Monday 13th April 2026
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Donnie Darko: more than an average coming of age story

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In many ways, Donnie Darko is just another film about an angsty teenager with ideas he feels nobody else understands. He lives in a typical suburban neighbourhood, goes to an overly strict Catholic school and rages against the repressive world that surrounds him. This is the same basic premise as 2017’s Lady Bird, but with hallucinatory rabbits, alternate universes, and discussions about the physics of time travel thrown in for good measure. It is this supernatural, pseudo-science-fiction element, along with the portrayal of teenage angst, that has made Donnie Darko a cult classic that has remained in the popular imagination ever since its initial release twenty years ago.

Anyone who’s watched the film has been left dazed and confused by its ending. As many critics have pointed out over the years, the time travel magic that ultimately leaves Donnie dead is hard to wrap your head around. But that lack of clarity means that viewers can try to piece together the chain of events themselves. Writer and director Richard Kelly has littered hints throughout the film, making a re-watch gratifyingly worthwhile. However, the supernatural elements of the film haven’t just been included to perplex the audience and present them with an enticing puzzle to solve—they reflect Donnie’s inner turmoil and his questions about the world around him.

Donnie himself admits that he is a “troubled” teenager, grappling with a fear of loneliness and hallucinatory compulsions that make him burn down houses and flood his school. Kelly takes Donnie’s existential questions seriously, allowing his characters to have protracted conversations about fate and death. This is what sets Donnie Darko apart from other films about adolescence. Donnie’s problems in his school and home life are discussed as part of a much larger questioning of the world around him and how it works. This existential bent to the film works because the teenage angst that we so often see portrayed is often philosophical in nature. Adolescent questioning is not brushed off as pointless and overdramatic but embraced as something meaningful.

The supernatural aspects of the film only help to make the more typical critique of 1980s American suburbia sharper. When Donnie is dealing with existential dread and fear of whatever crime Frank is going to make him do next, the school’s obsession with morality and fear of anything different seems all the more ridiculous. Kelly still manages to make his satire funny, however, with a ridiculous Patrick Swayze playing a motivational speaker who makes instructional videos complete with chintzy music and PowerPoint effects. This film’s funny moments keep it from becoming too dark and depressing and are definitely part of why this is a cult classic. Donnie’s monologue on Smurfette and the “overwhelming goodness of the Smurf way of life” can probably be quoted in entirety by quite a few fans.

Despite Donnie’s death, which is punctuated by Gary Jules’ haunting cover of ‘Mad World’, this is still an uplifting film full of funny moments and assurances that there are kind people in the world to counteract the hostility of some of the adults in the town. Donnie’s family is a caring one, he is influenced by two more open-minded teachers at school, and he has a loving and honest relationship with his girlfriend Gretchen. It is, after all, his love for his girlfriend that seems to motivate Donnie to travel back in time and sacrifice himself, thereby undoing her own death. Kelly’s message is a positive one, asserting that even those that society sees as ‘wackos’, like Donnie and oft-bullied Cherita, can love and be loved. As Donnie says to Cherita in their last interaction, “I promise that one day everything’s going to be better for you.”

Donnie Darko is a film about the difficulties of growing up, but one that embraces the darker, more philosophical aspects of this more fully than many others of its kind. Whether or not you can figure out the ending or fully understand the logic of the time travel, this is a film with a meaningful message. There is a little bit of Donnie in all of us—confused and angry about the world around us, and hoping we can do something to make life a bit easier for the people we love. For a film about a teenager and an imaginary bunny, Donnie Darko has a lot to say.

Artwork by Rachel Jung

Ghosts in the Attic

Nearing the 3pm slump. (The clock is always 2:52 when you glance at it). Taunting synchronicity, eternal afternoon. 

Unpack-repack. That recurring dream that you only ever have in your Home Bed. Packing a suitcase, frantic. Hands moving too slow, oppressive air. Viscous temporal soup. You miss the flight by a fraction of a second. Unpack. Back Home. 

Grey skies greet your eyes in the morning, rain hitting the window. Washed out Friday/Saturday/Sunday/Monday. Trip to the shop to get milk for mum. You slip back into the paranoid notion that everyone must be staring at you. Leering, laughing. Back home, half-empty fridge shelves stare back at you apathetically. A bitter-meets-guilty, guilty-meets-angry feeling sits in your stomach, undigested, when you think of how you eat in The Other Place where The Other Half live. 

You hide in your AirPods, perfume and fur just for a walk to the shop. Imposter. 

Sunken eyes of little girls outside Tesco. School shirt half in half out, one sock up one sock down. Clinging to a rain-washed bear. The bear looks tired but compliant, no energy left to protest about the rough way he is held. 

For a brief moment you feel that you-girl-bear connect, an unlikely triad formed on King Street. United as allies  avoiding the eyes of a fed-up Mum. Eyes framed by half-moons. Limp ponytail, tired air. 

You smile at the girl to show solidarity. She stares blankly back at you. 

You’re sitting in a silent house. Hair unwashed, the musty smell of sleep still lingering in the afternoon. You think about the sound of your nan’s voice on the voicemail she left for your 20th birthday. Husky from all her years of smoking, but unchanged and as warm as ever. You and her in your alliance, when you were little and the world was smaller: swapping between school-nan’s house-dad’s house(s)-mum’s house(s). A world full of suitcases. Unpack-repack. Change without progress. 

Weekends with nan on the couch. EastEnders playing on the telly, reruns of the same show. You loved the coziness of it until one day it bored you – no one prepared you for that. Losing your favourite toys in the attic when you had to leave the house in a hurry. 

In a dream you were small and in the attic with the toys, hidden behind them, scared. A lady was angrily tearing down the wall they’d formed, one by one. You thought please don’t find me please don’t find me, not yet not yet. 

You think of the toys now laying abandoned on the attic floor, cast aside and dust-covered, unloved. Roaming the dark spaces of the house(s) like ghosts. 

You and nan walking back from the chippy arm-in-arm. (She always held you close, and tightly). Sharing a cone of chips in the cold and laughing. That gorgeous sound of a little girl’s laughter. Salt rim on your lip, warm feeling in your belly, toothy eight-year-old smile. 

