those romances by Anne Widdecombe. I’ve heard Katie Price’s autobiographies are startlingly funny.

I’d give that phase about a month. The top of the slippery slope will be the comedic novels of bygone eras: Jane Austin, Graham Greene. I’ll end up giving Catch 22 another go (my fifteen-year-old self didn’t exactly find it hilarious first time around). Slowly, slowly, I’ll slip into more and more varied volumes, and before I know it I’ll have read something terribly serious and not so much as giggled once. But I won’t have broken my resolution, oh no, because I’ll have read it simply because I liked the look of it and the pages kept on turning – because reading it was fun.

I’m not studying English. For me, the only reason to read fiction is for the kicks. If I resolve to stop taking books seriously and go back to basics, perhaps I’ll end up reading Ulysses – and perhaps I’ll enjoy it.

Hotel rooms. Celebrity ennui. Father-daughter relationships… Sophia Coppola’s Somewhere veers decidedly close to her portrait of the rich, famous, and depressed in her revered Lost in Translation. Here, we follow Johnny Marco, a rising Hollywood star who is resigned to boredom and loneliness in the glamorous world of five-star hotels, Ferraris, film premiers, and beautiful women. Marco (Stephen Dorff) is checked into a veritable Hotel California – “you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave” – in the form of the infamous Chateau Marmont, where he drifts as comfortably through his opulent and meaningless life, as he does on his inflatable in the Hockney-esque pool. It is only when his 11 year old daughter, Cleo (Elle Fanning), pays him an unexpected visit, that he questions where his life is heading.

Winner of the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival, Somewhere is a candid and understated portrayal of the other side of fame. This is a familiar tale of a lost and lonely Hollywood, but, characteristically for Coppola, its appeal lies in its delicate portrayal of this stagnation and isolation and this is captured visually by Harris Savides’ reportage-style camerawork. This sense of suspended animation is poignantly highlighted when Marco feels a pear, as he has forgotten how it feels like and when he sits patiently with his head in the plaster cast that must be taken for his “old man” makeup, we see him cosseted in celebrity and suppressed by loneliness.

The question is raised as to whether Somewhere is in some part autobiographical; indeed Sophia spent much time accompanying her father, Francis Ford Copolla, and too stayed at the Chateau Marmont. The father-daughter theme permeates Copolla’s films and much like Scarlet Johansson’s character in Lost in Translation, Cleo, in her own quiet and unassuming way, injects a vitality and hope into Marco’s life, without questioning his lifestyle or seeking a reformation of his character. We see him assume a teenage boy persona when bored in his room watching identical pole-dancers and in a peculiar role reversal, we see her cooking Eggs Benedict for breakfast, while Johnny has a lie in. Nevertheless, the transience of their friendship is highlighted as we become aware that the pair may not survive the separation when Johnny takes her to summer camp in Nevada.

This is a world without ramification or repercussion, where actions are not explicitly questioned – a rendition of a bland and cyclical existence. Copolla’s movie enunciates astutely with muted bathos. It is well executed, and reconfirms Sophia Copolla as a talented and distinctive director. However, the strong parallels with Lost in Translation underline what Somewhere lacks – the former being funnier, more engaging and more mature. Nevertheless, Somwehere comes warmly recommended.

Currently showing in Oxford at the Ultimate Picture Palace, Jeune Street.

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Sonali Campion

Jessica Goodman

Jessica Goodman

Sophie Balfour-Lynn

Sonali Campion

Jessica Goodman

Lauri Saksa

Sophie Balfour-Lynn

Lauri Saksa

Rebecca Nye

Sophie Balfour-Lynn

Niina Tamura

Lauri Saksa

Rebecca Nye

Rebecca Nye

Lauri Saksa

Rebecca Nye

Rebecca Nye

The forthcoming royal wedding between Will and Kate has been the subject of much media speculation over the past few weeks, and plans for the occasion will be the focus of intense scrutiny until the day itself. At present, the royal family will be painstakingly planning this ceremonial royal rite of passage, which some hope will be just as much a popular entertainment as a religious celebration. Choosing the musical content of such high-profile occasions so as to please all listeners is an undeniable challenge, and the choice will, no doubt, be particularly important to the royal pair, who (we can surmise) will be keen to project an image of freshness and modernity.

