Blog Page 2008
Interview: Larry Lamb
It’s been quite a year for Larry Lamb. He got married to Barbara Windsor, was brutally murdered in the Vic on Christmas Day, and had his nipples massaged by Rob Brydon at the beach the following Bank Holiday Monday. Of course, all this was in the name of starring in two of the highest rated shows on British TV this Christmas – as Mick in BBC One’s Gavin & Stacey and as Archie in EastEnders.
As he touches down into 2010, he will begin his first UK tour, An Evening With Larry Lamb. He’s not acting, singing or doing stand-up like most people on the circuit, but touring with just his personality and experiences as back up. And after having chatted with this charming, interesting, disarmingly down-to-earth man, I get the impression that’s all he’ll need.
Lamb, 62, is perhaps best known as best known for his role Archie Mitchell, the Machiavellian father and grandfather in EastEnders who came to a nasty end in the traditional Christmas denouement in 2009. Throughout the past eighteen months, he has been smouldering on our screens with a succession of high-profile storylines, including an ill-fated marriage to Barbara Windsor’s character, matriarch Peggy Mitchell, and his plot to conquer Albert Square with the scheming Janine Butcher.
But when he started out “quite by chance” in professional acting, he had no idea of the heights to which his career on the small screen would soar.
“I started out, I have to say, with really no knowledge at all of what being a professional actor was all about. I really had no idea.
“The transition from an amateur to a professional was very shocking, very shocking! You know, because if you’re an amateur actor, and you’re any good, you can play leading roles. I remember when I was first hired as an actor, and I didn’t quite know what I would be playing. And I was talking to a guy that I’d been an amateur actor with, and I was mulling over the possible roles I might get. The play was Hamlet. And I was kind of saying: “You never know, they might want me to play Hamlet, I’m so brilliant.”
“But of course, it ain’t quite like that. You figure, you’ve been given the role of Voltimand, a courtier at Elsinore, and the role of the Norwegian sea captain – and you think, well, I wish I had a bit more. But once you watch the professionals on stage in rehearsals, you realise you’re very lucky to have a part at all, and you’re probably better off with less rather than more. It was a bit of a wake-up, shall we say, when I was finally with the pros.”
I wonder whether the boot is on the other foot now; after all, Lamb is now a veteran actor, with years of experience in the industry. Does he find himself leading the way for his younger colleagues?
“That’s an interesting question. Actors are pretty, shall we say, self-made people. They’re pretty determined. And you may find that people are watching what you do, but not many of them are up for being taught, per se. I think actors are the sort of people who like to learn on their terms. So, now and again people will ask you about something. All you can do is try and help people if they ask you, if you get the opportunity.”
Lamb’s career has taken him in many directions; he has had roles spanning film, theatre and, of course, television, and he’s still not quite sure where his allegiances lie.
“I haven’t worked in the theatre now for probably two and a half years. I miss it a bit I suppose, which is unusual for me to say, because the regularity of the theatre, eight shows a week, week after week after week, tends to drive me insane after a few months. But then, when you’re working in television, you can rather miss it. And then when you’re working in theatre, you think, Christ, I’d love to have a TV series. So, kind of backwards and forwards between television and theatre really.”
Fame has undoubtedly changed his life, but Lamb believes that it is just part of the job, and is generally a positive thing.
“It does change your life, there’s no doubt about it, your profile changes completely. It’s happened to me in the past, earlier on in my career, when I’ve been in popular TV shows twenty or thirty years ago. But to be on EastEnders now, when it is so big and so widely viewed, it certainly comes a little bit of a surprise, especially when you realise how widely the audience is spread.”
He has strategies for keeping a low profile whilst out and about, and they don’t involve Victoria Beckham-style sunglasses or security. “You just have to be careful. You just have to make sure you’ve got a hat on, your collar’s up, you’ve got a scarf on, don’t talk too loud and then you can scoot around. You are recognised, it’s part of the job. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen!”
