Slowcore as a genre first appeared in the American music press in the late eighties and early nineties, with the advent of indie rock as the Americans understood it. Since then, however, it has been used to cover a multitude of sins. At first, bands such as Galaxie 500, Low and Codeine were classified as slowcore upon their entrance into the American ‘indie’ music scene: journalistic shorthand for intense, moody, and most importantly, depressing.
Described as such, slowcore bands seem like little more than the American counterpart of late eighties post-punk outfits, albeit without the bad hair and eyeliner. Indeed, upon first listen, there is little to distinguish the lush, ambient instrumentation and swirling guitars of Mark Kozelek’s Red House Painters on his 1993 album Rollercoaster from the drowsier moments on the The Cure’s classic Disintegration.
The healthy use (or abuse) of static by Codeine on their debut album Frigid Stars in 1990 calls to mind better known shoegaze bands such as My Bloody Valentine. Elliott Smith shares his whispery vocals and lo-fi sensibilities – most evident in early albums such as Either/Or or Roman Candle – with other American indie-rock contemporaries such as Sebadoh and Eric’s Trip. At the same time, acoustic moments such as ‘Miss Misery’ of Good Will Hunting fame are reminiscent of nothing so much as a slightly matured Conor Oberst, or a watered down Iron and Wine.  
Perhaps what the sub-genre is best encapsulated by is a mood – melancholy. Slowcore is The Smiths without the irony, and The Cure without the kitsch. It’s not just about the lyrics – even Mark Kozelek can’t match Robert Smith’s throes of despair on Pornography. What Low achieves in albums such as Secret Name is instrumentation that is simultaneously lush and sparse, haunting vocals, united with lyrics disquietingly evocative of loneliness and loss. It is easy to imagine Elliott Smith’s ‘Between The Bars’ playing over a scene in Sofia Coppola’s Lost In Translation, as a lone car winds through the sleepless streets of Tokyo – the perfect ode to modern-day alienation.
Certainly slowcore bands sometimes fall short – ‘Crabwalk’ off American Music Club’s Everclear is closer to country than Shania Twain has been in almost a decade, while Elliott Smith seemed to have outgrown his days of meager instrumentation by his later work. For the most part, however, this is music for funerals – and with the lyrics to match.

For many, 2007 was to be the year in which the cinema was the place to see and be seen. With about 80 films released, it seemed a fairly safe bet that there would be something to cater to everyone’s tastes. However, it was also a summer of ‘threequels’- five of the ten highest-grossing films have been third installments of previous box office winners. So, we should ask whether the so-called summer of cinema represented a return to a golden age of film or just the film industry’s increased ability to churn out the kind of cinematic experience that inexplicably gets bums on seats. The many eyes of the Cherwell have been busy and here we present a breakdown of this summer’s most memorable films…

HITS
Death Proof

Heavily influenced by the low-budget high-carnage exploitation films of the ‘60s and ‘70s, Death Proof follows the exploits of maniacal stuntman Mike, expertly portrayed by Kurt Russell, and who uses his specially-reinforced car to stalk and brutally murder groups of unsuspecting girls. The plot may seem pedestrian but there is much more than meets the eye here; the dialogue is razor sharp, the stunts are jaw-dropping and the performances flawless. It’s unlikely that Tarantino’s latest offering will meet all tastes but, let’s face it, that’s not really the purpose of any Tarantino film. Ultimately, those appreciative of Tarantino’s slick, daring and borderline offensive style will find much to love about Death Proof. Despite receiving a lukewarm reception from some quarters, it seems clear that in time Death Proof will be recognised as one of Tarantino’s masterpieces.
Mary Clare Waireri

Tell No One

Based on the bestselling novel by Harlen Coben, Tell No One opens with the brutal murder of Margot Beck. Several years after the tragedy, her husband Alex (Francois Cluzet) receives an e-mail containing a link to a live video feed of a woman he believes to be Margot. Haunted by the images he sees, and the accompanying message that he must “Tell no one”, Alex is convinced that his wife is still alive. As Alex embarks on a struggle to uncover the truth behind the e-mail, he becomes entangled in a web of deceipt and crime.  One of the best things about Tell No One is Cluzet; not only is he convincing as the grief-tormented widower, but also the sense of impotence he feels as he finds himself increasingly embroiled in a situation beyond his control is perfectly expressed. In short, Tell No One has all the ingredients of a tense, unpredictable and stimulating thriller.
Genevieve Grey
Knocked Up