She loved you fiercely and without reservation. You could see it in her eyes from the beginning. 

Guilt rises in your stomach because you haven’t returned her call. 

And that other recurring dream you have no matter where you are. You’re eight again. 

Dark spiral staircase. Curious to know what’s at the bottom, you descend the stairs. Something terrible lies waiting but it will free you to know what. Sometimes a man is waiting for you, hidden face, leering smile. Sometimes he isn’t. But always a fraction of a second before your foot leaves the final stair, you change your mind and run back to the top, terrified. 

Descend-ascend. 

Where do I go when I run away?

“If a book is well written, I always find it too short”: Our Ongoing Love Affair with Pride and Prejudice

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Every Austen fan has a favourite Mr Darcy. For me, it will always be Mathew MacFadyen and that hand scene in the 2005 film. For others, Colin Firth may be the one who made longing stares and social awkwardness sexy, or even Martin Henderson, who plays Darcy in the (seriously underrated) Bollywood film.

Each adaptation of Pride and Prejudice has its own take on Austen’s famous romantic hero, yet the most recent retelling has done away with the main man altogether. Instead, the character taking centre stage in the new one-man play is none other than Mr George Wickham.

Written by Adrian Lukis and Catherine Curzon, Being Mr Wickham is set to stream to audiences on 30th April to 1st May. After debuting at the Jane Austen Festival in 2019, the performance will now be broadcast to viewers around the country with Lukis reprising his original role from the 1995 BBC series. It is promised that the soldier turned scoundrel will sit down to “set the record straight” on the evening of his sixtieth birthday, discussing everything from his childhood at Pemberley to his experiences at the battle of Waterloo.

Being Mr Wickham is the latest in a long line of retellings of Pride and Prejudice. Previous adaptations include several films, and TV series, a Bollywood and even a YouTube spin-off. There are also several slightly more left-field additions such as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Aspects of these adaptations have become famous in their own right. In the 1995 BBC series, for example, the sight of Colin Firth emerging from a lake in a dripping wet shirt and breeches caused the British public to collectively swoon.

The clip has been watched over 9 million times on the BBC YouTube channel. Titled “The Lake Scene (Colin Firth Strips Off)”, it seems that someone in the marketing department was a fan of more than just Colin’s acting. The scene has been parodied in several other films Firth has starred in, including St Trinian’s 2 and Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Both see his characters floundering in fountains in a gentle mockery of the original scene.

As someone who has seen most of the spin-offs, I can understand why we keep coming back to Pride and Prejudice. It’s always comforting to return to an old favourite, and fun to see it redone in different ways. Yet some may wonder whether we need another adaptation of this particular classic. Arguably, there are hundreds of other important and slightly more topical stories that could do with screen time.

In an attempt to appear fresh and exciting, new adaptions are straying further and further from the original story. In Pride and Prejudice and Zombies the knife-wielding Bennett sisters must try and secure a suitable match whilst sporadically fighting off hordes of the undead. The film (adapted from Seth Grahame-Smith’s 2009 book of the same name) received lukewarm reviews when it was released in 2016, with Variety’s Andrew Barker describing it as “awkward and unsatisfying”.

Satisfying an audience is a challenge for any adaptation. People arrive with a preconceived idea of what they’re going to see, and some don’t like to be contradicted. In Being Mr Wickham, Lukis and Curzon have had relatively free reign to develop the titular character, given that Austen doesn’t reveal much about Wickham’s past other than his involvement with Darcy. For all we know, he could have abandoned Lydia, moved to the Bahamas and taken up knitting.

This is the beauty of adaptations. They can take an old story and make it new in unexpected ways. They also allow us to return to the books we love and approach them from a different angle, challenging our preferences and preconceptions at every turn. It remains to be seen, however, whether a new adaptation of Pride and Prejudice is really necessary. Being Mr Wickham may prove popular, but perhaps it’s time to turn elsewhere for inspiration?

Image Credit: Elizabeth Jamieson via Unplash.

A View Into Both Worlds: Being Mixed-Race in Oxford

CW: Racism, mentions of violence

The first time I ever visited Oxford, I went with my mom. Two tourists far away from home, we spent the afternoon taking blurry pictures by the RadCam, staring at the Harry Potter tree at New College, and wandering around Westgate. At one point in the afternoon, we popped into a bakery to buy a quick snack (dreaming about the future is hungry work!) and as per usual, we struck up a polite conversation with the lady selling the croissants. 

“Wow!” said the blonde lady, blinking at my mom in amazement. “Your English is so good!”

I visibly cringed. There stood my mom, a proud Asian woman, who spoke better English than any other person I knew. There stood my mom, a philosophy major with an affinity for literature, who could talk circles around the rest of my family. There stood my mom, who practised my debate speeches with me and encouraged me to read law at the very same university we were touring. And yet, based on the colour of her skin, the darkness of her hair, the evidence of her race, she was presumed to be different. 

Growing up with a Singaporean-Chinese mom and a Swiss-Danish dad, I’ve been mistaken for every nationality under the sun. For eighteen years in Hong Kong, I was pinned as the foreigner and the “white girl”. However, as soon as I moved across the world, the way people perceived my race shifted to the other end of the spectrum. This reflection could very easily turn into a miscellany of identity crises; I grew up speaking the wrong languages, bungling cultural traditions, and floating between two different worlds, in which I wholly belonged to neither. But whilst I’m sure that would be a relatable read for all the mixed kids who stumble across this article, it’s not the point I’m trying to make, for now. If there is anything that my confusing duality has allowed me, it’s perspective. And that is what I feel the need to share, as the distressing hostility towards the Asian community grows by the day. 

There has always been a difference in how people treat me, based on which parent I’m with. Even though my dad did not grow up speaking English, no one has ever congratulated him on his linguistic competence. And as minor as this example of good faith may seem, it’s part of a broader issue that I am ashamed to have witnessed. With my dad, the bus stops for us when we’re a little late. Strangers smile and wave. No one has ever stretched their eyes and screamed “ni hao” at me when I’m with my dad. My dad has never been called racial slurs and thrown out of a London cab at 6am on his way to work. 