Lamb sounds genuinely excited to be hitting the road for his new show.
“Yes, just to talk to people, you know, and tell them about what’s happened to me over the years. This all came out of me telling stories to people sitting around…next thing you know I’m doing a one-man show!
“That’s great for me because whenever I’ve been around the country in theatre, the one day of the week that really works for me is the one where the audience in the theatre stay back and talk to the cast. And I really enjoy that, so this is a chance to do that every night.”
Did he ever envisage this career, which he fell into in the first place, going as far as it has done?
“Well, I am the eternal optimist! When I set off, I knew I wanted to escape and I knew I wanted to make a life, I didn’t know how that was going to happen. It was all a big dare, really. I just kept daring myself to keep going.”
Lamb acknowledges that the entertainment industry can be a cruel one to start off in.
“It is a ruthless industry. The thing is, there’s so much competition. I had no idea of this. There are probably sixty or seventy thousand actors in London. And only 10 per cent of them are in work. I think if I’d have had any idea of how competitive it was I might have just had a few more second thoughts about it!” he laughs. “I don’t know. But I had no idea, I’d never met an actor, I had no idea what it was all about.”
His advice to the aspiring thespians currently treading the boards at Oxford is typically practical and straightforward.
“The best way to really understand how incredibly competitive the entertainment business is, if you fancy yourself as an actor, my advice is to get yourself as many auditions with as many drama schools as you can. That will give you and idea of the competition; you’ll see what you’re up against.
For Larry, the past two years have been hectically busy, but he confirms that working on two flagship shows has been just as fun as it seems on the special features.
“Yeah it is. Really, I like being in a regular job. The one thing about being an actor is you drift; you’re a gypsy, from job to job. Turning up to be the visiting baddie or father or lawyer or doctor or something in a TV series; it’s not always the most satisfying thing for me, but it’s part of being a jobbing actor.
“To be involved with a long job, to be involved in the planning and seeing the whole thing through, I find that very satisfying. So to have been involved in two really important, really powerful, really successful shows, simultaneously, has been just a huge gift.
“I’m sad to see them go. But went into EastEnders for six months; I finished up being there 18 months. I had no idea Archie was going be who Archie ended up being.
“It would have been a bit boring watching him sitting round the Vic week after week plotting! That was the writers’ point; the only way to make this story as big as it can be was for Archie to leave with as big a bang as he came in with.”
And despite being the victim of the crime, Lamb doesn’t know the answer to the question on every EastEnders viewer’s lips at the moment: who killed Archie Mitchell?
“They said to me do you want to know? I said I don’t want to, I’d rather not know. I don’t know why people want to know these things!”
The shock revelation of the whodunit will be broadcast live from the BBC’s Elstree studios on Friday February 19, during EastEnders’ 25th anniversary episode, when the show will be broadcast live for the first time ever. And will Lamb be watching to find out?
“I certainly will be. Actually – funnily enough – ha – you ask me that, I won’t be! I’m going to be in a theatre in Blackburn, doing my show! So I’ll have to scoot back to the hotel and see it afterwards!”
To book tickets, visit www.livenation.co.uk
Going Up Going Down
Going Up
Ellie Goulding
Topped the BBC’s ‘Sound of 2010 List’ which is the list of the best rising music stars coming into the new year, picked by 165 key music critics, broadcasters and bloggers. Previous winners include Little Boots, Adele, Mika and Corinne Bailey Rae.
Getting Fit
Let’s all pretend we’ll keep to our rash new year’s resolutions for a little longer – and LA Fitness will help you on your way with a free 5-day pass. Go on, it’s not that far…
Wellingtons
The Wellington boot is here to stay- or at least while the snow is out. Fashionable (ish) and practical, what’s not to love? Its Glastonbury’s 40th this year and Festival Chic will be everywhere. Best rubber foot forward!
