If nothing else, the chaos provoked by the COVID-19 pandemic has been indiscriminate. Very few industries have been spared by its impact, whether that takes the form of job cutbacks, venue closures or event cancellations, in what has felt like a real-time stripping back of the usual structures that hold up modern life. Among them has been the travails of the cinema industry – and while few would name these struggles as one of the most tragic consequences of COVID-19’s spread, it’s certainly not without its own significance.
With theatres shut down worldwide and new releases either redirected to video-on-demand or shunted down the calendar, cinemas are on the ropes – the massive US chain AMC Theatres, which also owns UK outlet Cineworld, has spent the last couple of weeks on the verge of bankruptcy. Early on in what will likely be a fight lasting over a year, it’s abundantly clear that whatever form the cinema industry takes when it re-emerges on the other side of this pandemic will be a thoroughly changed one.
A lot of the media coverage has centred on the impact on big multiplexes, and that’s not unreasonable. They’re the big money-makers of the industry – whenever a new Marvel film launches, for instance, it’s cinemas like AMC who are programming round-the-clock shows and selling comically huge servings of food and drink to families for a massive mark-up. For the vast majority of worldwide filmgoers, they’re the absolute centre of their cinematic experience – and not without good reason. The big screen seems the most obvious home for huge, epic spectacles with crashing sound, glossy visuals and air-punching moments best experienced with a big crowd.
Ultimately, though, it can easily be argued that these huge multiplexes are actually among the less threatened cinemas. AMC may teeter on the brink of bankruptcy at the moment, but they’re still a massive global corporation who will be highly eligible for the litany of government business bailouts that this crisis has necessitated. If worst comes to worst, there are plenty of big companies waiting to pull out the chequebook and rescue the industry themselves – Netflix, for instance, has had recent experience in buying out and paying for big cinemas. Likewise, companies like Disney pour hundreds of millions into their tentpole releases; they can’t let the venues through which they’re consumed collapse.
Things seem less certain for the kinds of cinemas beneath the notice of big corporations and governments. Independent cinemas, and the smaller prestige films that they screen, are perhaps more directly in the line of fire of COVID-19’s economic impact, for quite a few different reasons. For one, smaller cinemas often take the form of a local business or a minor chain who don’t have the same corporate backing as the likes of AMC – once the funds start to run low, as they already are, there seems to be little to fall back on, and it’s uncertain how much small business loans will be able to help prevent this collapse. They’re also simply more expendable. While the argument for seeing huge blockbusters on the big screen alone is easy, it’s harder to insist on the same for quiet and meditative character pieces. Plenty of 2020’s independent releases have therefore taken the road straight to online download, skipping a cinema release entirely, ascertaining that they’ll be further down in the queue whenever the industry boots back up.
Even when the smoke clears, it’s not so clear indie releases will have the same position they once had, precarious as it already was. Consumers are likelier to be more skittish with their money in the wake of COVID-19, and more cautious with their trips into the outside world, and indie releases, which could just as easily be enjoyed within the comforts of home on a television screen, will probably bear the brunt of that. This process was already going on, anyway – the box office analyst Scott Mendelson of Forbes has long argued that cinemas are turning into ‘arcades’, solely reserved for gimmicky experiences which cannot be replicated at home, with COVID only accelerating this.
Yet, recently, there was a little flash of hope for smaller cinema in the form of the runaway box office success of Best Picture winner Parasite, which actually expanded from specialist outlets like Curzon to multiplex cinemas through sheer force of demand. While not quite independent cinema, original releases not related to franchises have also succeeded lately, such as Rian Johnson’s hit whodunit Knives Out, and the Adam Sandler thriller Uncut Gems. It’s not clear if there will even be space for these successes in a cautious post-COVID world, in which only the safest possible bets (usually meaning something tagged with an existing brand name) are allowed to thrive.
Perhaps these predictions are overly pessimistic – I certainly hope so. Independent cinema will survive in some form anyway, but it would be a crying shame if great, risky releases like Eliza Hittman’s abortion drama Never Rarely Sometimes Always, which received a VOD-only release in the UK, are relegated to fodder for the massive bank of streaming content available online. The big screen should be a home for a litany of different experiences beyond just the loud ones. The demise of independent cinemas would be such that the film industry, as a whole, becomes a lesser one.
The planned acquisition of Newcastle United has generated plenty of
interest, partly because of the identities of the old and new ownership and the
generous sum of £300m involved, and partly because of the possible shake-up an
improved Newcastle team could bring to the Premier League. The league has seen
its fair share of owners buying their way to success with Abramovich purchasing
Chelsea, and Manchester City being taken over by the Abu Dhabi Group. However,
while Newcastle fans will be keen to see their club return to its former glory,
the future is not exactly bright.
The proposed transaction will see the club taken over by the Public
Investment Fund (PIF) of Saudi Arabia from current owner Mike Ashley, who has
become very unpopular. Ashley has owned Newcastle since 2007, but his
reluctance to invest in the squad has caused tensions with supporters of the
club. Yet, those who would like to see Ashley go might not be so sure about the
Saudi Arabians, headed by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman.