This film follows career-girl Alison’s drunken one-night stand with the sweet but useless Ben. Considering the title, the end result is fairly predictable, but the real subject of the film is the journey through Alison’s nine months of pregnancy and her attempt to transform pot-smoking, unemployed Ben into a suitable father. The film includes the inevitable dose of crude humour, but raises important questions about what it takes to be a good parent, partner, and to make a relationship work. The graphic birth scene suggests that men should definitely remain at the head of the hospital bed while their partner gives birth, but strong performances from the leading actors and a genuinely funny and honest script make this amusing and enjoyable viewing.
Emily Damesick

Molière

The premise is simple: take a period of Molière’s life about which next to nothing is known, and fill it with events strikingly similar to those in his masterpiece, Tartuffe. So far, so Shakespeare in Love. Director Laurent Tirard’s creation, however, is  refreshingly different. This surreal farce casually tackles such weighty issues as infidelity, unrequited love, and the pointlessness of attempting to be what you are not – aptly illustrated by comedic genius Molière’s doomed desire to be a great tragedian. The illustrious cast are laugh-out-loud funny, and the script is sharp and witty. If you can stand the subtitles, this is definitely worth a watch.
Emma Whipday

MISSES
Transformers

Unfortunately, the idea of taking a range of plastic toys and turning it into a summer blockbuster is not as unheard of as it should be. Shia LeBoeuf brings an adequately gawky presence to the role of the young man who happens upon a car that turns out to be a super-advanced alien robot, (cue jokes about the Japanese), but despite his efforts the film can’t deny what it is; a two-hour advert for the disturbing Optimus Prime and his companions. Michael Bay’s hamfisted portrayal of the heroic armed forces does nothing to help. In short, supremely missable. Unless you really, really, really like explosions.
Monique Davis

Private Fears in Public Places

Directed by Alain Resnais and based on Alan Ayckbourne’s play, Private Fears in Public Places is an attempt to cash in on the tried and tested model of interwoven love stories – see Love Actually. Unfortunately, it fails miserably. There are three principle problems with this film: firstly the pile-up of short scenes (there are almost fifty in total) means that the film doesn’t unfold comfortably and development comes only in brief bursts. Secondly, and rather unconvincingly, the characters seem oblivious to their own interconnections – despite the fact that there are only six of them. Worse still, even with this restricted social spectrum, they do little more that tap one another on the shoulder, never really engaging and failing to convince us that there’s even anything interesting going on. Finally, the failure to make a complete departure from the stage makes this interpretation unsuccessful and clumsy: ‘invisible walls separating people’ are portrayed as an opaque office partition between two of the characters while snow marking the distinction between each scene symbolises the ‘coldness of their isolation’. It tries to tick all the boxes but sadly it’s a far cry from Renais’ acclaimed Last Year at Marienbad or Smoking/No Smoking.
Katherine Eve

1408

Starring Samuel L. Jackson and John Cusack, one can be forgiven for expecting 1408 to be at least partially worthwhile. Cusack stars as Mike Enslin, a writer who tours hotels in the hope of finding paranormal activity. Mike eventually stumbles across a haunted hotel room (number 1408, as it happens) that apparently kills anyone who sleeps there. Despite many ominous warnings he stubbornly insists on staying in this room and terrifying experiences naturally ensue. Unfortunately, after the first 20 minutes, the film disintergrates faster than you could say ‘Snakes on a Plane’. It’s hard to pin down exactly where the film became so utterly unwatchable; maybe it was when an assortment of Mike’s dead relatives emerged from various corners of his suite for cheesy reunions. In any case, the death knell for 1408’s chances of success came with the final ‘twist’; predictable and downright lame. Definitely one to miss.
Mary Clare Waireri

The Simpsons Movie

At the beginning of The Simpsons Movie, Homer complains about paying for something he can usually watch for free. The irony is deliberate, of course, but the disappointment is that he’s right. Our television screens are often graced with classic Simpsons  episodes, mostly from the first few seasons. They’re a consistently and brilliantly funny concoction of wit, satire and endlessly quotable one-liners. So what do we get with the film? Well, there’s Spiderpig… In fact, like said pig, the film is silly, repetitive and full of pop-culture. It’s perfectly watchable and intermittently funny, but it’s also hugely inconsistent and sadly lacking in memorable scenes or dialogue, which means the experience is really just like paying to watch four newer episodes of The Simpsons back to back. And that’s pointless, because my college still has Sky.
Jonathan Tan

Thrilled to be an extra for a blockbuster new film, Guy Pewsey soon discovered that silver screen Oxford is not as quaint as it seems…

 When last term finally ended and the summer holidays at last arrived, most students packed their gowns and escaped the city as soon as the last jug of Pimms was drained. Like many, I had daydreams of putting on my suntan lotion whilst lying on a tropical beach somewhere a thousand miles from Oxford. Instead, I found myself at the town hall at five o clock in the morning, having my hair pulled out to make a rather dashing, yet terribly painful, side parting. One could ask why I was spending my free time in such conditions, and I was beginning to wonder myself, until I was brought back to reality as a few more hairs were plucked from my scalp.

