Sarah Fordham unweaves the rainbow of our emotions, and argues that science cannot tell us what it means to be human   What is it that most sets humans apart from all the other organic life forms on the planet? Convinced of our superiority, this is a question we like to ask over and over again. We're physically inferior in almost every single way. Problem-solving? Talk to the Caledonian crows and their tool-making. Self-awareness? Perhaps – but the line is fuzzy. Cats and dogs, for example, react to mirrors in ways that suggest they're self-aware, and chimpanzees have the same concept of mind as a 3 year old child. Emotions? Now you’re talking.   It's the vast spectrum of our emotions that we like to ponder repeatedly in art, literature, and music. Yet science seems to be destroying this particular notion of our existence, by constantly trying to quantify such sublime experiences as jealousy, love, and even happiness.If we deconstruct the physiological and psychological aspects of jealousy, maybe we can acknowledge that technically it is just an adaptive response to aid the survival of the individual within a social group. But anyone who has ever felt full blown, pea-green envy – and I'm guessing that would be most of us – this explanation seems like an oversimplification of the worst kind. In reality, there's something almost transcendental about plotting the tragic accidents that that may befall those hated individuals with more looks, brains and charisma than oneself. There's no data-set that I know of to explain that warm glow that swells up from the pit of your stomach as they play through your mind.The same form of dissection is being applied to happiness. If we actually sit back and ask ourselves: 'what is happiness', we find that even after centuries of laborious analysis, some of the brightest minds in the world still don't know. For us mere mortals, the most accurate answer may as infinitely complex and wonderfully simple as ‘ice-cream’.Why then, have certain parties recently deemed it necessary to propose to several leading diagnostic manuals that happiness should be reclassified as a psychiatric disorder![1] The symptoms of said disorder include a statistically abnormal functioning of the nervous system, with discrete symptoms including cognitive anomalies. Thankfully – as far as the writer is concerned – this proposal was rejected. Because, to be honest, is there  anything more belittling than the idea that most profound joy you ever experienced was nothing more a chemical imbalance? It's like taking all of our ideals and dipping them in pure ethanol.And I shan't begin to bore you with what the experts have to say on love, save that the so-called ‘greatest thing you’ll ever learn’ is no more than a trick of evolution to make us procreate. Well that puts Shakespeare and Donne in their places.Or does it? We may accuse the scientific perspective of being cold and sterile, but perhaps that is slightly too harsh. Some would say that there is a profound beauty in the knowledge that the rush you get at the sight of that special someone really is electricity – coursing through your Sympathetic nervous system at 7 mph – not just a poet's meagre metaphor.Dawkins' book ‘Unweaving the Rainbow’ examines this very conflict between rational and philosophical perceptions of life. The title of the book itself refers to John Keats' despair that Isaac Newton destroyed the beauty of the rainbow by explaining the origin of its colours: the refraction of light. To some it may seem, and to Keats it most certainly did, that this Newton's theories robbed the rainbow of all its mystery, and in the process crushed the infinite potential for human imagination to come up with its own hypotheses. On the other hand, for those in our midst who are so inclined, the true explanation is nothing short of the very embodiment of elegance and grace. Richard Feynman, the physicist, had an argument with an artist friend. The friend claimed that he could find a flower infinitely more beautiful than Feynman could, because Feynman lacked an artistic mind. Feynman found this absurd. He argued that everyone can see the inherent beauty in things: seeing things from a scientific perspective can only add to beauty, not take away: if the petals make him wonder about their mathematical complexity, or the colours make him think about mechanisms of pollination, it can only add to the flower. So it can be argued that the more we know about how and why we feel the way we do, the more we add to our experience of being human, not detract.And yet, something in me revolts. So here’s my point: I can't deny that there's something to be said for asking why people go through such a kaleidoscope of sentiments everyday. But even so I think we can be justified in ignoring the science, just this once, and continue to embrace the idea – however fanciful – that there is some greater power or purpose to existence; that life isn’t just survival and reproduction. Is that asking too much?