Tinted Moisturiser
The Wellington boot is here to stay- or at least while the snow is out. Fashionable (ish) and practical, what’s not to love? Its Glastonbury’s 40th this year and Festival Chic will be everywhere. Best rubber foot forward!
Going Down:
Snow
Right now we’re
not a fan of anyone who was dreaming of a white Christmas. Yes, it’s a bit grinchy to hate it, but we can only fall over so many times before we start to lose our sense of humour.
The iPhone
Apple’s dominance could be heading for an end. Google’s Nexus One launches soon, a cheaper and reportedly better equipped pretender to the King of Gadgets’ throne.
Jonathan Ross
After the license fee payer forked out millions for his increasingly mediocre prescence, the BBC and Ross have finally parted ways – not just on screen but on the radio aswell. Will he be missed?
Sports
The majority of fixtures in football and rugby have been postponed by the big freeze, though the cricket in South Africa is, unsurprisingly, unaffected. Not that you’d catch us outside in our lycra anyway…
Underneath Barbie’s burqa
“I can be anything, from a rock star to a race-car driver, and so can you!”, squeals Barbie as I visit her cyber walk-in-wardrobe. Unfortunately, it would seem that Barbie’s version of the American dream extends only to those who weigh 110lbs (7.9 stone) or less. If Barbie were a human woman, she would stand tall at 5 feet 9 inches, rendering her size-3 feet quite inadequate for balance – especially when taking her F-cup breasts into consideration. When the figures are laid bare, it seems clear that Barbie’s belongs to a fantasy world. But the truth is that Barbie is very much a part of the real world too, and she symbolises generations of women striving to be ‘beautiful’.
Courtney E Martin, author of Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters writes, “our bodies work on their own success/failure scale. We can work 4 years to get a degree, but can be failures in an instant, once we step onto scales.” Such a sentiment will not be a surprise to most Western women who will have felt the inescapable pressure to be smoother, flatter, huskier, and poutier, and then the inevitable disappointment when their bodies don’t comply. From the corsets of times past which made fainting a hobby, to the Monolo pinkie toe amputations of today, women have a long history of enduring pain to be ‘beautiful’, and society has a long history of encouraging that. It is within this framework, where women are willing to lose dangerous amounts of weight and actual body parts in order to be validated as ‘beautiful’ that the potential danger of a Barbie doll is nurtured.
In 1965, 6 years after Barbie was born, Mattel released ‘Sleepy Time Gal Barbie’ who was decked out in pink pajamas and eager for slumber party fun. Her sleep-over accessories consisted of scales pegged to 110lbs and a dieting handbook with one page of advice that read, “don’t eat.” In the politically correct age of baa baa rainbow sheep we may feel safe to assume that modern products will not so diligently demonstrate the double standards of real life directly to vulnerable children. But we’d be wrong in that assumption.
Finding examples is not difficult. Bratz, our favourite ethnically diverse and arousing dolls seem to win but the Bratz offshoot dolls, ‘Babyz’, take the trend of sexualising pre-pubescent females to a whole new level by presenting actual baby versions of the dolls in a nappy, bra and make-up, with bottles of milk dangling from their necks and swinging by their thighs. Meanwhile, the hair removing product, ‘Nair’ has released ‘Nair Pretty’ with a target market of 10-15 year olds. My personal favourite find (one of those which goes into life’s ‘only in America’ category) is a pair of pink children size knickers sold at Walmart which ask “who needs credit cards..?” across the infant vagina. Suddenly Barbie’s quite an attractive prospect in more ways than one!
Where does all of this fit into an era that boasts of women’s liberation – a time that some even have the nerve to refer to as ‘post-feminist’? One thing we do know is that with the increase of women fulfilling roles of power and influence, has come an increase in women ready to use that power to keep other women and girls enslaved in timeless beauty rituals. In 2006 Ariel Levy wrote ‘Female Chauvinist Pigs’, to draw attention specifically to women’s roles in perpetuating this beauty myth. That’s why when Kate Moss said “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” she was not simply irresponsible, she showed herself to be a queen pig.