Before Covid, the world looked at Asians differently. And growing up in Hong Kong, I was fortunate to be raised in an environment where people are proud of their Asian heritage and the strength it carries. The discriminatory culture that I am attempting to describe, though, has always permeated my double-life. It’s weird to be mixed-race in an extremely racial world. And since vicious dialogue spread about the “Chinese virus”, I have felt, quite honestly, scared. Family friends, preceding my move to Oxford, recommended that I dye my hair a lighter colour. News articles about attacks on Asians implied that I should avoid China-town. Throughout my time in Oxford, people have blindly made jokes about the food I eat, my various foreign mannerisms, and other misplaced snubs at the expense of the Asian community. Maybe they thought I’d find them 50% funny. 

Maybe they didn’t care to realise they were not. 

I have held my tongue about discrimination against Asians since arriving, not only because I love Oxford, but because, to a certain extent, I have never felt like the best advocate for this cause. But the urgency of this rising hatred means that we cannot stay silent any longer. In March, six Asian women were murdered in Georgia. And this abhorrent behaviour is not confined to America. At the beginning of the pandemic, a 23-year-old Singaporean student was attacked on Oxford Street. In late February, a lecturer at the University of Southampton was savagely beaten in a racist attack. An advocacy group, ‘End the Virus of Racism’, has reported a 300% increase in Covid-related hate crimes towards Asians in the UK since the pandemic started. Yet I still hear rumours of students at Oxford casually throwing around the word “ch*nk”, and headlines in major newspapers, following the lead of former President Donald Trump, continue to paint the pandemic as a peculiarly Asian problem. In the absence of a supportive stance in the media, you and I need to be the voices for this movement. So here is mine. 

Part of me has always known that my divided heritage was not only split by culture, but separated by a gulf of privilege. On the face of things, though, discrimination against Asians has always been masked by excuses. Excuses about how stereotyping isn’t harmful if it isn’t explicitly offensive (cue the jokes about Asians being good at maths); excuses about how Asian cities have major financial power and hence cannot be subjected to racism; excuses along the lines of the “model minority myth”. The latest excuse, wrapped in fear and cloaked in hate, has been to vilify Asians for Covid-19. We should be done making excuses. 

This is supposed to be the best university in the world. I think it’s high time we focus less on our “really good English”, and more on the power our words can carry. Spread kindness, educate yourselves, and address problematic behaviour when you see it.

On behalf of all Asians, we are tired of being treated like the virus. 

Image Credit: Creative Commons – “Oxford Postcard” by anataman is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Review: ‘Klara and the Sun’ by Kazuo Ishiguro

For as long as artificial intelligence has existed in the public consciousness, it has been interwoven with an anxiety over its misuse.  That such a sentiment perseveres is clear. From entrepreneur-cum-provocateur Elon Musk’s claims that AI will supersede human intelligence ‘in less than five years’, to Defence Secretary Ben Wallace’s announcement that the British armies’ troop capacity will be slashed in favour of funding automated drones and cyberwarfare, the narrative that technological advancement in robotics is synonymous with violence and human redundancy has become commonplace.  Yet, Kazuo Ishiguro’s 2021 novel Klara and the Sun throws a spanner in the proverbial machine of this narrative, presenting a world in which artificial intelligence has been used with largely positive effects. The AIs of Ishiguro’s novel pose no existential threat to humanity, and aside from a cleaner’s brief moment of perplexity over whether to treat one like a guest or ‘like a vacuum cleaner,’ they are treated just as humans are.

The eponymous Klara is an AF, an ‘Artificial Friend’ constructed for the purpose of alleviating teenage loneliness in a time when children take their lessons from ‘screen professors’ on ‘oblongs’; landing in our current lockdown state, this hits rather close to home. We follow her from her days awaiting sale in a metropolitan store to her assimilation into the family of Josie, a young girl with a serious — possibly fatal — illness, for which her mother bears an odd sense of responsibility. The world Ishiguro crafts in Klara and the Sun has a comfortable ambiguity, one that evokes a future facing the same issues as our own present. Pollution that blacks out the sky, increased mechanisation and a pandemic of loneliness; if the novel can be considered dystopian, it is due to its presentation of a hyperbolic present.

In Klara, Ishiguro crafts a memorable first-person narrative voice, simultaneously robotic and infantile, scrupulous yet naïve. Ishiguro never allows Klara to fall into the uncanny valley, refusing to refer to her – or any other of the AFs’ – physical appearances, instead merely stating that she has short, dark hair and appears somewhat ‘French’. This is not to say that Klara’s robotic status is forgotten; frequently throughout the novel Klara’s visual processing is overwhelmed, as her ocular field breaks down into a cubist fracturing of the landscape, with elements becoming either hyper-focussed (such as the minute expression of a woman’s eye) whilst others clip in and out of each other, the world reduced to a series of blank ‘cones’. Such narrative quirks work a treat, drawing attention to the juxtaposition of Klara’s spiritual self with her mechanical body. 

This juxtaposition of the natural and the engineered is furthered in Klara’s worship of ‘the Sun’. Originally stemming from the fact that AFs are solar powered, Klara’s relationship with the sun becomes spiritual as the novel progresses, leading to her beginning to pray for the sun to heal Josie’s malady. For me, it is this juxtaposition that is the novel’s most striking feature, something that Ishiguro appears to be well aware of, making it the titular focus. This paganistic worship of the sun, nearly to the level of deification, by a purely mechanical vessel is certainly a striking image, one that Ishiguro revels in depicting. In that Klara is programmed for self-sacrifice for the benefit of humans, the self-abnegation of religious worship seems like a logical step. The plethora of descriptions of light within the novel border on fetishism on Klara’s part; they are sumptuous and rich, reifying through language the depth of Klara’s devotion for a star that she never truly understands. At one point Klara’s mechanical vision mingles with her discovery of natural beauty as she recalls how: ‘The red glow inside the barn was still dense, but now had an almost gentle aspect – so much so that the various segments into which my surroundings were partitioned appeared to be drifting amidst the Sun’s last rays.’