What do you think? Has science's insights into the human psyche made our emotions nothing but so many chemical reactions, or has it led us on a new and more exciting journey of self-discovery?

——————————————————————————–[1] http://jme.bmj.com/cgi/content/abstract/18/2/94?eaf
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For this year, the role of Captain within Oxford University Netball Club has been subtly redefined. As the Club Captain (Katelin) and the Blues’ Captain (Alice) we are working together closely to allow the best possible start to the new season. However, having lost over half the squad from last year – including some very key players – this was always going to be tough.
Following trials at the end of 0th week, our replenished squad are now training together twice a week with two additional fitness sessions. We incorporate speed and agility work into all our training and aim to continually improve ball handling skills, reactions and coordination.
Our BUSA matches are every Wednesday afternoon and both teams have a very exciting season ahead. The Blues are keen to maintain the momentum gathered after an exceptionally successful season last year and Roos (2nd team) will be facing some strong opposition having now been promoted for two consecutive years.
The arrival next week of our South African coach, Sandra, whose enthusiasm and commitment to netball is incredibly infectious, will undoubtedly strengthen and consolidate the whole squad.
Our freshers may not quite know what has hit them as she introduces the new – and somewhat unusual – specialised training programme she has promised to her ‘Oxford Stars’.

By Monique Davis***In a word, Polish film Extras is decent. However, I have just been told by my editor that I am expected to write more than one word. Director Micha? Kwiecinski presents a beautifully shot film in which a group of Chinese filmmakers shoot a tragic film in Poland, under the impression that the Poles are the most miserable people. The title of the Chinese film, Sad Wind in the Reeds, is evocative, but the focus of Extras is the eponymous ‘background artists’ (ah, political correctness). The film is basically a tale of love rediscovered as the father of the Polish-Chinese translator’s child returns unexpectedly, hoping to find things as he left them when he abandoned her to go and see the world. However things, of course, are not that simple as Bozena (Kinga Preis) has married a rich dentist whom she does not love. The film-within-a-film really just serves as a trite plot device, mirroring the action of the frame story and allowing liberal usage of dramatic irony as the extras frequently comment on the main story to the chagrin of Bozena, who tries to stick to the party line of wifely duty despite her love for Romek (Bartosz Opania) the charming rapscallion. Other subplots involve a coming-together of two loveable losers and some older characters coming to terms with being cuckolded. While the film does fulfil its brief of dispelling the myth that the Polish are all miserable, the casual racism has the propensity to make the viewer feel very uncomfortable. Aside from being referred to as ‘Chinkies’, at one point Gralewski (Krzysztof Kiersznowski) pulls up the corners of his eyes and refers to them as ‘yellow’ with ‘slits’, things I have not seen or heard since the playground was my haunt of choice. Later, when the object of his affection, Narozna (Anna Romantowska), comments on his wife running of with a chorister, bites back with ‘at least he was white’, in reference to her dead husbands ‘jungle fever’. These unnecessary throwaway comments really detracted from what was otherwise a charming film.To sum up, Extras is a fantastically atmospheric film. Every shot is delicately composed and the music really adds to the slight sense of unreality. In spite of the overuse of some dramatic conventions, the slightly annoying stock characters, and the Americanised subtitles, the film really has an undeniable charm. However, it is the jarring racism that hits the film hardest in the star rating.