Premier League clubs previously agreed to tighten takeover rules, meaning potential owners will face stronger scrutiny than before. Takeovers will be blocked if the potential owners have committed what would be considered a criminal offence in the UK, regardless of whether the act was illegal in a foreign jurisdiction. In this regard, the human rights record of the Saudi Arabian regime has been questioned, with one notable recent case being the murder of journalist Jamal Khashoggi at the Saudi consulate in Istanbul. The Saudi government claimed it was ‘premeditated’ but denied that it was ordered by bin Salman. This is exactly the type of controversy these revised rules sought to address. The dubiousness doesn’t stop there: a Qatari broadcaster has written to Premier League clubs accusing the Saudi state of involvement in television piracy, streaming EPL matches illegally, and it has asked for the deal to be blocked.
The morality of the takeover, or lack thereof, puts Newcastle supporters
in a difficult dilemma. The late Sir Bobby Robson, former Newcastle manager,
remarked that a football club is not constituted by the buildings, the
directors, nor the executive boxes; but by “the noise, the passion, the feeling
of belonging”. As such, a club is defined by its fans, not its owners. In most
situations, the issue of who owns the football club is not something supporters
should be overly concerned with. The club may be ‘owned’ by the owner, but its
identity and spirit is owned by all who have played or worked there, and who
have supported the team, and this is not up to the owner to change. (Case in
point: the significant backlash when Vincent Tan, owner of Cardiff City, tried
to rebrand the club from blue to red.) Nonetheless, the excitement generated by
the prospect of generous spending is completely understandable, especially
considering the manyfrustrating mid-table finishes the club have had
under Ashley’s ownership.
At the same time, it would be irresponsible and unreasonable for supporters to absolve themselves of any moral considerations. Amidst the coronavirus pandemic, this is especially clear. The public place expectations on professional football players, including taking pay cuts and observing lockdown rules. There are also expectations for club management, who have faced criticism for furloughing staff. There is no reason why football club owners should not be subject to the same moral scrutiny.
Whether this takeover materialises is not a matter fans can take into their own hands. However, moral considerations aside, they would do well to be cautious about their optimism. Newcastle will not be able to invest like Chelsea and Manchester City did. City, for example, are battling UEFA over Financial Fair Play rules, which are gradually being tightened. The impact of such rules on the transfer market remains to be seen, but one criticism is that it consolidates the existing footballing hierarchy by preventing clubs with limited revenue from spending to improve their standing. Without a better standing, revenue is unlikely to rise; but that means restricted spending which makes it difficult for smaller clubs to compete with the giants. It is not a catch-22 money can overcome.
On 21st April, Lebanon became the first Arab country to legalise cannabis farming for medical use. The bill was first introduced in July 2018 following a report from McKinsey & Company on the Lebanese economy and recommendations to create economic growth. One of these recommendations was the legalization of medical cannabis production, estimating that it could inject as much as $1 billion annually into the Lebanese economy; an economy that is currently in freefall, crippled by debt.
As fantastic as a new billion-dollar industry might sound, many are doubtful that this shiny and new economic prospect will truly positively impact the 48% of the population that currently lives below the poverty line. Since October, Lebanon has been overrun by protests that are now starting to pick up momentum again as the country’s Covid-19 restrictions begin to ease. The popular uprising has demanded an end to the political corruption that has governed the country for decades. There have been calls for a completely new slate, a clean out of the current political elite, calls which have only been met halfway.
For those that are protesting, the legalization of medical
cannabis production for export looks like yet another ploy by the political
elite to line their own pockets while everyday people continue to suffer in the
grips of poverty and unemployment. Louis Hobeika, an economist at Lebanon’s
Notre Dame University has said that the new law is “a move that aims to finance
the political mafia in Lebanon.”[1] Unsurprisingly, such claims have been met with
complete denial by those who have constructed the bill. Antoine Habchi,
legislator and politician, claims that the intention of the bill is not only to
boost the economy but to give farmers a chance to live with “dignity”.
Coincidentally, Habchi hails from the Bekaa Valley. The Bekaa in eastern Lebanon is roughly 75 miles long. Having been to the Bekaa Valley myself I can say with confidence that it is incredibly beautiful, with rolling green hills in Spring, and home to some of the most incredible ancient temples and architectural sites that Lebanon has to offer. It is also one of the largest basins of cannabis resin in the world. Given the small size of Lebanon, it is a pretty impressive title to bear.
Farmers have been growing cannabis in the Bekaa for hundreds
of years. Families that would have otherwise been forced to endure abject
poverty have survived off of the back of cannabis production for generations.