It had started perhaps a week before, when my unhealthy addiction to Facebook finally paid off, and I discovered an advertisement for work as an extra on the set of ‘Brideshead Revisited’, the film adaptation of Evelyn Waugh’s classic novel, made even more famous by the much loved 1981 mini-series. This film had it all: a big budget, big stars like Emma Thompson and Michael Gambon along with up-and-coming actors Matthew Goode and Ben Whishaw as Charles and Sebastian. Never one to shy from the limelight, I was instantly enthralled, and when further reading informed me that the job paid ninety pounds a day, it took me approximately two seconds to e-mail the casting company for more information. With the application came a request for a photograph to check that I could pass for a first year Oxford student (hardly a taxing performance) and a severely off-putting checklist. ‘Can you row?’ No. ‘Can you ride a horse?’ No. Answering these questions, which essentially amounted to ‘Are you a rich boy from the 1920s?’, was a little depressing, so I took to embellishment. ‘Can you play rugby?’ Yes. I could almost hear my Year 11 P.E. teacher chuckling as I ticked the box. ‘Can you punt?’ Yes. Again, memories of last term’s attempts at messing about on the river had certainly proven otherwise. With a few more fabrications the form was complete, and I was imagining the ninety pounds a day nestled nicely in my dwindling bank account. My hopes were fulfilled, and I was asked to come for a costume fitting in Oxford a few days later, for which I would be paid thirty pounds for about half an hour. Now I was almost giddy with the thought of so much money for what I was sure would be the easiest job ever. I promptly called in sick at work for the next fortnight and booked my coach to Oxford. I was trading in serving grease-topped pizza to be a ‘background artiste’ in a big budget film, and I couldn’t help but tell everyone I knew about this glamorous new opportunity, made all the more exciting by my visit to the costume department where I was kitted out in a navy 1920s three piece suit and trilby, complete with vintage cuff-links and braces. I was already contemplating how I could get away with stealing something expensive.

And yet the allure of the silver screen lost a little of its sparkle almost immediately as I awaited the information concerning times and locations for the next day’s start. Instead came a rather blunt text message telling me that I was no longer required for this week’s scenes, but that I would be contacted if this changed. By my calculations I was already down two hundred and seventy pounds, half the earnings I had hoped for from the six day shoot. After toying with polite acceptance, my control went out the window and I e-mailed the company with my grievances, citing loss of earnings and whatever else I could complain about. To my surprise, my efforts were not in vain, and I soon received a call that night requesting my presence the next day. I instantly agreed. "What time?"; "Five ‘o clock for a seven o clock shoot"; "Great, see you tomorrow evening then"; "Tomorrow morning", she corrected. I almost collapsed with the idea of such an early morning after a month of midday lie-ins, and went to get some beauty sleep before my big screen debut.

Which brings me back to the most painful haircut of my life. As I sat in hair and make-up, reflected in the typical lit mirror, talking to one of the many stylists who ran around the room searching for the Brylcreem, I discovered just how passionate she was about her work. She knew the business back to front, had cut the hair of some of the most famous actors in Britain, and, perhaps most refreshingly, was ecstatic to be playing a role in transferring her favourite novel of all time to the big screen. Her banter distracted me sufficiently from the horror I felt at what she was doing to my hair, but even the extra thirteen pounds added to my pay for ‘loss of assets’ was little comfort after I was left with a haircut reminiscent of an eight year old WWII evacuee.

After hours of waiting, I was in costume and ready to go, and that’s where the world of ‘background artistry’ started to rear its ugly head. The production assistant arrived to take a dozen of us to the first site, meaning another dozen would remain behind inactive and, most importantly, off camera. As we were picked randomly to be taken down to Christchurch, the unlucky leftovers, watching as we were led away, glared bitterly, like Veruca Salt when Gene Wilder denies her a golden egg. This is when I realised that for these wannabe actors, the chance to be on screen for a second or two was worth fighting for, especially when they’re competing with a couple of clueless students too naive to realise that for some people, walking back and forth in the background counts as acting.