Klara’s discovery and gradual decoding of human love is depicted with beautiful simplicity by Ishiguro, and the treatment of the consciousness of artificial intelligence throughout is excellent.  Yet, Ishiguro’s treatment of genetic editing is slightly less compelling. In order to combat the ‘savage meritocracy’ (to quote from Ishiguro’s 2017 Nobel Prize Lecture) of the world, the parents in the novel have resorted to genetically editing their children to grant them specific worldly advantages, a process termed ‘lifting’. Such a process creates a demarcated caste system within the world of Klara and the Sun, with those who remain ‘unlifted’ becoming an acknowledged underclass, barred from both education and employment. The continued awareness of this system is made clear in Klara’s constant references to clothes, furniture and any physical belonging as ‘high-status’, as opposed to describing any physical quality. Such a binary class system enforced by technological advancements will be familiar to readers of Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go. The experience of the ‘unlifted’ underclass is depicted in the character of Rick, Josie’s friend and love interest within the novel, who seeks to scale this genetic barrier by making a special case to Atlas Brookings, a college known to be particularly generous to ‘unlifted’ youths. As the novel progresses, it becomes apparent that gene editing is not only a social, but also a physical evil: both Josie’s illness and the previous death of her sister Sal are a result of this process of ‘lifting’, demonstrating it to be little more than a mortal lottery. However, this subject is rendered merely a backdrop against which questions of AI sentience are presented and explored far more extensively. When combined with Klara’s childish perspective, the presentation of gene editing within the novel is left overly vague (it is not clear whether such a process is pre or postpartum, for example), lacking the requisite specificity to become wholly compelling. Perhaps the gene editing sub-plot could have been allowed a bit more time to stew – it is certainly interesting enough to warrant a novel by itself.

Whilst Klara and the Sun is undoubtedly a strong work – Ishiguro has led us to expect nothing less – it is not the Nobel Prize recipient’s best. It lacks the emotional intensity of The Buried Giant, the meticulous narrative drive of Never Let Me Go and the masterful commingling of both that is The Remains of the Day. One shouldn’t approach Klara and the Sun expecting the minute sci-fi world building of Frank Herbert, Isaac Asimov or Ian M. Banks. And yet this is not to turn people off Ishiguro’s novel. It is a fascinating study of whether a machine can fully become human, and whether there truly is a such a thing as a soul, one that ‘our modern tools can’t excavate, copy, [or] transfer’. After all, what can be more human than Klara’s closing remark that ‘I have my memories to go through and place in the right order’?  Even the fact that a Nobel Laureate is writing a novel that is through-and-through sci-fi is a massive victory for the legitimisation of science fiction scholarship. If there are moments in which the novel’s narrative minimalism can leave it feeling slightly hollow, these are outshone by the familiar lucidity of Ishiguro’s prose and the conceptual strength of Klara as a narrator. Klara and the Sun is a novel of elegance and poise, and with Sony 3000 recently acquiring the novel’s film rights, it doesn’t seem as though Klara’s bond with the Sun will be sundered any time soon. 

Image Credit: Frankie Fouganthin /CC by.SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Both Oxford crews lose to Cambridge in The Gemini Boat Race 2021

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OUBC and OUWBC failed to beat Cambridge in The Gemini Boat Race this Easter Sunday, the 166th of its kind for men and the 75th for women. With the race moved from London and done “behind closed doors”, Cambridge were on home territories on the River Great Ouse in Ely. Oxford gave the Tabs strong competition in both races, with the women’s and men’s crew sharing the same fate in only losing by a single boat length. 

Cambridge women’s started on the railway side for better wind protection, which gave them a slight advantage before the race got underway. Once the race had begun, they built an early lead, but Oxford hit back and were level with Cambridge 3 minutes and a half in. They managed to build a strong rhythm and also maintained a safe distance from Cambridge, but the Tabs raised their stroke rate 8 minutes in and pushed away from Oxford towards the finish line. In the later race, the men’s crew for Cambridge also pulled ahead of Oxford early on but had loud calls from the umpire to give space for the Oxford crew. Jesse Oberst, the cox for Oxford at age 38, steered Oxford’s boat with less of the stream over the course of the race, while Cambridge’s crew maintained their pace down the river. 

For the first time in its history, both the women’s and men’s event were umpired by women. The men’s event was umpired by Sarah Winckless MBE, an Olympic bronze medallist, and the women’s by Judith Packer, an umpire with 20 years experience and alumnus of St Peter’s College, Oxford. All crews wore a white ribbon in support of victims of sexual assault, following reports in the national press this week of allegations made by a member of OUWBC.

Last year’s race was unfortunately cancelled due to the outbreak of the pandemic, and 2019 saw the Tabs beat Oxford in both races as well. The last time the crews raced in Ely saw OUBC win by 3 quarters boat length in 1944 after the stroke from Cambridge men’s crew collapsed. The straighter and shorter course at 4.9km in Ely, as opposed to the 6.8km race on the Tideway in London, benefitted the crew with the superior muscle-power and greater know-how on the course and its nuances. 

Oxford’s training has perhaps been hampered by stricter conditions than Cambridge: the University prevented a quick return to training in December after the second lockdown and Oxford’s crews only moved to Ely on the 31st March, whereas Cambridge have been training on home waters for some time longer. The women’s crew were at a particular disadvantage as Julia Lindsay, who rowed at 7 for Oxford, only trained with her crewmates for 4 weeks due to isolation. 

The Oxford men’s crew will hope to win The Boat Race for the 81st time next year, and the women’s crew will look for their 31st win in hopefully more normal conditions. 