Barbie celebrated her 50th birthday in 2009 (I know, she’s aged well) and as part of the celebrations 500 dolls were made to represent different global cultures and auctioned at Sotheby’s to raise money for Save the Children. Among the dolls was one in a hijab and trousers and another in a vermilion green burqa. This decision prompted a predictable onslaught of anti-Islamic rhetoric, feminist outrage with the prestigious New York State National Organisation of Women (NOW) stating, “women must be able to make their own choices… but the burqa is more than a choice. Women are forced to wear the burqa or risk being murdered… selling a doll that is clearly wearing a symbol of violence is not acceptable.” However, calling for an unequivocal ban on the doll misses an important point (just as when Saudi Arabia outlawed the sale of Barbies in 2003). For the hundreds of women who are being hidden and abused under ‘Islamic’ dictatorship every day, there is a woman who is wearing her burqa on Oxford Street. For every feminist who believes that modest dress restrictions can be a personal choice but that they place a burden on some women to cover up rather than men to avert their gaze, there is a feminist who feels empowered by Islam and freedom in her modesty. Just how feminist is it to pacify her?
I was raised by a woman who was empowered by a non-alcoholic cocktail of both feminism and Islam. It’s not as simple as the donning of a hijab or the outlawing of Barbie dolls (in fact my mother doesn’t feel it necessary to cover her head to be modest, and I had my fair share of Barbies). The day I saw my mum stop a stranger at the market and complement her weave was formative in teaching me that through loving my own body I need never begrudge another woman’s beauty and in fact I ought to celebrate it.
I am no Barbie. My body is big enough to house all of my vital organs, I like it when my outfits clash and when I say I’m having a ‘bad hair day’ I am usually referring to my moustache. Unless my genes skip a generation, I don’t think my future daughter will resemble a Barbie either. Yet, would I buy her one if she asked? Absolutely. Whether she chooses one in a bikini or a burqa, it will probably end up wrapped in tin foil on a space mission, or if my child takes after me, naked and bald in the microwave. Regardless of what inspires women to fight against what society expects of them, be it religion, politics, literature or a friendship, it’s the lifestyle changes real women stick by which ultimately influence our daughters – not plastic dolls. Empowering girls to love their bodies is not a child’s play.
Fine Dining: Gastropub
The Cadogan Arms calls itself a gastropub, but there’s far more of an emphasis on the ‘gastro’ bit than there is on the pub. This isn’t one of those hearty Oxfordshire gastropubs wit
h sixty eight different local ales on tap and a landlord who’d drown you in a specially-aged oak cask if you so much as asked for a Carlsberg. This is basically a restaurant, complete with waiter-service and free bread, where, if your father’s hedge fund has just collapsed, you can opt for a pint of cider instead of exploring the three-figure end of the wine list (Dom Perignon 2000, £150, or £20 for a boggo 08 Sauvignon).
It is almost obligatory in restaurant columns now to take a blonde with you when you go for a meal. I couldn’t find one in time, so had to settle for a sort of pale brunette with highlights, but she was at least good company, and willing to indulge me in my vaguely dictatorial policy on menu choices (I order the nice stuff, you order the ‘interesting’ stuff that will probably make for good copy later). She came, however, with the disadvantage of being an old schoolmate of our waitress. What do you do in that situation? How do you sit haughtily at the table while the girl who used to sit next to you in double maths takes your coat and tops up your water? (While you’re silently thinking that this is what she gets for constantly texting her boyfriend under the table while you diligently studied for your exams). Are you supposed to tip her as you leave? In the end, they both solved the problem in the time-honoured English manner: ten seconds of awkward small talk followed by studiously avoiding meeting each-other’s eyes for the rest of the meal.