Leaving these ‘professionals’ in the holding area at the town hall, we were transported down the street and given our props and first actions. When instructed to walk from beneath an archway out towards the middle of the quad, I was delighted to discover that this meant that I would definitely be in shot. Within five minutes, I had turned into one of them, a background artist desperate for screen time, hiding my trilby so that my face would be visible, practicing my 1920s walk in between shots. Evelyn Waugh had unwittingly created a monster, as I argued for the most distinctive props, insisting that my costume was that of a studious individual who would surely have had a gown and a stack of books. I knew that at this rate, it wouldn’t be long before I was disregarding the director’s instructions to stay in the background. And yet, by the tenth take, the fifteenth take, the twentieth take, the glamour was fading and the books were getting heavy.
I could tell that while some of the extras were here for the exposure, some were here to see the stars. Most had their eyes peeled for Emma Thompson or Michael Gambon, to such an extent that they didn’t realise that the real stars, those playing Charles and Sebastian, were walking amongst them. But it soon became clear who was getting paid the big salary. As I was assigned the action of pinning 1920s notices on boards, Ben Wishaw, star of 2006 film ‘Perfume’, drew attention to himself by spinning around dizzily on his toes. The extras wondered who on earth this nutjob was, and it took everyone about five shots to realise that he was just getting into Sebastian’s drunken demeanour. Once it had been made clear that Ben was actually not a freak, but the star of the film, a completely different atmosphere descended on the group. With a named character in shot, the chance of getting on camera increased, and so did the eagerness to have a decent action. When the production assistant asked if anyone smoked, so that they could have a shot of a student sneaking a cigarette in the cloisters, several non smokers fell over each other to answer him. Moments later, one of these boys was taking his first puff with a mix of disgust and pride imprinted on his face.

And so the day went by, filming the same scene twenty times before the director decided to move on to the next one. In between takes, I was given new props to make me appear as if I was a different character, although a new set of books and a hat was about as effective a transformation as Clark Kent’s spectacles. After eight hours of paid work, we were finally given lunch, but not before the rules were established. Extras must wait until all others have received food before they do, so the cast, the crew, the stylists, the prop masters, the head painter, the mini bus driver, even the work experience boy, got to eat before us. All day I had wanted an opportunity to discover if there was any truth in Ricky Gervais’ successful comedy series, where he chats casually with stars such as Kate Winslet and Samuel L. Jackson on the tea break. Here was my chance to rub shoulders with the stars, but it quickly became clear that this aspect of ‘Extras’ lies in fiction. Everyone ate in the same room, and yet it was as if there was a barrier, an invisible force field of ego and salary preventing us lowly background artists from venturing beyond a six feet radius of anyone important.

As lunch ended and the sun came out, the tourists crowded around in their masses, creating a new problem as we posed for photos with the Japanese schoolchildren who, ignorant of the crew, assumed that we students still wear 1920s suits and hideous side partings. The day passed by, and we were elated to realise we’d gone into overtime at ten pounds an hour. Despite this, I was relieved beyond belief when we were sent home after the twelve hour day, and I did what I could to reshape the mass of Brylcreem which had now solidified to an alabaster-like hardness around my scalp.

The next day, to my relief, was to start at two o clock in the afternoon. Surprisingly though, there were only five of us, as the others had been called the night before to be told that their presence was not required. But at four the schedule changed, and we were sent home without ever setting foot in hair and make-up. I left in the knowledge that I was receiving ninety pounds for two hours of sitting in the town hall, although I had been looking forward to putting my suit back on.
The rest of the time I spent filming was a wildly unpredictable and uneventful two days; sometimes I would move from left to right whilst on a bike in Radcliffe Square, or move from left to right in Magdalen’s cloisters, or move from left to right at Christchurch meadows. The idea of money was all that kept me and my fellow ‘actors’ going, so it was with great annoyance that I discovered from a seasoned extra dressed as a priest that wages take six to eight weeks to process, and include a large commission charge. Even worse, when some of the others discovered that I had been one of the lucky few to be requested for the two hours of work a few days previously, I could tell that they resented the fact that I was randomly chosen above them, the seasoned professionals. Similarly, when one extra was promoted to ‘handsome boy’ and asked to punt Charles and Sebastian down the river, we could tell that several of our ‘colleagues’ had their fingers firmly crossed for him to fall in.With fatigue setting in and money a far-off promise, suddenly filming a movie got a little old, and although I’d had some fun and met some great people, I was bored of listening to ‘boy on bike number 4’ talking about his commercial experience. The career of a background artist is an erratic one; sure, you can tell your friends that you’ve worked with Nicole Kidman, that you’ve been in the same room as Johnny Depp, but to be a professional extra is to admit to yourself that you’re not quite good enough to be the star, or for that matter to be worthy of a name. It’s definitely worth a go, if only for the chance to say you’ve done it, but I won’t be jacking in my degree anytime soon. That is, of course, unless Spielberg happens to notice the lanky boy in the navy suit erratically cycling in the background, grinning like a maniac and trying to get in shot. One can only hope.