But it was in the 20th century, particularly during the 1975-1990 Lebanese
Civil War, that the Bekaa really began to make a name for itself as one of the
world’s major producers of marijuana and hashish. Under the French Mandate
following WW1 cannabis production was made illegal, but within no time at all
an informal underground network was set up. A network that could have only
survived with a whole lot of people, politicians, and security officials
turning a blind eye. When the Civil War broke out, drug production in the
country, not only cannabis but opium poppies as well now, escalated massively; illicit
drugs became a primary source of funds for militia rearmament, operations, and
simple enrichment. As is typical for most wars, there is always room to make a
profit for opportunists. One estimate suggests that marijuana plantations in
1977 covered roughly ten thousand hectares, four times the area covered before
the war.[2]
It is these farmers, not militia groups or quasi governments, that economists are worried will bear the brunt of the worst that the new law has to offer. Essentially, the way the new law would work is that licenses will be selectively given to private pharmaceutical companies who will then oversee and manage the farming of the cannabis which will largely be exported internationally. You are unlikely to receive a license to legally grow cannabis if you have a criminal record. Currently, there are more than 40,000 pending arrest warrants for those in the Bekaa Valley alone, not all drug-related but many are.[3] This catch of the law will probably rule out the majority of those most experienced with cannabis production to grow cannabis legally under the new law.
For those who do manage to meet the requirements of a
license, further complications remain. The introduction of private
pharmaceutical companies into the process of production will inevitably shift
profits further towards private corporations and further away from the farmers
themselves who can no longer sell the crop directly to consumers at its full black-market
value price. It is the pharmaceutical companies and traders who will most
profit. Plus, in response to the new situation, in all likelihood, black market
prices will sky-rocket which instead of encouraging farmers to grow cannabis
legally is more likely to encourage them to continue to sell on the black
market for greater profits, only endangering their livelihoods further. The new
legislation has effectively put those most vulnerable in the chain of cannabis
production between a rock and a hard place.
An obvious solution to the problem might seem to be to push
farmers in the direction of changing which crops they grow. Unfortunately, it
has already been tried, tested, and failed. In the 60s there was a big push in
government policy in Lebanon to eradicate the illegal production of cannabis,
it was called The Green Plan. Instead of growing cannabis, the government pushed
farmers in the direction of growing sunflowers instead. The only issue is that
sunflowers cost more to grow than hemp plants, and they sell for less. The same
is true for other crops, potatoes for example cost 15 times as much as cannabis
and, like sunflowers, also sell for less. For those families that were
teetering on the brink of survival, the choice was obvious. If today’s farmers
are faced with the same choice, in the interest of their families and their
livelihoods, they will make the same choice that they made in the 60s.
The new law may sound progressive and promising, it sure has a nice ring to it to say that Lebanon is the first Arab country to legalise cannabis production, but it so far looks like the reality is a lot more grim. On top of the threat to farmers, the new law does not decriminalise the recreational use of marijuana or hashish. While many people in Lebanon may recreationally use marijuana and hashish, a highly potent drug made from the resin of the cannabis plant, the risk remains high. If you are caught by police either high or in possession of marijuana, the charges can be steep. It is not unheard of to face up to three years in prison for minor possession. In the UK, recreational marijuana may be illegal, but that fact coexists with the reality that in big cities you can get away with casual use. The same is not true for Lebanon.
The legalization of medical cannabis production is therefore
likely to put recreational users in greater danger of facing criminal charges.
Politicians have been open in declaring that an aim of the new law is to do
away with recreational use in the country. What that means is that they have in
effect developed a system of polarisation. By creating a legal sphere for
cannabis production, they have clearly separated what used to be a grey area
into the legal and the criminal. Where people used to be able to get away with
recreational use, with the help of a blind eye or two, they will now find
themselves coming up against the full force of the new law.
It seems like a double standard. To legalise cannabis
production but in a way that those who reap the economic benefit are only the
political elite, private corporations, and traders while the use of the same
drug, either for medical purposes or recreational use, remains out of bounds
for everyday people. People will remain in prison on charges of marijuana
production and possession while politicians remain in power, enriched by the very
same substance. Forgive me if I do not see the sense in that logic.
It is a double standard that does not apply to Lebanon
alone. It is a standard that we champion here in the UK as well. A 2018 UN
report found that the UK is the world’s biggest producer of legal cannabis.
According to the International Narcotics Control Board, in 2016, the UK
produced a staggering 95 tonnes of marijuana for medical and scientific use,
making up 44.9% of the global total.[4]
It is also the world’s largest exporter of marijuana – accounting for roughly
70% of the world’s total, according to the UN report. Yet on the street
marijuana is classed as a grade c illicit drug How is it tenable for the UK to
deny its citizens the right to access the medical benefits of cannabis while it
simultaneously pumps out nearly a 100 tonnes of legal medical cannabis to the
rest of the world on an annual basis?
There are plenty of compelling reasons in favour of the
movement to legalize marijuana, both recreationally and medically. The science
that cannabis can be used as a pain reliever, as a form of stress relief, and
to ease seizures is strong. Legalizing recreational use means that the
government can better regulate and control production and consumption, instead
of hunting down illegal production lines and trading, while also creating new
job opportunities and an industry with significant financial potential. The
move to legalize has taken steps forward in the US in the last decade more so
than practically anywhere else. But even in the US legalization remains a
complex issue and the exact legislation differs from state to state where
production and use of cannabis is now legal.