Oxford’s crews:

Men’sCollegeWomen’sCollege
coxJesse OberstPembrokecoxCosti LevyExeter
8- strokeAugustin WambersieSt Catherine’s8- strokeKatherine MaitlandSt Hughs
7Joshua Bowesman-JonesKeble7Julia LindsaySt Cross
6Jean-Philippe DufourLincoln6Georgina GrantHarris Manchester
5Tobias SchröderMagdalen5Martha BirtlesMansfield
4Felix DrinkallLady Margaret Hall4Amelia StandingSt Anne’s
3Martin BaraksoKellogg3Megan StokerSt Peter’s
2Alex BebbSt Peter’s2Anja ZehfussGreen Templeton
1- bowJames ForwardPembroke1- bowKatie AndersonBrasenose

Cambridge’s crews:

Men’sCollegeWomen’sCollege
coxCharlie MarcusTrinitycoxDylan WhittakerKing’s
8- strokeDrew TaylorClare8- strokeSarah TisdallLucy Cavendish
7Callum SullivanPeterhouse7Bronya SykesGonville & Caius
6Ollie ParishPeterhouse6Sophie PaineGirton
5Garth HoldenSt Edmund’s5Anouschka FenleyLucy Cavendish
4Quinten RichardsonFitzwilliam4Caoimhe DempseyNewnham
3Seb BenzecryJesus3Abba ParkerEmmanuel
2Ben DyerGonville & Caius2Sarah PortsmouthNewnham
1- bowTheo WeinbergerSt John’s1- bowAdriana Perez RotondoNewnham

Artwork by Zoe Rhoades

New day support venue for the homeless and vulnerably-housed opening in Oxford

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The Oxford Winter Night Shelter will be working with St Clement’s Parish Property to set up a new day support centre to offer respite, hospitality and encouragement to those who are homeless and vulnerably housed.

The new day centre, known as the “Living Room”, will provide support in a small and friendly environment to its guests, specially targeting those who may feel more able to engage in this setting. The Living Room is to be based in the St Clement’s area in a property owned by St Clement’s Parish Property, with its purpose being providing relief to those in need within the local community. The next few months will be spent in refurbishing the venue and finalising the operations and it is hoped that the Living Room will be able to open its doors during the summer 2021.

Through discussions with partner agencies, the Oxford Winter Night Shelter has established that there is a real need to provide support and companionship to members of the community, as the feelings of isolation and loneliness have increased during the COVID-19 pandemic. The Living Room will operate with high staff to guest ratios in order that the guests can be given the attention that they need to ensure a positive experience. The Oxford Winter Night Shelter will work closely with agencies to obtain referrals to the centre and to provide joint support.

The Oxford Winter Night Shelter was set up three years ago to provide overnight accommodation to the homeless and rough sleepers of Oxford during the winter months. Due to restrictions imposed by the Coronavirus pandemic it has not been able to operate the shelters this winter and rough sleepers are instead being given temporary accommodation under the “Everyone In” initiative. However, when it is possible to do so, the Oxford Winter Night Shelter intends to reopen its doors, whilst continuing the Living Room operation. The Oxford Winter Night Shelter operates through the support of its volunteers, donors and churches across central Oxford and wider afield.

Mary Gurr, Founder and Chair of the Oxford Winter Night Shelter and Chaplain to the Homeless said: “I am delighted the OWNS is able to work in partnership with St Clements and with our partner organisations. It is hoped this new initiative will address issues of loneliness and isolation and provide sanctuary and practical help to some of the most vulnerable and needy people in our community.”

Reverend Rachel Gibson, Chair of St Clements Parish Property further added: “St Clement’s Parish Property Trustees have been delighted to work with OWNS and its other partner churches and organisations since it began. We’re really pleased that we’re now also able to help in setting up the new day centre, which we hope will provide a warm welcome, companionship and support to its guests.”

Image Credit: Motacilla / CC BY-SA 3.0

The Conservatives’ attack on the ECHR: A Long Time Coming

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In 1951, the Parliament of the United Kingdom became the first nation to ratify the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR). The Council of Europe had drafted the document in Strasbourg in 1949, and two years later the UK became the first European country to formally commit itself to the embryonic concept of human rights.

A leaked recording, however of the Foreign Secretary, Dominic Raab, stating that the UK will not limit itself to striking trade deals with countries that have the ECHR as a minimum standard of human rights has exposed the strain under which the UK’s commitment to the principle European framework for human rights is. Proposals for the UK to withdraw from the ECHR and replace it with a ‘British Bill of Rights’, composed by the government alone, have arisen. But, in a more unstable and uncertain world than ever, it is clear that the UK must remain committed to the ECHR. 

In the recording, leaked to the Huff Post UK and published on 16th March, Raab can be heard advocating for Britain to trade “liberally around the world”. He goes on to add that if Britain should “restrict its (trade deals) to countries with ECHR-level standards of human rights”; the country would not be able to make “many trade deals with the growth markets of the future”. These comments followed a report by The Times that Britain was looking into doing a trade deal with China, to replace trade between the EU and China, worth $709 billion in 2020. Concerns were raised about the UK entering into a new economic partnership with China, given the latter’s poor human rights record, including claims of appalling human rights abuses against the Uighur Muslims and severe limits on the freedom of expression. Shadow Foreign Secretary, Lisa Nandy, declared the comments to be proof that the government was “entirely devoid of a moral compass and riddled with inconsistencies” and Amnesty International UK commented that Raab’s remarks would “send a chill down the spine of embattled human rights activists across the globe”.

Yet, only a matter of days later on 22 March, the UK imposed sanctions on four Chinese officials over the “appalling violations” of human rights against the Uighur people. Rather than talking up a trade deal with China, Raab described the mistreatment of Uighur Muslims as “one of the worst human rights crises of our time” and declared that the world “cannot simply look the other way”. China responded by placing retaliatory sanctions on a selection of British officials – including five Conservative MPs – whom Boris Johnson described, in a tweet condemning the sanctions, as “performing a vital role shining a light on the gross human rights violations being perpetrated against Uyghur Muslims”. 

Within the space of a few days, the government seemed both to undermine the importance of human rights, expressing disinterest in adhering to ECHR standards, and then staunchly defend them, following a tide of other European and western leaders to speak out against the genocide of the Uighur people. The Conservatives’ relationship with human rights seems more difficult to unpick and understand than ever.