In keeping with the recent trend of films inspired by classical themes, 300 is based on the Battle of Thermopylae (c.480 BC) when 300 Spartans led by King Leonidas (portrayed by a swaggering Gerard Butler) attempted to defend their territory against thousands of Persians apparently hell-bent on conquering Sparta.
Aside from facing destruction at the hands of the Persians, Leonidas faces betrayal from within in the form of Theron (a deliciously vindictive Dominic West) who takes advantage of the king’s absence to strike a deal with the enemy and move in on Leonidas’ Queen.
So far, so simple but the twist is that this version of 300 was produced by the makers of Sin City and was heavily influenced by Frank Miller’s graphic novel of the same name. The result is stunning, experimental cinematography that combines the dramatic imagery of a graphic novel with the latest in CGI. In short, this version of 300 is a definite step forward from Rudolph Mate’s 1963 adaptation.
This might not be the film to watch if you’re looking for historical accuracy but the presentation of Spartan society is highly engaging. Taught never to surrender, the Spartan warriors are bred from birth to be killing machines. This is perhaps what makes Leonidas such a tragic figure. Furthermore, the fight scenes are beautifully orchestrated and there is just enough plot to keep the viewer emotionally connected.
Combine this with the fact that the absurdly muscular Spartan warriors spend the entirety of the film in a virtual state of undress and it’s difficult to find something to dislike about this film. 300 is perhaps just a touch anachronistic (with Leonidas ruling rather more like a 21st century Prime Minister than a Spartan King) and it’s littered with some rather cheesy one-liners (most notably, “Spartans, tonight we dine in hell!”) but unlike the interminably pedestrian Troy, 300 is still absolutely unmissable. Warner Bros. are releasing a myriad different editions; the two-disc special edition is the one to go for, positively brimming over with extras.

The Grand Café, with its opulent – some might say a touch overdone – décor, unintrusive background music, and friendly staff, has an atmosphere a world away from the bustle and dust of the High Street outside. Breakfast is served in the morning, brunch from mid-morning onwards, and afternoon tea from 2 until 5.

With the residing atmosphere being either that of a literary salon or a colonial tea house, the Grand Café is perhaps the last bastion of Oxonian decadence. Chandeliers hang for the ceiling, Earl Grey and lashings of clotted cream fill the menu, and old ladies from North Oxford meet regularly to discuss the latest goings-on at the Conservative club or how their grandson is doing at the Dragon School. All in all, a fine example of good old bourgeois frivolity.

Arriving a little past midday, my boyfriend and I gravitated toward the brunch menu, which at £6 for most dishes is a little more expensive than my typical post-lecture sandwich. The food was, however, utterly worth it. I ordered the kedgeree, a substantial portion of curried rice and peas with delicious, firm chunks of smoked haddock, topped with a knob of butter which melted into the dish as I ate. My companion’s smoked salmon bagel with scrambled eggs was even more tasty; the bagel toasted just right, the smoked salmon perfect.

Desserts, too, come highly recommended, my chocolate cake neither too dry nor too moist, and the Belgian waffles well-dressed with maple syrup and ice-cream. The pot of Darjeeling that accompanied our meal was good, but the Grand Café excels in its cocktails, which are half-price after 7pm. The brandy Alexander looked as appetising as it tasted, the elderflower Collins was refreshingly minty, and, best of all, even champagne cocktails are included in the half-price offer.

The service was discreet enough that I felt relaxed, but our attentive waitress noticed, without fail, when our teapot was empty and our plates needed to be cleared.

In the evening, the tables are adorned with candles, and even when my friend managed to knock one over and spill wax on a chair, the staff were good-humoured and patient concerned only that he might have burnt himself. While the tables are perhaps a little too small to accommodate the medical textbooks I prepare essays with, at least one table was occupied by a student, his cup of tea, and a book that looked far too boring to be read for pleasure. I almost expected to look over my shoulder and see a huddle of long coated intellectuals.