Awkward waitress gone, I started with a partridge and guinea fowl terrine drizzled with truffle oil (which, by the way, is a pointless gimmick nothing like real truffles; don’t fall for it), which was fine, not seven pounds fifty fine, but fine. My not-quite-blonde companion had a ‘half pint o’prawns,’ which is basically a faux-hearty gastropub way of saying prawn cocktail, the ones that used to be served everywhere in the ‘80s, except this one came in an old-fashioned beer mug (as if to jokily point out that, despite the presence
of Dom Perignon on the wine list, the Cadogan Arms used, once upon a time, to be a real, honest-to-god boozer, complete with beer and everything).
It’s hard to mess prawns up, given that you don’t really need to do anything to them except plonk them in a va
t of mayonnaise and s
hredded lettuce, but these ones were well plonked. Then gnocchi for her (my dictatorial side had withered by this point) and half a lobster for me, which was stupendous, soft and moist, with the taste of salt and muscle and decadence, and some average chips on the side.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the transformation of the British pub. A few years ago, pubs gave you pie and chips and lager for a tenner, but the modern version serves lobster and chips and champagne with a tenner’s change from two fifty pound notes. This is the King’s Road version of progress. You just have to remember to concentrate in your maths lessons first.
Rating: 3/5
In Short: Who knew beer goes with lobster?
Address: 298 King’s Road, London, SW3 5UG
Scenic View: Czech Beer
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Czech beer is the best in the world. As a student reading Czech my love affair with the nation’s main source of fame – I don’t think Skodas count – has had its ups and downs. I started my degree hating the stuff with a passion, much to the dismay of fellow students with whom I was dragged to breweries and even a beer festival at the Houses of Parliament.
My first clash with militant Czech beer enthusiasts occured when visiting the southern Moravian city, Brno, in the summer of 2008. A friend and I were wandered through the quaint old town by night; with its winding cobbled streets and little burgher houses, medieval belltowers and facades, the scene was nothing short of a fairytale. We half expected Hansel and Gretel to pop out of nowhere with a trail of beer bottles in their wake.
Instead, a man dressed as a knight in full body chainmail appeared in front of us. We thought it best to follow him.
He led us (unwittingly, might I add) to one of the most terrifying pubs I have ever ventured into. With its bearded barman built like a brickhouse (continuing with the fairytale motif, please imagine Jack’s giant) and occult decor illuminated only by candles, the underground pub cum dungeon was even creepier than the black metal hangouts I frequented in Norway in my headbanger days. But the clientele seemed cheery enough, skipping about in time to the Lord of the Rings rock ballad remix and joyously clinking beer jugs while brandishing swords. So I barged past a skinhead with a tattoo on his skull and ordered two JD and cokes in my best Czech.Stunned silence. “You’re not from around here, are you?” baldy sneered after what seemed like at eternity, casting us a suspicious glance. “Don’t you want beer?” Beardy growled.
A quick scan of the room proved we were no longer welcome. Whilst there had been plenty of seats before our faux pas, the fancy dress freakshow had now spread itself across the dungeon. A fair maiden clad in velvet pointed downstairs; we followed her gesture, hoping that perhaps this would be where the normal people go.
It was empty. We had been banished to an inhospitable bombsite below, complete with gaping holes in the floor with nothing but rusty-nailed planks to sit on. The revelry resumed upstairs. We drank up quickly and fled.
It took another visit to the Czech Republic to learn to appreciate its amber nectar – in the town that gave its name to America’s foul imitation of a beer, Budweiser.
České Budějovice, a sleepy southern Bohemian town, is home to the world famous Budvar (Budweiser) brewery, and has been producing beer since the 13th century. The Holy Roman Empire got high on its brew. I was determined this time to fit in with the ruddy cheeked natives who are known for cracking open the first bottle at breakfast. I was attending a language summer school, though many classes were held at the local pub, and its students were more keen on training their livers than their minds – the most impressive of which was the 80 year old Bavarian who could easily drink all of us under the table.