In a British context, human rights have emerged in the years since World War Two as a European project. Though first drawn up by the United Nations into the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UNDHR) in 1948, the Council of Europe was assembled in 1949 to draw up a comparable European framework. Created by the Treaty of London and eventually centred in Strasbourg, the Council initially brought ten European states together to work for democracy, human rights and the rule of law. It was separate from the European Coal and Steel Community (founded in 1951) that would later morph into the European Union, and has continued to maintain its own distinct agenda and membership up to the present. 

The principles of the UNDHR agreed in 1948 were translated into a European context with the drafting of the ECHR the following year. The prohibition of torture, the right to liberty and freedom of expression were all included in the new charter. But these were not merely words; these human rights would be enforceable by the European Court of Human Rights. Established in Strasbourg, 1959, Article 19 of the Convention charged the court with ensuring “the observance of the engagements” undertaken by signatories of the ECHR. This distinct legal mechanism has continued to function in ensuring that signatories “secure to everyone within their jurisdiction, the rights and freedoms” set out in the Convention, though the 1998 Human Rights Act made it possible to bring a case involving the ECHR to a UK court, rather than Strasbourg. 

Even whilst it is separate from the EU, the ECHR and the European Court of Human Rights have both fallen victim to the rising tide of anti-European sentiment that culminated in the UK’s vote to leave the EU in 2016 and its eventual exit in January 2020. The ECHR and the very concept of Human Rights have become casualties of Brexit. It was David Cameron who first floated the idea of scrapping the ECHR and replacing it with a ‘British Bill of Rights’ back in 2015 in the same manifesto that contained his pledge to hold a referendum on the UK’s membership of the EU by 2017.

Whilst a ‘British Bill of Rights’ may bolster the importance of human rights within domestic politics, Cameron’s proposals represented an attempt to tap into the Eurosceptic sentiments swelling amongst many in his party and the population. Though a supporter of EU membership and the leader of the ‘Remain’ campaign, perhaps Cameron believed that a symbolic liberation from a different European legal structure would be enough to subdue the angry shouts for Britain to “take back control” by leaving the EU. In any case, ECHR and EU were merged in the creation of a powerful European adversary whom Europhobes could rail against in the bitter and hateful debates leading up to and following the 2016 Referendum.

On the 800th anniversary of the Magna Carta in 2015, Cameron vowed to “restore the reputation” of human rights in Britain, as “the place where those ideas were first set out”. Celebrations in Runnymede Surrey, the location of the signing of the iconic English document in 1215, became a platform for Cameron to articulate his desire to repeal the 1998 Human Rights Act and introduce British-specific legislation. The occasion and the terribly distorted legacy of the Magna Carta that Cameron appealed to helped underline the British Bill of Rights as a nationalist project that would protect and reassert a mythical British (or English) legacy of liberty.

Cameron went on to tell The Sun that the Strasbourg court had given human rights a “bad name” and that he would fix the “complete mess” of human rights laws. Comments like this have served to divorce the UK from the ECHR, the very framework it helped to create and of which it was was at the forefront. Attacks on the ECHR were a crude way for the Cameron-led Remain campaign to score points: a measured form of anti-Europeanism, attacking various non-EU European institutions as a sign of their nationalist commitment, to help minimise and divert hatred from the EU to other European ventures. 

Yet, even as the ‘Remain’ campaign failed and the UK voted to leave the EU, the nationalist, anti-European narrative around the ECHR that the Cameron government had carefully cultivated and fed into would go on to take on a life of its own. Anti-European sentiment has not abated since the 2016 vote to leave the EU. The difficulties that successive governments have had over the past five years in extracting the UK from the EU has meant that Euroscepticism has become a powerful force in politics. Cameron exposed the vulnerability of the Human Rights Act and the ECHR in British politics, priming the topic of human rights to be seized on and weaponised by others.

Boris Johnson’s government has leapt on this opportunity, since winning a sizable majority in 2019, by ordering a review of the Human Rights Act and its use in UK courts in December 2020. Director of Amnesty International UK, Kate Allen, expressed fear at the review, arguing: “Tearing up the Human Rights Act would be a giant leap backwards. It would be the single biggest reduction in rights in the history of the UK”.  

In both standing against human rights perpetrated by China and dismissing ECHR standards, the government has put out a highly confusing message on human rights. However, the key variant in their attitude does seem to be the involvement and presence of Europe. Raab’s comments that the UK will not be bound by the standards of human rights set out in the ECHR in a post-Brexit era, seem to be a continuation of the nationalist rhetoric constructed around the EU that has since infused discussion over the ECHR and human rights. However, in coming out against China, the UK seems to be indicating that it still foresees a commitment to human rights in its future; albeit a commitment on its own terms and to a concept that it defines. The proposal of the creation of a ‘British Bill of Rights’, its contents dictated by the government, has once again arisen.

Recent events have shown us the folly of letting the government, and government alone, define the concept of human rights. The Police Crime Sentencing and Courts Bill show this anti-ECHR anti-human rights agenda in action. The bill would criminalise protests that create “disorder” and “serious disruption”, as well as placing severe limitations on the ‘noise levels’ and locations at which demonstrations can be held. Despite the Conservative’s assertions to the contrary, it is in direct violation of Articles 10, protecting freedom of expression, and 11, the right to freedom of association, of the 1998 Human Rights Act.

Grace Bradley, the director of civil liberties group, Liberty, warned: “parts of this Bill will facilitate discrimination and undermine protest, which is the lifeblood of a healthy democracy”. Bradley went on to add that the Bill risks “stifling dissent and making it harder for us to hold the powerful to account”. If the Conservative government, with a sizable parliamentary majority, was given free rein to determine what classified as human rights and what would make up a ‘British Bill of Rights’, it is not hard to believe that similar attacks on our existing rights and freedoms would be made.

Other issues on which the UK government has previously clashed with the European Court of Human Rights would likely be ironed out in any potential ‘British Bill of Rights’. Brexit-style attempts to “take back control” of human rights can be observed in the response to the issue of prisoner rights, an area where the UK takes a fundamentally different view to its European counterparts. The issue flared up in the 2005 European Court of Human Rights case, Hirst vs. United Kingdom, in which the UK was found to have violated the ECHR in denying convicted prisoners, serving a custodial sentence, the right to vote.