While the café was busy, it was quiet enough to make it not only an attractive lunch venue, but an ideal venue for a date or meeting. With cocktails as cheap as £3.50 in the evening, the Grand Café has the potential to rival even the illustrious Duke of Cambridge, not least due to its more central location. And the food is as fine as the drinks – while the prices make lunch here a luxury, treat yourself to it at least once; it’s worth it.

The thought must have crossed your mind as you find yourself subjected to yet another Noo-Noo like clinch in some dingy club corner. Why did we choose such a bizarre and potentially messy gesture to express desire?

General opinion remains hopelessly divided over whether the act of kissing is an instinctual impulse, or a social habit picked up during childhood.

Scientists have suggested a range of theories to prove that kissing is hopelessly, unavoidably instinctual. Freud would have us believe that our preoccupation with kissing indicates a desire to return to the safety of the maternal breast. Hardly a comforting thought, that subliminal childhood memories of your mother are the driving force behind your most intimate sexual encounters.

Slightly less disturbing are theories that put kissing down to caveman practices, crucial for survival, whereby mothers would chew food to an edible pulp and transfer it to their unsuspecting offspring with a ‘kiss’.

To explain the kiss as an erotic act, scientists have claimed that placing mouths together allows couples to detect how suitable their chosen partner would be as a mate. By smelling each other’s pheromones, you can supposedly determine how biologically compatible you are, although a brief survey of kissing couples would be unlikely to produce ‘necessary pheremone exchange’ as a primary motive for making out.

Perhaps, then, there is room to argue that kissing is a learned practice. The fact that 10% of humans don’t indulge in kissing of any form certainly undermines the idea that it is a basic subconscious human impulse.

Different nations have turned to kissing as a form of self-expression for a variety of reasons. As early as 2000BC, there is evidence of communities who viewed kisses as a religious act. Bringing lips together signified a highly spiritual union, and by breathing out the couple exchange a part of their souls.

Sadly, there is no obvious soulful explanation to justify our modern obsession with the erotic kiss. Maybe, after all, it’s something we do merely because it feels good. The lips are an incredibly sensitive area, and a skilful kisser can provoke highly intense sensations in their partner, perhaps rendering any further explanation unnecessary.And that elusive non-kissing 10%? Well maybe they just haven’t caught onto the joys of the kiss quite yet. Give them time and I’m sure they’ll get there.

Sally Kidson 

Since their creation in 1923, 750 million pairs of Converse All Stars have been sold at a rate of 30,000 pairs per day. Much like owning a mobile, an iPod or anything in Burberry print, these shoes have become a must-have item for any self-respecting sheep in society. They’ve had a good run, but perhaps it is time to acknowledge that, as with Burberry, over-saturation of the market has devalued the product. A quick visit to urban dictionary, modern society’s grapevine, will tell you that converse are "shoes that used to be an expression of individuality, but are now an overused fad".

Usually such a damning definition would be the kiss of death, but ironically, despite now being a shoe of choice for sloanes, valley girls, and I fear even Britney Spears, Converse have managed to keep a semblance of their integrity due to the fact that they are the uniform de rigeur of the ‘emo’ kids. Unlike Burberry, which unfortunately for the brand, became a favorite of chavs and Colleen McLoughlin, generally one of the most derided and despised sections of British society, Converse are still worn by the cool kids. Admittedly, by the slightly scummy, I-need-a-haircut, unkempt looking ones, but this only lends them a slightly dangerous and subversive edge. So, despite being worn by the masses, they’re still pretentious.

Of course, Converse are even more beloved by the fashion crowd because they can be considered ethical, which is very ‘in’ right now. Made of canvas and rubber you don’t have to kill a cow to fit in with everyone. How jolly! Unfortunately, since 2003 the brand has been owned by Nike, which has outsourced their production to the heart of Asia (and we all know what that means) and hiked up the price. Never fear: so popular are these shoes that a looky-likey, ethically produced alternative has been created under the brand ‘no-sweat’. Of course, these aren’t half as popular as they lack the All Star logo and stamp of authenticity. Fashion is a fickle friend.Then again, it’s not all about fashion. Converse are practical and comfortable. Sure, they’re miserable to wear in the rain, and they begin to squeak, and they make you look like you have clown feet, but it’s always the practicality factor which comes first. Of course, this is why ballet pumps are so popular. At the end of the day I’ll happily admit that converse are a design classic, but surely by now the novelty’s worn off.

Milly West

Much as our generation might like to claim Converse shoes as its own discovery, All Stars have been around since 1917, with a lengthy and quirky history behind them. Sports stars have been wearing Converse shoes since they were invented, making them the best selling athletic shoe in human history.