As could be an issue in Lebanon, in most American states you cannot work within the legal cannabis industry if you have a previous marijuana-related conviction. There are some minor exceptions to this rule, for example in Colorado if five years have passed since your conviction then you can become eligible to work in the industry. When this is considered in the light of how marijuana-related convictions primarily target minority communities, particularly communities of colour, it seems obvious that there is a yawing gap in the legislation. In a state where the production of cannabis is now legal, why should someone who’s only conviction is marijuana-related be ineligible to work within the industry? Communities of colour in the US have suffered from targeted aggressive drug policies going as far back as the Opium Exclusion Act of 1909, and of course under Nixon’s War on Drugs. Are these communities not entitled to retroactive ameliorative relief in states where drug policies have been changed and marijuana has been legalized?
These are the arguments that many legalisation movements have been built off. But the new law in Lebanon and the situation in the UK are not products of these arguments, nor are they a reflection of the positive potential of legalizing cannabis production. Over a quarter of Lebanon’s population has taken to the streets over the last seven months to voice their anger over their government’s systemic corruption, the failing economy, the plummeting in the lira’s value, women’s rights, the list continues. Where is the guarantee that this new law will not be marred by the same corruption that Lebanese citizens demand be eradicated? Lebanon’s population is all too familiar with promising new economic proposals that promise to lift people out of poverty, and to solve the persistent problem of unemployment. And yet, somehow, someway, people never seem to see these magical financial benefits and it only looks like the rich are getting richer. The new law provides no road to redemption for the farmers who have grown cannabis for centuries, or for the recreational users of the city. We are often too quick to jump to the conclusion that the legalization of cannabis production is a step forward, but if we haven’t already learnt that that isn’t the case from our own double standards in the UK, then look at Lebanon. The new law will not be what it seems.
Perhaps the biggest debate surrounding ‘gender-blind and colour-blind’ casting (with which actors are cast regardless of the traditional race/gender of their role) is the question of whether it truly is blind casting or merely a veiled act of positive discrimination, leading to what is perhaps an even greater question: is affirmative action something which ought to be promoted in the arts? Last year, the English National Opera claimed that they were actively looking to enlist choristers from ethnic minorities, and we have seen movement in a similar direction from the RSC and the National Theatre; it seems however that the TV and Film industries have been slower to follow suit.
Black Panther (2018) and Get Out (2017) are just two examples of productions which overtly pursue casts of colour and have both proved to be profoundly successful. I would go as far as to say that the casting of both of these productions isn’t even colour blind casting, it’s what the RSC’s Erica Whyman (theatre director) refers to as ‘colour conscious casting’, in that it’s a purposeful employment of affirmative action in the performing arts. Having had this debate with many friends in Oxford, both thespians and avid viewers alike, I have concluded that, in theatre, film and TV, colour-blind and gender-blind casting is usually greeted with a positive reception, but only in cases in which the role in question does not centre around the gender or ethnic identity of the character. As soon as the decision to cast someone of a certain gender or complexion interferes with the clarity of plot, or a character’s motivation, we seem to encounter dangerous territory. For example, there are certainly understandable reasons as to why many directors abstain from ‘colour-blind’ casting; they do so in the name of realism. It would perhaps be a less convincing portrayal of say, the upper class in 19th century England, if the ladies and lords of the manor were portrayed by people of colour, purely because this would not be a realistic depiction of the time. Although there are obvious exceptions (and successful ones at that) with regards to colour-blind or colour-conscious casting, such as Hamilton, it is fair to say that while often ground-breaking, and brilliant in their own right, they certainly do not provide the most realistic account of the time.
However, gender-blind casting is even more complex an issue. Whether you consider its outcomes to be benefits or disadvantages, it is undeniable that it changes the dynamics of a piece on often a fundamental level. An example that certainly springs to mind is a production of Antigone at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, in which King Creon had been changed to Queen Creon. However, maybe this is a slightly different debate, as not only is this an example of gender-blind casting, it is an active reconstruction of character in a classical piece of literature. What stood out to me most in this production is that the dynamics between Antigone and Creon change profoundly when Creon is portrayed as a woman. All of a sudden, an element of female competition is introduced; their conflict appears to become more of a jealous tussle for Haemon’s affection, and the role as the most important woman in his life. This I find to be more problematic than the traditional notion of gender-blind casting, as it fundamentally rocks the foundations of the character dynamics; and in a play which is as classic and well-known as this one, it can be challenging for viewers to accept such a drastic change. On the other hand, it is important to note that, while this directorial decision certainly affected the undercurrents at play in the production, this is not necessarily a bad thing; this choice added a whole new element to the piece, perhaps making the dynamic between Antigone and Creon more multidimensional than it was originally.
In the same way that we frequently see Shakespeare’s plays being set in different environments, playing with the gender of characters can be equally rewarding in that it emphasises the natural timelessness of a piece of art. It has been seen with the character of Puck in the RSC’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as well as the gender-flipping of Malvolio (becoming Malvolia) in the NT’s Twelfth Night. This is particularly relevant currently, as we’re living in a time when concepts of gender are being openly questioned more than ever before, and what was once understood as binary is now being viewed in its actual spectral state. Perhaps playing with gender presentation in theatre and film is the logical (and necessary) next step in our progression towards gender equality, and maybe eventually, gender eradication.