The ruling and suggestion that the UK should re-examine the state of prisoner rights was met with fierce resistance with many sections of parliament, marking the beginning of a lengthy and drawn-out confrontation with the European Court of Human Rights and Council of Europe. Significantly, the debate around the ruling largely ranged beyond the actual question at hand: whether prisoners should be enfranchised, and widened to represent, and instead became a question of sovereignty and where power lay.

A motion, passed by parliament in 2011, argued that the UK should flout the court’s judgment on the issue of prisoner enfranchisement. The text of the motion highlighted that such legislative decisions “should be a matter for democratically-elected law makers”, in keeping with the concept of parliamentary sovereignty that dictates parliament should be all-powerful and should not be subordinated to any other body. 

Dominic Raab, then serving as a backbench MP and one of the proposers of the motion, urged for the UK to send a “very clear message back” to the court, that parliament and only parliament would “decide whether prisoners get the right to vote”. Though he assured his parliamentary colleagues that the UK would not be “kicked out of the Council of Europe” for passing a dissenting motion, Raab was clearly employing the rhetoric of taking back control and bolstering parliamentary sovereignty that was synonymous with the debates around the EU referendum. His remarks that “this House will decide… and this House makes the laws of the land” (despite the fact that the UK parliament had used its sovereignty to ratify the Convention in 1951 and to pass the 1998 Human Rights Act) could be applied to numerous conversations held around the UK’s membership of the EU. From fishing to free trade, the sentiment of Parliament and parliament alone being able to “decide” and make “the laws of the land” ring true with much of what was and has been discussed.

Though the idea of a ‘British Bill of Rights’ was never fully fleshed out in the discourse around the 2015 election and 2016 referendum, the very concept of the UK being able to independently define what was and was not acceptable seems to have been, in itself, alluring. Even the epithet ‘British’ marks the Bill, and the rights protected in it out, as a nationalistic attempt at the ‘British exceptionalism’ that often placed the country at odds with the EU. Such a Bill would ‘return’ full symbolic sovereignty to parliament (some have questioned whether it was ever really lost, given that the UK incorporated the ECHR into law in 1998) and clauses that the UK has historically taken issue with would be modified, for example Article 3 of Protocol 1 of the ECHR, requiring “free elections” and “free expression of the freedom of the people” would be qualified. Scrapping the ECHR and starting afresh with a ‘British Bill of Rights’ would embolden the government with both symbolic and literal power.

The strength of the ECHR and the Council of Europe is rooted in the institution’s history and framework. After centuries of European warfare and the devastation of World War Two, which saw some of the worst human rights abuses in modern history, European nations came together in an attempt to forge a better future. In creating an alliance such as the Council of Europe, this better future was staked on continued cooperation between nation-states, binding them into a common organisation to combat the divisive and hateful forces that had led to war and suffering.

And though issue has been taken with the European Court of Human Rights impinging on parliament, the very effectiveness of the ECHR lies in having an institution in place to enforce the high ideas and eloquent words that made up the Convention. The creation of the Court was a continuation of the post-war desire for mutual cooperation and bonds, ensuring that protection of these liberties was a constant. 

In his ‘Message to Europeans’ drawn up at The Hague in May 1948, Swiss politician, Denis de Rougemont appealed to a brighter shared European future. “Europe is threatened, Europe is divided and the greatest danger comes from her divisions”. He went on to articulate the desire for “a Charter of Human Rights…(and) a Court of Justice with adequate sanctions for the implementation of this Charter” in order to create a “united Europe”. If the UK were to create a ‘British Bill of Rights’ and withdraw from the ECHR, the Europe that de Rougemont appealed to, united by a respect for fundamental human rights, would be lost.

Image Credits: Creative Commons – “Dominic Raab attends a remote G7 meeting during Covid-19” by UK Prime Minister is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

No neutrality in another tongue: translation and the ethos of cultural power

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Nowadays, most people think of translation as an impartial, disinterested profession of fluent polyglots. Its history shows otherwise. In 1915, the renowned American poet Ezra Pound published Cathay, a short collection of literary translations. Except for one Old English translation, the rest were all taken from Classical Chinese: most were works of Li Bai (‘Rihaku’), the beloved High Tang romantic recited across the Sinosphere to this day. Pound was lauded for this highly unusual work: William Carlos Williams said that “[if] these were original verses, then Pound was the greatest poet of the day.”

Strikingly, Pound did not know any Chinese. He ‘discovered’ Asian poetry through befriending the widow of Ernest Fenollosa, an American Orientalist who left behind a large volume of manuscripts after two decades living in East Asia. In them were draft translations Fenollosa made of Chinese poems (despite limited command of the language). Pound based Cathay almost entirely on Fenollosa’s notes – so moved was he by Li Bai’s verses that he called them “unquestionable poems”.

Li Bai’s mythical greatness aside, are the translations unquestionable as well? Twice filtered through translators with little to no linguistic prowess, Cathay reads like a game of telephone at times. ‘Song of the Bowmen of Shu’, a piece from the Confucian Book of Songs, is misattributed to Qu Yuan (‘Kutsugen’) of the Warring States period. Some words mean different things altogether, while many other lines diverge significantly from Li Bai’s grammatical logic and nuance. However, perhaps fidelity is irrelevant to literary merit. Scholars with much richer knowledge of Chinese and English poetry have argued that despite factual errors, Cathay is great because Pound artfully captured Li Bai’s expressive poetics through a Modernist vocabulary.

Literary translation, however, is not simply an artistic act. Literature, built upon languages charged with specific cultural significance, inherits an inescapable legacy of transnational power structures, imperial encounters, and racialisation. To put away Pound’s fascism is to misread Pound; similarly, to read translations from ‘Oriental’ languages to English, in our neocolonial or postcolonial reality, necessitates understanding of voice and power. As a stand-alone work Cathay certainly has merit, yet Pound’s translation holds disproportionate influence over the English-speaking world’s knowledge of Classical Chinese literature. In a roundabout way, William Carlos Williams was right: translation work uplifted Pound’s own literary reputation and furthered his artistic ambition, probably at the expense of Li Bai. Cathay spotlights the translator rather than the poet; the white Western canon empowers itself by ostensibly taking foreign inspiration, always hungry for the aesthetics of Otherness.