The school outing was, unsurprisingly, a trip to the Budweiser Brewery where we supposed to soak in the putrid stench of fermenting hops, admire the beer bottles dancing down the assembly lines in their millions, and sample the factory’s famed elixir – unpasteurised beer, fresh from their very own taps.
The place was a labyrinthine nightmare, and I ended up separated from the group. Wandering through chilly passageways with only the portraits of beaming beer visionaries and the eerie machine echoes for company, I was glad to bump into three workers as they were about to lock up for the night. One of them asked me why I hadn’t touched my cup of beer yet, and as I tried to explain that there was no point in wasting it on my sorry self, the man shook his head gently and whispered: “Just try it”. After a tentative sip, I understood. It was the most delicious thing in the world. I had finally fallen for Czech beer.
Review: The Road
Bleak. Unremittingly bleak. An unsurprising choice of words, perhaps, to describe the new adaptation of author Cormac McCarthy’s Pulitzer-scooping prose novel of 2006, but also the most accurate. Set in the blasted terrain of a post-apocalyptic America where organic life has all but shut down, it details the agonising struggle southward of two survivors, a man and his son, as they encounter the horrors of a world unanchored by morality. Death haunts practically every frame of the film’s running time, every twist in the road reveals further hardship, and whatever glimmers of hope there are to be had regarding humanity’s future are modest at best, like the last flare of
light from the sail of a boat on the horizon before it glides out of view forever.
“McCarthy’s biblically-inflected and brutally poetic prose is reduced to the occasional stretch of voice-over”
At this point, I imagine a sizeable percentage of you are wondering why on earth someone would wilfully endure such a film. The Road is definitely an acquired taste, much like its source material, which appalled some with its harrowing subject matter, but seared itself onto the memories of many others who were captivated by McCarthy’s biblically-inflected and brutally poetic prose. The film version unfortunately never overcomes the inevitable loss of the terrible beauty of McCarthy’s language, reduced to the occasional stretch of voice-over lifted directly from the text, but that doesn’t stop it being a considerable, if lesser, achievement in its own right.
Those who like their movies downbeat ought to find much to admire: for a director having to contend with the difficulty of adapting a book whose appeal lies mainly in the way it is written, rather than its plot, John Hillcoat does an admirable job. The artful use of flashback sequences to the Man’s dead wife, rather than being obtrusive, lend the film a lyrical edge, evoking the sense of loss and yearning central to the plot. It is in the capturing of the plot’s darkest moments that he excels: during a visit to a secluded mansion, for instance, where something very nasty is discovered in the basement – a scene far more disquieting than anything I’ve seen in a straightforward horror movie in years.
“Mortensen’s understated masterclass quietly cements his reputation as one of our finest contemporary actors”
The most dramatically potent scenes, such as the one aforementioned, prove to be those where the Man feels pushed to compromise his own humanity, and besides the suspenseful direction, much of their impact can be attributed to the deeply affecting performance of Viggo Mortensen in the lead role. Building on the successes of A History Of Violence and Eastern Promises, Mortensen here again demonstrates himself to be an actor capable of real diversity and stature. In portraying a father and bereaved husband steadfastly refusing to abandon himself and his son to despair, whilst slowly fracturing under the daily pressures of their predicament, he is heartbreakingly genuine. In fact, with this understated masterclass he has quietly cemented his reputation as one of our finest contemporary actors, and its quality is perhaps the feature to preserve the film from fading to a commendable footnote to the novel.
It is a shame then that a film as cinematically accomplished as The Road ultimately stands so much in the towering shadow of its parent, largely adhering to the minimal narrative of the text, without the distinct identity that the Coen brothers brought to their own terrific adaptation of McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men in the form of gallows humour. Those who were left cold by the book will find nothing for them here, and those who fell in love with it, while unable to greatly fault a production that is uncompromisingly faithful to its tone and themes, are unlikely to find it carries quite the same weight. Despite this, the skill of its translation from page to screen warrants a viewing by anyone after an apocalypse movie with substance and soul.