Princess Diana’s funeral in 1997, perhaps the last royal occasion subjected to a similar level of hype, was in danger of becoming more of a show-biz performance than a solemn funeral, by the inclusion of Elton John’s rendition of Candle in the Wind. Despite its gut-curdling lyrics, this song went on to become the biggest selling single in UK history as a result of the funeral. In the ceremony itself, it was placed alongside the contemporary composer John Tavener’s specially commissioned work, Song for Athene, in what could have been a deliberate attempt to balance popular music with what is perceived to be more ‘high-brow’. Perhaps Diana’s funeral has set the tone for future royal events as celebrations of our culture’s musical pluralism. In contrast, the music for Prince Charles and Diana’s wedding in 1981 consisted almost entirely of core English classical works by composers such as Elgar and Handel.

Important musical decisions for this wedding will lie with the Prince of Wales, who is reported to be pressing for the wedding music to have a Welsh theme. Might this mean, as rumoured, a duet between crooner Tom Jones and the Welsh ‘angel’ Charlotte Church? This depressing potential line-up could grow with the possible inclusion of Andrew Lloyd-Weber, the ‘demi-god’ of musical theatre, with his fail-safe combination of classical and popular styles. Elton John himself, that over-rated veteran crowd-pleaser, has recently joked that, although he might perform at the wedding, it would probably be as a busker outside. If only.

However many concessions are made to musical populism, there will at least be one man who should uphold royal traditions as Master of the Queen’s Music, a position established in the seventeenth century. He is Sir Peter Maxwell Davies. Officially commissioned to write a piece for the occasion, he has stated an intention to give his work a ‘Scottish feel’ in honour of the country in which the couple first met, and where he himself lives. His music will probably dissatisfy many ears across the country, unaccustomed to the sound of his modern classical works, although much of his choral music is more accessible to inexperienced ears. We can hope that for such a piece he will make full use of the outstanding abilities of Westminster Abbey choir. His adventurous style is no reason to dismiss his work; after all, Wagner’s famous ‘Here comes the bride’ march, when chosen by George V for his wedding in 1897, would have been considered a daring choice of music at the time.

Popular music should have its place in the wedding celebrations, but perhaps best outside the official ceremony. Since Prince Harry is reportedly in charge of the engagement party, we can safely assume that this occasion will be a fitting musical tribute to the latest sounds in pop culture. Mark Ronson, who lists Harry among his good friends, has requested the privilege of DJ-ing for the couple, and the Prince is rumoured to have lined up Tinie Tempah and Snoop Dogg to perform. The latter is promoting his new single ‘Wet’ as a potential wedding gift to the pair. With lyrics such as: ‘I just wanna get you wet, wet…Drip, drip, Drip, drip for me mami’, it seems unlikely that the Queen will be in a hurry to download it onto her iPod.

At least Snoop Dogg is under no illusion that his song is a serious homage to the royal wedding. The same cannot be said of Elton John, and we may well have to prepare to be drowned by another wave of gushing media-drive emotion come April 29th, inspired by his banal and syrupy lyrics.

It was a grey day to be out shopping. (Jessica Goodman)

Protesters had come down from all over the city to take action against corporate tax evaders. (Jessica Goodman)

Not much happened for the first hour with just a couple of police officers guarding each entrance of Topshop. (Jessica Goodman)

Protesters got together to show their anger toward corporate greed. (Jessica Goodman)

The press recorded the opinions of the protesters as they waited for the action to commence. (Jessica Goodman)

Vodaphone felt the pressure and had decided to shut down in anticipation of the protest. (Jessica Goodman)

However, protesters decided to have a peaceful ‘read-in’ to demonstrate cuts in funding for libraries. (Jessica Goodman)

Elsewhere, people were still chanting anti-corporate slogans and the focus moved to Top Shop. (Jessica Goodman)

The police were very careful about not letting protesters sneak into Oxford Street’s Top Shop and endanger the profits of a busy shopping day. (Jessica Goodman)

But protesters were determined to hammer home their message. (Jessica Goodman)

And the media were ready for some action too. (Jessica Goodman)

Security and police had to give in at BHS where protesters had a ‘sit-in’ inside the store. (Jessica Goodman)

Police observing the protesters. (Jessica Goodman)

Over at Top Shop, a group of hard core protesters broke through the police wall and managed to stage a sit-in in front of the store’s entrance. However, some shoppers could still get in through another door. (Jessica Goodman)

It was a cold day both for the protesters and security people. (Jessica Goodman)

The police were understandably still uneasy as a result of the recent student protests. (Jessica Goodman)

Fortunately there was good music to keep people entertained. (Jessica Goodman)

Some people were seemingly too absorbed in their mobile distractions to notice the protesters making their point. (Jessica Goodman)

Finally, at 2.50 pm, the protesters evacuated Top shop of their own accord. (Jessica Goodman)

Some people tried an improvised road blockade. (Jessica Goodman)

Protesters were now outnumbered and were forced into a smaller space. (Jessica Goodman)

The protest day was a very peaceful one but the underlying tension was considerable. (Jessica Goodman)

‘We see an ancient white crescent moon against black. He is smoking. He whispers a song to himself.’ So reads a stage direction in David Austen’s new film showing at Modern Art Oxford. Austen’s installation and an exhibition of sculptures by Thomas Houseago form the gallery’s new season of work which surprises us by questioning traditional motifs and materials, and sometimes confronts us with images of terrible loneliness.