Creative inspiration has no borders, but translation cannot claim neutrality. It can celebrate, admire, critique, and re-evaluate literary works, but if it fashions itself as disinterested representation of the original, the translator shirks cultural and political responsibility. In the same way, publishers make decisions about distributing power when they select translators. Amanda Gorman, the young African American poet who stole the show at Joe Biden’s inauguration, wasn’t offered the choice of a Black translator when her Dutch publisher approached her about translating The Hill We Climb, passing over many capable writers and translators from the Netherlands’ Black community. We can only speculate whether she would have chosen differently had that been an option, but this very choice reveals meaningful nuances in artistic purpose. In her poem Gorman uses ‘we’ to refer to all Americans regardless of race, but her language is steeped in the Black tradition of American letters. From rhyme and pronunciation in spoken word, itself intimately connected to African American Vernacular English, to her scriptural references rooted in liberation theology and the Black church, racialised language freely inhabits the poem’s cultural space. Whiteness, as threat or companion, is acknowledged but never dominant, and it is through the intricacies of language that Gorman reclaims cultural power.

Marieke Lucas Rijneveld, the white Dutch author originally selected to translate Gorman, might have been another Pound to Gorman’s Li Bai: last year, they admitted to having “very bad English”. As the youngest writer ever to win the International Booker Prize, Rijneveld’s literary accomplishments almost certainly swayed the publisher’s decision; like Pound, the translator’s career is lifted higher by translation’s inherent transfer of power. Unsurprisingly, white supremacy is at work in the languages and translation field. A translator of colour, particularly if they share cultural heritage with the original work’s author, would almost certainly not be employed if they confessed to any linguistic limitations at all. Diasporic descendants learning their ancestral languages never receive the same amount of credit as their white counterparts. As the sole translator, Rijneveld would have been able to weld an undeserved amount of power over Gorman’s work, in effect inverting Gorman’s original tenor.

Perhaps I’m being unkind. Amanda Gorman is more than equipped to make her own decisions, and Rijneveld appears to have understood the anger. However, those of us raised in racialised literary traditions have more than enough reason to be suspicious of white cultural interpreters, both within and outside the academy. Rijneveld said in their response poem that “the point is to be able to put yourself / in another’s shoes”, but I would argue that white egos already saturate literary culture: imaginary empathy, in erasing real distance and the role of power, is pretend justice.

Artwork by Zoe Rhoades

Discordant disenchantment: Hyperpop as the pandemic’s soundtrack

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In 2013 when A.G. Cook founded the record label PC Music, he was on the precipice of popularising an entirely new sound. Musically, this synthetic, bright, and compelling genre has come to embody everything typical of youth culture during the pandemic. Hyperpop has drawn on the sounds of traditional pop music and amplified them drawing mostly on synthetically produced sounds. Though of course A.G. Cook was no clairvoyant, his ability (alongside pioneering artists such as the late SOPHIE) to cultivate a sound so appropriate for the current day is remarkable.

It is hard to define the Hyperpop scene. Existing largely in an ethereal and digital sphere, many critics wrongly view the microgenre as a parody. Hyperpop seemed to have reached the mainstream in 2019 when Spotify honoured its cultural significance by creating a curated Hyperpop playlist. In doing so, the microgenre began to receive more attention.

Despite the genre’s global pull, it remains particularly difficult to characterise the musical space that Hyperpop occupies. Such visual maximalism echoes the music that Hyperpop artists are creating. Its aesthetic, much like its sound, adopts garish, bright, and captivating forms. Charli XCX’s recent music video for her song ‘Claws’ epitomises the genre’s visual output. Sat before a green screen, the low-budget visuals have no relation to Charli’s mesmerising lyrics. You would be forgiven for viewing the song as satire.

Hyperpop is as much an aesthetic as it is a sound. Album covers are often busy, colourful, and meaningless: Bladee’s album 333, released in July 2020, epitomises this. Claire Barrow created the cover art, depicting a fanciful world of creatures ranging from talking frogs to anthropomorphised Broccoli trees. Mechatok’s Defective Holiday OST, the sound-track to Kim Laughton’s video game, provides a hypnotic backing to an equally hypnotic virtual experience. Developed as a piece of art, the game leads the player aimlessly through several eery, life-like scenes. For Laughton, the best way to experience the world was to place it within a digital sphere. Laughton also released the game in May 2020, amidst the height of the first wave of the Coronavirus pandemic. This timing speaks volumes to the meteoric rise of the genre: prior to the Coronavirus pandemic a minority of people existed predominantly online. However, as lockdowns were imposed across the globe, most of us turned to the internet to maintain some semblance of sanity. Within these conditions Hyperpop was able to thrive.

What does the distinct aesthetic of Hyperpop tell us about the cultural space that the genre occupies? The seemingly arcane clutter of Hyperpop’s musical and visual creations reflect a similarly muddled fanbase. The music appeals to a young, international audience and is uniquely ungendered. Reddit’s Hyperpop forum, created in March 2016, now has 3,299 members. It has grown at an increasingly fast rate in recent months. To contextualise that, Reddit’s ‘Hiphopheads’ forum has 2 million members. The forum reflects the diverse fanbase that the genre has been able to accrue. The posts range from memes to fans sharing their amplified versions of pop or hip-hop, to original low-budget productions. Those on the forum are acutely aware of Hyperpop’s digital footprint.

Hyperpop is too young for us to begin to consider its legacy. But we can consider its contribution to date. Though often misunderstood, the microgenre has matured into the perfect musical accompaniment to mood of the Coronavirus crisis. If anyone comes to produce a film about the pandemic, they would do well to call upon A.G. Cook, or perhaps even Mechatok, and ask them to produce the soundtrack.

3 HYPERPOP SOUNDS TO GET A TASTE OF THE MICROGENRE:

1.’Claws’ – Charli XCX
2. ‘Ponyboy’ – SOPHIE
3. ‘stupid horse’ – 100 gecs

Original image: hinnk via Wikimedia Commons (artwork remixed from original)