By Isabel Sutton**Number three in Michael Moore’s repertoire of bomb-shell big-screen documentaries has arrived and it’s as predictable as can be.  The target this time is the scandal of the American health service – a subject which has been on Moore’s hit list since 1999, and explains the film’s disconcerting title Sicko.  Just like Fahrenheit 9/11 and Bowling for Columbine, Sicko is coming out at exactly the right time: mounting concerns over a privately-run health service have finally come to a head.  Profit-making insurance companies, who maltreat their patients, are going to come under severe pressure as soon as a Democrat reaches the White House.  Dissatisfaction is growing amongst ordinary Americans: Moore received over 25,000 e-mails from people with nightmare health care tales to tell, prior to the making of the film.  Once again Moore has seized the perfect moment.  His documentary Sicko will feed off current complaint and stir his audiences’ rage: no wonder drug companies sent round ‘Moore alerts’ when the documentary went into production.Now Sicko has hit cinemas and nothing seems to have changed in Moore’s provocative style of delivery.  He’s as fat and simplistic as ever.  I’m not saying I disagree with Moore at foundation: he’s absolutely right that the US health service needs some serious attention.  What narks me is the way Moore denudes his subjects of all credibility by the cras methods he uses to expose them.  This will be immediately obvious to any British audience when they see Moore’s presentation of the NHS.  First we hear Tony Benn speak with great persuasiveness about the excellent principles of our system.  Less convincingly, we are then shown an interview with a London GP who speaks with glowing enthusiasm about the free-for-all Paradise world that is the NHS.  He even represents the fiasco over recent GP salary changes as an ideal, socialised version of the American system, whereby the service is public but doctors are given the incentive to improve patient care.  No word at all on the uproar that has ensued since its introduction.  Moore gazes with astonished eyes peering out from beneath his baseball cap as the GP speaks: surely this man can’t be earning a decent wage?  To answer this question, we’re off to the doctor’s house where dinner guests have just arrived and are drinking glasses of wine.  Moore’s point is apparently proven: the NHS is a ‘free’ system which has everyone, including the GPs, living in physical health and material comfort all the time.  By this point my fellow film critics were chuckling in wry amusement.Why does Moore have to smooth over every obstacle – every opposing thought – when his argument can already stand up on its own feet?  The distortions are visible for all to see.  Well, perhaps I’m missing part of the point: Moore isn’t in the business of traditional documentaries.  He’s a stunt man with a point to prove, and he finishes the film doing what he does best.  No one can deny that it’s quite a feet to take his  starring patients – three volunteer workers at the scene of 9/11 who disgracefully have still gone untreated – all the way to Cuba for a proper check-up, all absolutely free.  I had to take my hat off to him.

By Kate Barrett Raymond Blanc has hit the spot with his relaxed and friendly Brasserie on Walton street, Jericho. Of an evening, the average student wouldn’t consider such a reputable name to be in their league. ‘Fine as long as the parents are covering the bill’ is what I thought before trying the place. But I was nicely surprised by how student friendly the restaurant was; there’s no dress code or certainly no snobbery. The management wants students to realise that they are offering excellent quality food at fair prices, and of this I was successfully convinced.On offer, particularly for students, is a set menu of two courses and a glass of wine for lunch (£11.50) and dinner (£15). Peanuts! Yet, Brasserie Blanc is run by a respected and well known chef. For this price, you’re probably thinking the portions are of the designer, nouvelle cuisine type. Quite the opposite. The portions are sizeable and would leave most people happily full.As for the food itself: the menu is varied, with something for everyone; they even have a children’s menu. As starters, they offer the expected French specialities including mussels and ‘escargot’, along with soups, salads and a particularly good battered goat’s cheese with tomato relish – a bold dish with an amazing array of strong flavours. Choices of main course stretch to include a carvery; the steaks on offer are exceptional with extremely high quality meat cooked to melt in your mouth. You can tell that time has been taken putting these dishes together, especially in terms of sourcing high quality ingredients and balancing the flavours of the dish.There are no short cuts taken with any aspect of your restaurant experience here. Tying in with the quality of the food is the staff’s attentiveness. They are there when you need them but are sensitive about interfering with your food or company by being too persistent. All this with a backdrop of a relaxed, chatty atmosphere, and if you’re lucky enough, a window table to watch the residents of Jericho go by – essential if your company happens to be boring the pants off you!I would definitely recommend dining at this quality restaurant. Perhaps lunch with friends, a dinner date, à la carte menu with the parents or a celebration; it will be suitable all occasions, and well worth a visit.