While polemical, this is certainly the direction in which we’re heading; people being regarded as people as opposed to being divided into groups and dichotomised. It would be reductive to ever claim that this debate over blind casting has a clear-cut answer. While it can be considered a step forward in our quest for equality, it also often undercuts the pursuit of realism in many cases, and fundamentally, it is a director’s choice as to which they prioritise.
All Cambridge University lectures in the next academic year will only be held online, student newspaper Varsity reports.
An email to Senior Tutors sent today by the Head of Education Services, Alice Benton, outlined the plans. It states that the ‘General Board’s Education Committee’ agreed “since it is highly likely that rigid social distancing will be required throughout the next academic year, there will be no face-to-face lectures next year.”
Lectures will be live-streamed, with a recording to be available on Moodle, an online educational platform. Lecture theatres are planned to be used for “small group teaching” and “Faculties and Departments should continue to plan for face-to-face delivery of seminars, workshops, and small group teaching” while following “strict social distancing requirements.”
Benton writes that “thought should also be given to how this teaching can be delivered remotely should some students not be able to return to residence, or if there is another phase of lockdown preventing students from leaving their College.”
It is considered “highly unlikely” that exams in Michaelmas Term will be “able to take place in examination halls” because “‘the taking of examinations in exam halls cannot comply with rigid social distancing requirements.”
Faculties and Departments should therefore “plan for online delivery” of assessments and should prepare “for there being no examinations in examination halls at all next academic year.”
A spokesperson for Cambridge University told Cherwell: “The University is constantly adapting to changing advice as it emerges during this pandemic. Given that it is likely that social distancing will continue to be required, the University has decided there will be no face-to-face lectures during the next academic year. Lectures will continue to be made available online and it may be possible to host smaller teaching groups in person, as long as this conforms to social distancing requirements. This decision has been taken now to facilitate planning, but as ever, will be reviewed should there be changes to official advice on coronavirus.”
Cambridge University told Varsity that the decisions have been “taken now to facilitate planning” but they will “be reviewed should there be changes to official advice on coronavirus.”
The email states that the decision to move lectures online is “in line with thinking across the sector.” The University of Manchester announced last week that lectures in the autumn term will be online – but students will be asked to return to campus and face-to-face small group teaching is planned to continue, if in line with social distancing guidelines.
Like it or loathe it, Prime Minister’s Questions is about as close to ‘entertainment’ as you’re likely to get in British politics. Every Wednesday at noon, broadcast live to sitting rooms across the nation, Westminster’s MPs line the green benches of the House of Commons as the Prime Minister and Leader of the Opposition lock horns across the despatch box. It is, of course, supposed to allow politicians to hold our nation’s leader to account, but you’d often be hard-pressed to distinguish the chamber from a primary school playground at breaktime.
It’s an arena where political posturing
carries more weight than the strength of your argument, where shouts, jeers and
insults are hurled back and forth across the room more frequently than facts…
above all, though, it is an arena where a politician like Boris Johnson truly
thrives.
Equipped with a chorus of all-singing,
all-dancing sycophants (or should I say his front- and backbenchers) and
soundtracked by perfectly-timed cries of “hear hear”, Boris channels his inner
thespian week on week, giving both the opposition and the public the ol’ Razzle
Dazzle and using spectacle to mask his own incompetence. After all, in the wise
words of Billy Flynn, “how can they hear the truth above the roar?”
As the coronavirus began to sweep the nation in March,
however, Parliament joined the long list of theatres that were forced to close
their doors. Upon reopening a month later, the packed audience had been
replaced with a handful of socially-distanced spectators, the theatrical bells
and whistles with a single, unforgiving spotlight shining directly on Johnson.
Alone on the stage, Boris now had nowhere to hide: as all eyes fell on him,
there would be no escaping the importance of cold, hard facts. The virus had
stripped him of his usual aids to performance, leaving any slip-up, oversight
or blunder there for all to see.
Enter Keir Starmer.
Anyone who buys into the common perception of lawyers as boring would naturally expect PMQs to be the former DPP’s Achilles’ heel. But now the atmosphere in the chamber is more reminiscent of a courtroom than a cabaret, it seems it is finally time for a Labour leader to shine. Last Wednesday, he went straight for the government’s weak spot, pressing Johnson on the rising virus death toll in Britain’s care homes. Calm, collected, and armed with a fact or figure to back up every point, it was clear that he’d done his homework.
Quoting directly from the government’s own advice, he questioned why it was that they believed infection and spread in care homes to be “very unlikely” until as late as March 12th. A second sucker-punch soon followed as he read aloud the words of a cardiologist, who saw the government policy of discharging untested care patients from hospitals as responsible for seeding COVID-19 in such vulnerable communities.
Glancing nervously behind him with his cronies nowhere to
be seen, Boris looked more like a guilty witness floundering under
cross-examination than a premier defending his own policies.
“It isn’t true,” he blustered, piecing together a response
with more ums and erms than even the most hungover Oxford student could manage
in a tutorial. Less than an hour later Johnson would receive a letter from
Starmer with clear evidence to the contrary, showing him to be a Prime Minister
with no handle on his own government’s policy. Whilst a lack of preparation may
have made for an uncomfortable hour or so during his days at Balliol, it is now
costing thousands of lives.