4 stars
Review: Daybreakers
Amidst the slew of vampire themed television series and films that have sprung up thanks to the successful Twilight series, Daybreakers seemed to offer something new. A world where vampires have become the dominant species and humans are the ones being hunted looked to be a refreshing take on the vampire legend. And it was, for about ten minutes.
In a world where a plague has transformed most of the human population into vampires, those that remain are hunted and farmed for blood. But faced with a critical shortage, Edward Dalton is tasked with developing a substitute. Instead he finds himself helping a band of human survivors who have found a cure for vampirism itself. Now human once more Edward is pitted against his former boss, a pale-faced and fanged Sam Neill, as he tries to cure therest of vampire-kind.
“a bat flew across the screen on no less than three different occasions”
The source of the many problems with Daybreakers is a lack of focus. The writers/directors, the Spierig brothers, appear uncertain about what kind of film they’re trying to create. I’m not asking that they neatly pigeon-hole their production into a specific genre, but they need to make a film that is at least coherent. Instead we are faced with one that seems to jump between genres from scene to scene rather than subtly merge them together. The result can only be described as a complete mess of a film.
At times there are attempts to turn the story into a drama, specifically by making it into an allegory about discrimination in our own society. Every time it tried to do so it failed miserably. Scenes where the audience should be on the verge of tears instead induced laughter. This is largely thanks to other moments in the film where it abruptly turns into a horror movie. So, whilst conceptually the film may well be a mess, all too often it is literally so. On several occasions we see bodies exploding, blood splattering, heads cut off and limbs flying. This would be expected if you’d walked in to see Hostel or Saw, but for a film like this it was clearly excessive and jarred violently with the dramatic element. It came across as cartoonish, completely undermining whatever emotive power the scene was supposed to have.
“The result can only be described as a complete mess of a film”
On top of this, also reminiscent of the horror genre, the filmmakers for some reason felt the need to include numerous attempts to give the audience a quick scare. These included a bat suddenly flying across the screen on no less than three different occasions. As with the cartoonish violence these shots had no place in this film, appearing almost at random and interrupting scenes rather than adding anything. They came across as cheap, lazy tricks, in the end serving only to push this film further towards becoming an unintentional comedy.
An interesting premise is not enough to save Daybreakers from its ridiculous and incoherent realisation. It takes a lot more than a good idea to make a good film.
1 star
Oxford’s freezing spires
Disruptions caused by the snowy weather may cause problems for students returning to Oxford over the next few days, as Oxfordshire has been one of the worst affected counties in the freeze experienced throughout the UK.
In spite of the colleges’ effort to clean out the snow, students arriving by car may encounter problems with parking. Keble and Balliol have updated their websites, warning that students will be unable to bring cars unto college grounds, and at Lady Margaret Hall car access will also be restricted. Some colleges have advised students to use public transport due to the state of the roads in the city.
The county is now on a national priority list to get more grit and salt delivered, but the Oxfordshire County Council admitted that it had greatly reduced the amount that it has distributed.
The Council blamed “increasing restrictions upon national supplies of salt to local authorities” and “the fact that more grit is needed on roads affected by snow, as opposed to frost” for the fact that the percentage of roads gritted had been cut from 43% to 29%. The Council also warns that it will not be regularly providing material for gritting pavements, focusing instead on clearing the main routes.
Many services, such as waste and recycling collections, have been suspended or disrupted this week. Across the county, more than 200 schools have been shut, and Oxford Brookes was closed on Thursday. The Bodleian Library has been closing its doors at 5 pm for the last two days, but will resume normal opening hours from Monday. Services at the John Radcliffe Hospital are also expected to run as normal.