By Chantal Hadley****Even from the opening credit sequence I was struck by the similarity between Philippe Sarde’s mournful violin music and Philip Glass’s violin concerto used in The Hours. Both films deal with one’s mortality, specifically with AIDS, and with the impact of AIDS on friends and family. Les Témoins manages to evoke the tremulous time in the mid-eighties when AIDS was beginning to be seen as an epidemic in the Western World. This film, as Sarah (played by Emmanuelle Béart) says, is a “testimony” to those times and to the individual suffering of youth confronted with death.Les Témoins tells the story of Manu, living in Paris with his sister. Befriended by a respected doctor, Adrien, Manu is introduced to Mehdi (a police officer) and his wife, Sarah (a writer). Manu is attracted to Mehdi, and they begin an affair which will change their lives and the lives of those around them.Téchiné himself defines Les Témoins as a “historical film… not a documentary”, and it is. The film touches upon a variety of pretty serious issues:  mixed-race couples, same-sex couples, prostitution, STIs, post-natal depression and euthanasia. It’s not a fluffy film, but nor is it hard work. As a drama with a romantic backdrop it is more in the slightly uncomfortable vein of Deux Jours à Paris or L’Appartement than of Paris, Je T’Aime.As Téchiné says, he wanted to show the characters at “a certain moment of their lives… reveal aspects” of that moment, and then “leave the rest to the audience”. We are plunged into the characters’ lives at a moment just before a radical change, just as Manu and Mehdi literally plunge into the sea. That said, the changes are at times predictable, and their consequences somewhat cliché. In a manner reminiscent of Amélie, some of the major events are chopped up into tiny montages with fast music. This makes the film feel disjointed at times.
The best part of the film is the superb performance by Michel Blanc as the doctor who first falls in love with Manu, and supports him even after Manu becomes involved with Mehdi. Somehow, Blanc’s silent, melancholy glances just left of the lens have more emotion than the rest of the characters put together. I originally found it difficult to either have sympathy for or honestly like Manu. Johan Libéreau lacked chemistry with Depardieu, and I didn’t even realise Manu and Julie were related until she was introduced as his sister! On the other hand, Bouajila and Béart both put in solid performances, relating characters with internal demons and external pressures that prove hard to deal with. Téchiné says “perhaps loving Manu and bearing witness to his life makes the other protagonists stronger”, and even through moments where Manu seems unlikeable, grotesque or insensitive, by watching how others react, Téchiné succeeds in making all of us witnesses as well.

By Dave Challiner 
***Greatest hits compilations are often geared to provide the listener with an opportunity to look back and consider the trajectory of a band’s career. Scottish Fiction, the aptly named retrospective for hyper-literate Glaswegians Idlewild, certainly aims to do so. Sadly, it does so for the worse, rather than the better, only serving to highlight the creative paucity of more recent material in comparison with past glories. In an ironic sense, it also confirms the REM comparisons that have popped up so often over the course of their career. Both bands have emerged from tearaway beginnings and then ploughed fertile middle-period furrows before succumbing, sadly, to the law of diminishing returns.
Right from the off, the disparity in quality is clear. Sandwiched between the majestic ‘You Held the World in Your Arms’ and Gertrude Stein-referencing ‘Roseability’, recent single ‘No Emotion’ conforms to its title. This remains the pattern throughout the album with later, phoned-in work slipped in at frequent intervals to make it more palatable. Frankly, that a third of this album is made up of these tracks smacks of self-mythologising or record company interference.
This is a shame, as at least half of this album is made up of brilliant, raucous indie. Huge choruses leap out from every corner: the in-the-round hook of ‘When I Argue I See Shapes’; the weepy balladry of ‘American English’; the classic ‘Little Discourage’. Idlewild have always had a way with hooks. And way back when, as cocksure upstarts on the make, they sure knew it. Each one is delivered with the panache that comes from absolute self-belief, a quality sadly lacking in the more ephemeral Warnings/Promises and Make another World.
It isn’t clear who exactly this album is aimed at: older fans will already own the better tracks, and newer ones would be far better served by a collection based on quality, not scope. Its construction does, however, give us an accurate account of a career; alas, it is all the worse for it.