Converse products were even used during World War II, when the company produced parkas and protective footwear for American soldiers on the front line. The Converse empire is far more than a fleeting success story. It’s a veritable institution, firmly entrenched in American culture and history.

Converse shoes are far more than a brand name. They have been a formidable presence within several different music genres, including the punk, indie and emo movements. There is even a Converse music festival, a yearly event which gives amateur bands the chance to jump-start their careers by performing at mainstream rock festivals.

The beauty of the Converse All Star lies in the sheer variety of styles available. This is not a static trend, unlike the painfully clichéd "tea towel" scarf or the age-old Pashmina, which leave little room for individuality.

Converse do, quite literally, come in all shapes and sizes, ranging from the conventional lo-top classic to the bolder hi-top shoe, or even the outrageous extra-hi boot-like models. And then of course there’s the pattern itself. Some of the most outrageous designs feature rotund beige elephants, yellow Batman logos and even plastic bacon-and-egg insignias for the more outgoing fan.

Consequently, the chances of bumping into someone with exactly the same style of Converse are refreshingly slight. For one brand of shoe to remain unwaveringly popular for over ninety years, the designers must be doing something right. Whether it’s how blissfully comfortable they are to wear, or how seamlessly they seem to blend in with the most bizarre of outfits, the Converse formula is nothing short of unbeatable.

Inspired by the novel by Russian author Sergei Lukyanenko, Day Watch is a fantasy horror epic in which the supernatural beings Dark and Light battle each other for supremacy on the streets of contemporary Moscow.
The Day Watch are a team of Light beings who monitor the Dark Ones in order to protect mortals. After a member of the Day Watch (played by Konstantin Khabensky) is accused of killing one of the Dark Ones, the fragile truce between the forces of darkness and the forces of light is left hanging in the balance. In order to clear his name and prevent an open war, Anton embarks on a journey to find the ancient Chalk of Fate which, according to legend, can correct all mistakes.
When initially released in Russia, Day Watch became a major hit grossing over $30 million. It is partially easy to understand why it was so popular, for one thing, the effects are very impressive; being at once visceral and fantastic. Director Timur Bekmambetov says that the key to the look of the film was juxtaposing reality and fantasy; “The Russian audience doesn’t have any experience of this kind of film, because we’ve never had any fantasy movies or comic books…So the only way for me to begin was to make everything very realistic, so the audience would believe in it enough to accept the fantasy”. Bekmambetov thus creates a world in which a run-down appartment block is the home of an evil sorceress and an ordinary repair man is a powerful wizard.
Despite a promising start however, the flaws came thick and fast until by the end of the film I was literally aching to escape. Firstly, Bekmambetov somehow managed to make a relatively simple plot so unecessarily convoluted that the main thread of the narrative was irretrievably lost by the second half of the film. On top of this at 140 minutes Day Watch is just too long – by about 120 minutes. In other words, most of the film is a collection of gratuitous, utterly irrelevant, shots set to a pounding heavy metal soundtrack that left me feeling like I was watching an extended music video rather than a film. It’s almost as if the editors were so impressed with their own work that they couldn’t quite bring themselves to cut the film properly.
All this leaves me to conclude that Day Watch was made for two specific groups of people; fans of the book and people who enjoy watching films in which narrative and character development are substituted with bright colours and dazzling effects. If you feel you don’t belong to either of these groups, I’d give Day Watch a wide berth.

Meeting Anthony Horowitz is probably the closest any of us will ever get to meeting someone who thinks like James Bond. Handsome, approachable and undeniably upper class, the creator of teenage super spy Alex Rider has a feel for adventure and an ability to charm that even 007 would have envied. Daniel Craig may have bigger muscles and the real MI6 agents may have better computer skills, but when it comes to understanding pace, people, and creative ways of killing, Anthony Horowitz wins every time. His Alex Rider novels are some of the most popular children’s stories on bookshelves today, and have been described by one critic as "every bored schoolboy’s fantasy only a thousand times slicker and more exciting". Sales of Snakehead, the latest instalment, have been so brisk that it is currently ranked 15th in amazon.com’s children’s bestseller list in spite of the fact that it won’t be released until 31st October.

But despite his double-0 mindset, Horowitz insists that he has nothing in common with his fictional creations. Indeed, he attributes much of his success to his conscious efforts to distance himself from his writing. "I think the biggest mistake any children’s author can make is to base anything or anybody on his own experiences or the experience of his own children," he says emphatically. "I’m writing about universal children, for universal children. Alex Rider has got absolutely nothing to do with me at all, except for the fact that I happened to write him."