The centre piece of Austen’s show is the film, The End of Love (2010), in which twelve figures perform soliloquies to an empty theatre. The artist’s creation here extends far beyond the poetry the characters speak: Austen’s background in 2D work gives the film a strikingly painterly sensibility. At one point, the frame is filled with a character’s growing shadow on the stage behind him, swelling as the camera shifts angle like a beautiful inkstain.

By placing the characters on stage, the film seems to play with ideas of what it means to be a performer – are we protected by the mask of costume, or vulnerable? The harsh spotlighting means none of the figures can hide from our attention, but they don’t seem to desire this – they are stuck and struggling. ‘Please dear, there is a dark hole here where my heart should be’ pleads a young man in a dandyish suit beneath a sign reading ‘The Death of Love’. When Austen himself is asked to talk about the bleakness of this film, he replies with a small shrug, ‘You should see my last one…’

The use of 12 sections adding up to make a film just over an hour long perhaps suggests the 12 apostles of Christ – but there is no thirteenth figure here, and any idea of salvation is brutally cut short, remaining only in the hope of some of the speakers that love might one day find them.

Images of loneliness also feature heavily in the work by Thomas Houseago – a British artist like Austen, based in LA. His monumental mixed media sculptures involve the body in their making hugely, and there is a palpable sense of the pressures of the artist’s body manipulating the surfaces of the work. The oversized Coins (Stacked) (2010) against a gallery wall, for example, were first rolled out as clay onto a studio floor and then cast in aluminium. Their evident weight, resting monumentally in place, is a playful contrast with the idea of featherweight loose change jangling in your pocket.

This exhibition is also the first time Modern Art Oxford has collaborated with the Ashmolean, installing five Houseago sculptures there. Michael Stanley, MAO’s curator, says this collaboration arose from ‘the nature and the content of the work, it really asks for it’ – and it’s striking to walk through the Ashmolean’s Cast Gallery where the sculptures sit next to plaster copies of ancient, often fragmentary figures. ‘With the casts there’s also this snobbishness that they’re not the original objects, and I think that’s really quite interesting in terms of that point of translation,’ Stanley comments.

We can see this translation in the way that often Houseago’s sculptures are intentionally truncated – an enormous pair of legs standing alone, for example – whereas many of the casts are missing limbs, but entirely by accident. Houseago’s work ‘oscillates and plays with and questions those two lineages of classical figuration and modernist abstraction.’ Ancient and modern sculpture practices interact and elements of one become reflected in another: ‘the fingers of clay in Legs (Landslide) become the serpent in the cast of Laocoon.’

Back in MAO, the simplicity of Houseago’s colours encourages your eye to focus on the varied forms of the sculptures. Their shapes sometimes free us from a burdensome sense of seriousness: oversized domestic references like spoons and dummies are juxtaposed with sprawling human figures and harsh, angular masks.

The focus of the works on show is Baby’ (2009-10) a nine-foot sculpture of a crouching figure with a skull-like head and huge, empty eyes. As Stanley points out, it includes both rounded forms made out of ‘thick fingers of clay’ and 2D surfaces marked with graphite and charcoal. The sculpture feels bare, but not in an unfinished sense: we can see exposed parts of the iron, wood and hemp involved in its construction and these only add to the sense of its weightiness, as an object rooted in place. There is something almost ape-like about the gigantic figure with its sense of tightly-coiled energy. Stanley describes the ‘play between the aggression of the image and the title of Baby, and they [the figure sculptures] do have this incredible pathos about them. They’re aggressive, but they’re resigned at the same time.’

This tension between aggression and vulnerability is everywhere in Houseago’s work, and the enormous eyes of Baby seem to bore into you with an uncomfortable question. ‘It’s quite a tough show in many ways,’ Stanley admits. ‘Along with The End of Love, we’ve gone for something really upbeat for Christmas.’

Thomas Houseago and David Austen are showing at Modern Art Oxford and The Ashmolean until 20th February 2011. Admission free.