Then came the final blow: a print-out of a PowerPoint
slide. Starmer struggled to contain a laugh as he showed the chamber the
international comparisons used by the government for the first 49 daily
briefings, the very comparisons conveniently dismissed as “unhelpful” the
moment Britain’s death toll became the highest in Europe. “I’m baffled”, he
exclaimed. Not baffled by his own lack of knowledge on the matter, oh no,
rather by the vague effusions and empty rhetoric offered by Johnson in his
response.
Half an hour of interrogation later and it seemed that one
of Westminster’s most seasoned performers had been well and truly upstaged.
It’s no wonder there are calls from within his party to get the Commons back to
normality: it’s the only way to stop PMQs becoming a weekly source of
embarrassment and a thorn in the government’s side.
Whether Keir will perform quite so admirably when the theatrics return remains to be seen, but I, for one, will have the popcorn at the ready this Wednesday lunchtime. Who knew there was so much entertainment to be had watching the government being properly held to account?
I can’t lie, when I heard the news that we’d probably all be holed up in our rooms for the next few months, without a glorious summer term with our friends to look forward to, without the prospect of seeing college crushes or indulging in a Trinity romance, the question might have crossed my mind. I’m bored after all, so what’s the harm in Tinder?
It didn’t take me too long to scrap the idea altogether – not that I’m against Tinder or Bumble or any of the rest of them, but because any online flirting would, in the current climate, be pretty futile. The pubs won’t even be open for us to go and get that drink.
There are much bigger issues going on in the world than the dwindling dating lives of bored uni students, and I was well aware of this. But still, for some reason, I couldn’t help feeling filled with frustration, even disappointment. What was I meant to do? Put any prospect of a love life on hold for months on end? It wasn’t really that I’d thought I’d meet the love of my life this term, on a dating app or otherwise; in fact, that definitely wasn’t something I was planning on any time in the foreseeable future. But some swiping here and there would be something to do, wouldn’t it? Waiting around for the slightest spark of romance was a depressing thought.
Patience. I wouldn’t say it’s my strong point. But I wasn’t alone; my friends lamented the fact that they’d be separated from boyfriends, prevented from getting to know that guy they’d got with in 8th week, the list went on. But why are we always so reluctant to wait? Why is it we feel the need for something to be going on all the time? Some bit of goss for us to spill to friends when they ask what’s going on in our lives? I decided it maybe had something to do with the form modern dating tends to take these days, and by extension modern love and romance. We are bombarded with options; I know it’s cliche to talk about the never-ending stream of choices us millennials and Gen Z-ers face, but surely the way online dating offers up prospective partners like sweets in a candy shop has got to have an effect on us, on our perception of love, romance, and sex. I think there’s a sense of freedom around, a feeling that there’s no need to stay stuck in a particular relationship; if it isn’t working for us we can easily find something or someone else. And while obviously that’s a great thing which can allow us to set our standards high, to ensure we really click with the person we’re committing to, it can also lead to a fear of even suggesting the idea of commitment to a partner. There’s a whole lot of ‘situationships’ these days, a whole lot of floating about, acting like a couple but not wanting to actually say the binding words, a whole lot of wavering between the comforting feeling of being with someone and the comfort blanket that our fast-paced, dating app culture provides. As long as you avoid any official labels, you’re safe in the knowledge that you can get out whenever you want, and a whole host of shiny Tinder matches will be ready and waiting for you.
I’m not trying to advocate commitment when it isn’t right, and I’m not against situationships in general; if that’s what works for you, go for it. My main concern is that some people find that the seemingly endless supply of options around them relieves them of the responsibility of figuring out what it is they want from any particular romantic situation. Not knowing whether or not you want to commit to someone is fine, because you can have them there without putting a label on it, without giving up your dating app rights. But I think understanding what you want and need is actually pretty important when it comes to having a healthy love life. Or any kind of life.
I’m definitely not innocent of this ‘floating around’ phenomenon, dating people when I’m not sure what it means, seeing people when I have no idea where I want it to go. Dating is fun, after all, and working out what you actually want and need can be tricky. It’s easy to push that part of things aside and just focus on the fun in today’s romantic arena. But where does that leave you? After the fun, I mean. Sometimes it works out fine, because things seem to naturally go the way you wanted, ending up staying casual or slowly blossoming into something more serious. But more often than not somebody ends up in a situation they’d rather not be in, whether that’s in a situationship with someone they’d rather commit to, or a relationship they aren’t sure they wanted. Telling someone what you want can be scary. It leaves you vulnerable, it puts them in the position of power; they can either reject or accept you, and nobody wants to face rejection. But I don’t think avoiding the whole ‘what are we’ conversation is really the answer, despite the fact that it can be fun when you’re always open to new things and new people, never committing to the one thing you actually want, whether that’s casual hookups or the love of your life. It means there’s always something going on, right? And as we’ve already established, this generation isn’t the biggest fan of waiting.
I think intentionality needs to be brought back into modern dating. I’m not saying that everyone is guilty of an inability to wait around, or of avoiding listening to their own needs and voicing those. But I know I can be, and I know more than just a few others who are. I believe that these next few weeks or months of social distancing and uncertainty might be the perfect time for those people to take a break from romance and figure out what they’re looking for. It can be hard to find time to think amidst all this noise and activity – but we’ve just been handed a big portion of peace and quiet. So use it.