Freezing weather was felt all of this week throughout Oxfordshire. On Tuesday night, the Met Office predicted that up to 12 inches of snow would fall across the county. The village of Benson, located 11 miles from Oxford, was the coldest place in the United Kingdom on Wednesday night, with the temperature falling to -18°C.
The cold weather looks set to continue, with temperatures expected to remain below zero and more snowfall forecast for early next week.
Poetry and public prudishness
1963 may well have been the year it all happened for Philip Larkin. But what of the loss in British prudishness which that year was also supposed to have heralded? Last year saw a nominee for the position of Professor of Poetry, Derek Walcott step down from the race, his chief rival – and indeed the eventual victor, Ruth Padel – having surreptitiously leaked stories of past sexual indiscretions to the press. Although Padel may have subsequently resigned, the position remains tainted, and electoral reforms are proposed for early 2010. Since the days of the banning of Lady Chatterly’s Lover and The Well of Loneliness, the often pornographic content of novelists’ and poets’ literary works has become widely acceptable. In light of the controversy surrounding the last contest for the Professor of Poetry, it seems that the acceptance of the actions of the authors themselves has some way to go.
“when did a priapic tendency count against someone being a celebrated poet”
The email in question, it emerged in May 2009, informed reporters of six pages detailing Walcott’s alleged actions in a book imaginatively titled “The Lecherous Professor”. Sure, it looks like Walcott, in the 1970s, did make some completely inappropriate comments to female students. But hang on a minute, when did a priapic tendency count against someone being a celebrated poet? Though Walcott has come under strong criticism for his libidinous ways, he is certainly not the first writer to whom this has happened. We hardly need to look far back into our literary past to see that rather than being the shameful exception, this is rather the norm with as regards our greatest poets.
Take the Romantics for example. Whilst at Trinity College, Cambridge, the “mad, bad, and dangerous to know” Byron began a relationship with a 15 year-old choir boy John Edelston. His adult life was embroiled with numerous scandals, including an affair with the married Lady Caroline Lamb. He was also reputed to have sired the daughter of his half-sister Augusta Leigh. In 1810, he is said to have offered £500 for a twelve-year old girl. This was turned down. In 1815 he left England altogether, after rumours of incest and sodomy were circulated.
The fate of Letitia Elisabeth Landon (better known as L.E.L) might perhaps be seen as a counter-part to Byron’s colourful life and death. Her poetry in the 1820s achieved critical acclaim, but she was hamstrung by accusations of having had pre-marital sex. Her suicide in 1838 is seen as a result of the anguish suffered in virtue of this.
“So far from being a mark of shame, these types of allegations ought to be a badge of honour for poets”
Perhaps the most notorious poetic figure to fall foul of public prudishness was Oscar Wilde. A famously-flamboyant bisexual, his time at Magdalen College was spent adorning his room with peacock feathers, sunflowers and lilies – rather than engaging in the more traditional “gentlemanly” endeavours of rugby or cricket. A fellow student wrote that Wilde’s poetry “eclipses masculine ideals [and that] under such influence men would become effeminate dandies”. In the end, Wilde’s downfall was brought about by the father of one of his male lovers. After fighting an ultimately unsuccessful libel case against the Earl of Queensbury, he was imprisoned for two years hard labour, after being convicted of “gross indecency” with other men. Wilde had originally taken offence at Queensbury’s leaving of a calling card at Wilde’s London Club, describing him as a “Posing Somdomite” [sic].
So far from being a mark of shame, these types of allegations ought to be a badge of honour for poets. That doesn’t mean that Walcott shouldn’t be admonished for his inappropriate comments and actions to female colleagues and students in the past. There’s nothing to show that Walcott continues to hold derogatory views towards women; the position might be different if he did. The real point is that sexual dalliances shouldn’t be seen as precluding someone from being held in poetic esteem.
Ruth Padel may well be an accomplished poet. It’s a shame she decided to use such disgusting tactics to depose her closest rival. And it’s an even greater shame that they almost worked.