By Tobyn MaxwellBob Harris is a man lost in a culture completely alien to him. He is immediately likeable: a charismatic film star suffering a midlife crisis thousands of miles from home. Sofia Coppola’s film is filled with numerous funny, touching moments between Bob (Bill Murray) and Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson), yet it is a scene barely three minutes long that sticks in the memory as the true crowning moment of this wonderful film. Bob Harris has travelled to Tokyo to make an advert for a high-class whiskey, the director of which speaks close to no English. The premise is simple: create comedy from the linguistic confusion between Harris, the director and their translator. It is an extremely simple scene. There are no fancy camera tricks, nor any music. In fact, if we stop and look at how the scene might read off the screenplay, there is not really any particularly funny dialogue. The majority of the scene is in Japanese but it is hilarious to watch, and this nearly all comes from the reaction shots of Murray. The scene starts with Murray enduring a barrage of Japanese from the zealous young director. The instructions, apparently, are simply to turn and look at the camera. Bemused at the simplicity of the instruction, he asks for clarification, provoking another flood of Japanese, this time between both the interpreter and director. Turn from the left and do it with intensity! Unfortunately, on paper, this does not sound terribly funny. But then, this is not Tarantino: it is Murray. He sits there, mystified, trying to prise out some more information; but the more he wants the less he gets. With a widening of the eyes here, a frown there and a stare of desperation everywhere, he has you in fits. Watching his face is akin to watching a Chaplin or Keaton film; he could do this scene without speaking and it would be just as good. As the director becomes ever more irate with Murray’s apparent time-wasting, the translator becomes increasingly useless and with a look of abject weakness Murray accepts the instructions to be ‘like an old friend and look at the camera’. It seems right to pause at this moment and point out that there is more than just Murray in this scene. Every action from Murray is a reaction to the two nameless Japanese characters that enhance the comedy with their increasingly lengthy Japanese discussions, and ever shorter English translations. By the time he receives his final instruction he has a look of weariness that belies the minutes he has spent on this advert, as he closes his eyes, nods and sighs. This action sums up a great theme of the story, that Murray’s character is weary of life. He is too old to be flying around the globe to appear on Japanese billboards, but there is nothing at home that provides any solace either. It is a reminder that this film is not a comedy; the culture clash seen here is used throughout the film in order to increase the sense of loneliness felt between Bob and Charlotte. Yet with this scene you can forget all that. It is a moment of comedy at its simple best and, for me, turns a great film into a classic.

By James Lowe 
****Ed Harcourt occupies the classically precarious position of being a good singer-songwriter. Such ability isn’t always particularly useful, commercial, or cool. So you can play a wistful piano, sing with cracked chords and strum under a tree in the pale autumn dawn? Then you can be a singer-songwriter. They come and go like internships for students: you feel you should give them a go but you don’t really want to spend all your time there.Harcourt alerted the world to his fragile presence with 2001’s Mercury-nominated LP Here Be Monsters, and has released five critically acclaimed albums since then. Being a best of, there isn’t a ‘bad’ song on here. They are all strong, from the bizarre, melancholic exuberance of ‘Born in the ‘70s’ to the Ryan Adams bar-room lilt of ‘This One’s For You’. Lyrical adventures abound, and the instrumentation kicks back from mid-tempo indie rock on ‘Watching the Sun Come Up’ to whispery strings on a rowing boat at midnight on ‘Something In My Eye.’ There’s enough variety and instrumental exoticism to merit further ear time and the general vibe of this album is that Harcourt is talented in an age that doesn’t understand or recognise such talent. Dinner party material? Possibly. But I’d rather listen to Harcourt with his romantic notion of life as overpowering and wildly affecting than, say, Norah Jones’s life as commercial lucky-dip.Harcourt’s voice, a combination of Tom Waits talking in a stage whisper to Nick Drake as Ryan Adams makes himself heard over the piano, is comfortable with mumble-into-the-microphone melancholy, shout-out-loud hoarseness or watch-that-vibrato timidity. Which is no bad thing, but the breath of these elders hangs heavy on the air, meaning that Harcourt is a good singer-songwriter, yes, but that can only get you so far nowadays.