As our conversation progresses, however, I begin to realise that the line between fact and fiction is not nearly as clear-cut as it seems. Like so many successful children’s authors Horowitz had a miserable childhood. Born into a very wealthy yet emotionally distant family, he was brought up by nannies and packed off to boarding school at the age of eight. "In my early books, yeah, I was using my own childhood," he concedes. "I think in all the books of course I’m escaping from it still, and reacting to it. Why did I become a children’s writer in the first place? Well, having a miserable childhood probably helped." It certainly did: Horowitz’s hated grandmother is brutally satirised in Granny, while his nightmarish experiences at prep school, Orley Farm, form the deliciously sinister backdrop for the Groosham Grange novels. Today, Horowitz claims to have "dumped all that and moved on". Yet his heroes remain outsiders who have been orphaned or abandoned. The Diamond Brothers, Alex Rider and even the heroes of the Power of Five books are all forced to take control and survive on their own wits, resisting unwelcome manipulation by malevolent members of the adult world.
But to draw too many conclusions from these similarities is to deny Horowitz’s talent. Alex Rider may be an orphan, but he is also a highly athletic teenage spy who speaks several languages and is equipped with gadgets that ordinary teenagers could only dream of. He can even kite surf and snowboard on an ironing board (which Horowitz assures me is at least theoretically possible). The truth is, Alex appeals to teenagers in general, not just those who happen to have had a rough time at boarding school. Horowitz is the author of 38 books and several screenplays, many of which have little or nothing to do with his own life. In his latest book, City of the Dead, the main character is a girl, something Horowitz is not and has never been. "I’ve always been quite nervous of creating a female character," he reveals. "I’ve resisted it for years; I thought I would muck it up totally. But I’ve created Scar and I’m really happy with the creation. She’s got a vitality that my boy characters don’t have. She doesn’t quite do what I think she’s going to."

While Horowitz is rightly proud of his heroes, he’s passionate about his villains. The moment I mention Nightrise, the corrupt corporation which lends its name to the latest Power of Five novel, Horowitz sits up straighter. Abandoning his glass of merlot, he tells me, "The bad guys are without a doubt the most fun a writer can have. Heroes are actually quite boring. By their very nature they have to be fairly straight-laced." Horowitz’s villains are, of course, some of the most relevant in children’s fiction today. Where JK Rowling contents herself with giving Lord Voldemort Nazi overtones, Horowitz looks to today’s political and social leaders in an attempt to create more complex villains. "I think villains have moved away from sort of stock children’s villains, who do tend to be Long John Silver with a curious disability or something, to more politically motivated villains," he explains. "That’s the huge difference between my later books and some of the books that have gone before it. In Evil Star the villain is a freak with a giant head, but he’s also basically Rupert Murdoch. The people who are causing the problems of the world aren’t pantomime villains any more, but are in corporations, in politics, in power."

Of course these days the personification of evil is a risky business. Insistence on political correctness means children’s authors have to be careful not offend. Charles Dickens may have got away with describing Fagin as "a very shrivelled old Jew" who enjoyed counting his money and consorting with small boys, but very few authors would take similar risks today. Before the collapse of the Berlin Wall things were easier, Horowitz tells me. "Villains were either Nazis or Communists, and that was pretty much that. Creating villains in the 21st century is getting harder and harder." Herod Sayle, the villain in the very first Alex Rider book, Stormbreaker, is a case in point. In the original novel, first published in 2000, Sayle is described as the son of a failed hairdresser from Beirut. In the American version which came out a year later, he is reborn as the son of a failed oral hygienist. Apparently the original description was potentially homophobic. But the biggest change is seen in the screenplay, also written by Horowitz and released last year. Lebanese Herod Sayle is transformed into Darrius Sayle, white trailer trash from California. Middle Eastern villains, it seems, are no longer acceptable. So what’s left for children’s authors? Expected to produce believable bad guys, but constrained by excessive political sensitivity, they are faced with an increasingly difficult creative task. For Horowitz the solution is a simple one: entertainment. "My original aim has always been to entertain," he tells me. "But if you are an intelligent person, and I hope that I am, you also have to look at the world and in some way reflect it. The secret is not to start writing political books, or to start propagandising young people. It’s to still write adventures and excitement and chases and violence and jokes and all the rest of it, but to inform all of that with what you see and believe." And with these words Horowitz blows away all those politically correct politicians and "thought blocking" aides in much the same way that James Bond might get rid of an enemy, setting the rest of us free to think about and even comment on religious, racial and cultural issues. Provided we aren’t too boring about it, of course.