Her fashionably late entrance left me worrying I had been stood up on a Zoom date – that would have been a new lockdown low. But on arrival she came across as very friendly and wasn’t too awkward about it being a virtual date.
When I realised I was 3 Stellas down and she was sober, I had to reel in any loose chat.
Did it meet up to expectations?
Yes, far exceeded them actually. Lasted way past the designated 40 mins, which I think for a zoom date is a sizeable win. Was nice to have someone new to bitch about Corona to, also.
Highlight?
When I found out she preferred Park End to Bridge, meaning both of us opposed our college’s preference. There was some really nice bonding over the overrated bridge smoking area.
Embarrassing moment?
When I realised I was 3 Stellas down and she was sober, leading me to have to reel in any loose chat.
Date in three words?
Lamenting lost Trinity
Second date?
At the time of publication a second date has been secured #coronachirpsecomplete
Trudy, Univ, English, 1st year
First impressions?
Once we got over the initial awkwardness of actually being on a virtual date, I thought he seemed like a lovely guy (despite mild Tory vibes).
Did it meet up to your expectations?
For sure, I was expecting it to be painfully awkward but we actually had a nice chat and it was refreshing to talk to someone outside my usual Zoom/FaceTime bubble.
I had to inform him that the idea of me playing any sport remotely well was laughable.
What was the highlight:
Reminiscing about our favourite Oxford club nights and imagining the Trinity that would have been (RIP).
What was the most embarrassing moment:
When he asked me if I wanted to get a Blue (get a Blue or become a Blue?) during my time at uni and I had to inform him that the idea of me playing any sport remotely well was laughable.
For the true aficionado, awaiting eagerly their night amongst fashion’s aristocracy in a New York gallery, the indefinite postponement of this year’s Met Gala is an unthinkable disaster. All the pent-up excitement and anxiety that accompanies the tireless preparation of an ambitious piece or daring look has amounted to no great night of Bacchanalian excess and dazzling colour, but been left instead to dissipate. No adulation from paparazzi or earnest Vogue columnists awaits these phantom dresses and dinner jackets, but only the noiseless appreciation of a lonely mirror.
Yet, for such mournful high-fashion celebrities, and for those who just like looking at them, some kind of solace has been provided by the improvisation of Alexa Chung. The fixture of a decade worth of Galas released a mini-series on her YouTube channel this week, providing an insider’s knowledge of what really goes on at the “Oscars of fashion”. Entitled ‘Tales from the Met Gala’, Chung released three videos on Wednesday exactly a year since the last Gala, and two days after this year’s was scheduled to unfold.
The varied tales that emerge from the videos come through conversations with three designers whom Chung has worn in the past, and therefore accompanied on the night. What start as interviews quickly develop into informal chats, gossiping about the impossible range of stars that are invariably present each year and offering a behind the scenes window into the process of producing an outfit worthy of so illustrious an occasion. An air of glamour that keeps the spirit of the Gala alive is given not least thanks to the names who appear with Chung, as she is joined by Erdem, Christopher Kane and Philip Lim. Present too is Chung’s own effortless style, as dressed in a different look for each video she belies the lethargy of lockdown, including a particularly lively tulle rose shirt.
With Erdem, Chung looks back over the deep fuchsia ankle-cut dress that she wore in 2015, sharing pictures of the fittings and pausing over the importance of small details such as the inclusion of pockets, crucial for giving an impression of informality on a night of haute couture. The idea that the Met is an epicentre of wild and baffling celebrity activity is added to by the remarkable reminiscence of the night in which Debbie Harry and Kanye West performed at the same time from opposite ends of the same hall, and the memory of Rihanna stomping down tables lined by the A-list whilst singing ‘B**** Better Have My Money’.
The sheer glittery mini-dress that Kane designed for Chung won the model best dressed, an especially incredible achievement on a night of “death or glory” stakes. The joy of this series is in its humanising of an event that appears so unattainable and opulent as to be entirely unreachable, the domain of a hardly-human elite. This insight is provided by the charming candour of Kane. Amongst his highlights included the moment when, upon first arriving at the event, he was stupefied by stage fright as he encountered David Bowie at the neighbouring urinal. Chung and Kane also discuss the thrill of nervous energy that distinguish the event. Kane’s answer to being “so goddamn nervous” is Dutch courage, although a consequence of such self-medication is an excessive champagne consumption that may lead you inexplicably to embarrass yourself in front of Amal Clooney and make for a particularly blurry-eyed morning.
Lim designed the outfit Chung wore in her first appearance at the Gala, a rebellious “men’s-wearish inspired suit” that played into Chung’s tomboy reputation and needed an extended consultation before being permitted to appear by the guardian of all standards, the event’s host each year, Anna Wintour. Lim also shares in the nerves behind “the most anxiety-ridden red carpet” that makes the Gala such a formidable event, as at the top of the long stairway each attendee must climb there awaits the fearful risk of embarrassing oneself in front of the Vogue Editor-in-Chief, or indeed Oprah Winfrey, as Chung discovered the hard way.
The Met is notoriously exclusive, as phones are banned from the event and it is one of the very few events where stars must leave publicists and agents at the gates. It is therefore a delight to learn that the party is ever in the bathroom, the “hotspot, nucleus of the night”, and that the elusive Gala is really “high school amplified to the nth degree” where “everyone goes buck wild and does crazy s***”. Chung has given a fascinating window into the genesis of a Met look before on her increasingly successful channel, chronicling the creation process of the 70s-inspired mini-dress she wore and designed last year, a video which, along with this serious, evokes an appreciation of the care and art that lies behind the glamour that amazes each year. For all those who are feeling the pain of being Gala-deprived, the series provides a reminder of the joyful celebration of fashion and extravagance that we can look forward to revelling in once we are on the other side.
“I’m not like other girls,”
comes the mocking cry from my little sister across the kitchen table – a phrase
I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually used, and she knows it. But, in a faded My
Chemical Romance t-shirt from c.2014 and garish tie-dye jeans from heaven
only knows what source (Hot Topic wys xx), I am a walking, cringing time
capsule of my teenage self. Except with essays. And access to a student
newspaper.
Anyway – if, like me, you’ve
abandoned the majority of your clothes from 2017 onwards in an overpriced
student house hundreds of miles away, you’ve probably been scrabbling around your
childhood bedroom trying to find things to get you through to the next laundry
load. Many of us are now back in our childhood homes
and hometowns, often in similar situations to those of our schooldays. For
some, this experience will inevitably be more bearable than for others; either
way, if you’re currently staring at the same four walls and walking down the
same streets as you were five years ago, listening to the same music is the logical
(and tempting) next step. Maybe we’re regressing. Get me outta this town.
Seriously, though – lockdown
presents the perfect opportunity to engage with the music we used to (and
secretly still do) love in a shame-free way. There are bigger issues, sure –
especially in the middle of a pandemic – but in a culture dominated by the
elusive search for individuality, music enjoyed by teenagers (particularly
girls) is frequently belittled and made fun of. Think small-town Smiths fans,
emo kids and Beliebers, jibes about pop-punk stereotypes and 1D not making ‘real
music’. At the same time, especially now we’re plastered to the Internet 24/7,
there can be a pressure to ensure your favourite band is so niche no one else
has ever heard of them, or that your Spotify page secures you maximum indie
points. Really, what a lot of us need right now is a little musical TLC.
Detached from some of the more performative aspects of everyday music snobbery, in the confines of your bedroom, shower or neighbourhood, now is the time to crack out those cringey, cherished classics. Maybe this isn’t the place to start a debate on separating the art from the artist, but if you’re into it – being back in the provincial towns you jog round and all that – lockdown also allows us to gain a deeper understanding of the environments and emotions which inspired some of our favourite music (location permitting).
Whatever your hometown tastes and findings, now is the perfect time to rediscover old musical paramours (and maybe their new stuff, too – Hayley Williams’ debut solo LP Petals for Armor came out last week) and enjoy what you like, on your terms. That old MP3 player full of JLS’ greatest hits, the oh-so-unique Smiths-Cure playlist you thought was so intellectual back in 2016, The Black Parade seven times a day, whatever. Subject your family to the Twilight soundtrack for the fifteenth time this week. Embrace your inner emo kid – you know you want to. You’re probably cutting your own hair by now anyway. And do it without shame – teens and tweens across the globe find comfort in these artists for a reason, and we should respect that, rather than looking down on people for liking stuff that’s popular.
Nearly two months in, many of us feel like we’re stagnating, as the pause button is pressed on a period of our lives brimming with change and growth. At the same time, by now we’re all familiar with the argument lockdown gives us more time to ‘really appreciate’ media and consume it in its pure, untainted form – whatever that’s supposed to be. However, the way we experience music in our everyday lives is often messy, unscripted and in-the-moment – and this isn’t a bad thing! In fact, it may be this which holds the key to the comfort it can give us right now: providing gateways back to better, brighter times.
Music is often central to our most cherished memories of being *out there* in the world – sing-shouting along to your new favourite album on midnight drives with old friends, throwing shapes to your song with the partner who’s now a grounded plane ride away, that sort of thing. Y’know. The moments which make the slog through our monstrous workloads worth it. When a lot of us are separated from communities and spaces providing us with a sense of identity, security and belonging at Oxford and beyond, the comfort and solidarity music provides in this way can be invaluable.
After all, I’m sure many of us are living an age-old pop punk cliché back in towns we spent our teenage years dreaming of leaving. Oxford was our ticket out, and now it’s been jarringly transplanted into the same childhood bedrooms we once colonised with dreams of bigger things. So stick on that old mix CD, raid your brother’s record collection – even whack on that secret cheese floor playlist from when you were still a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed fresher. Things will get easier, but in the meantime – if music be the food of love, play on, in the way you love best. No one’s watching.
The playlist for all your recurring teenage/early-twenties angst needs: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4YsL6tntGN8CnYU0a53Oiv?si=XEf6SfXkRtyoXeVYo8DJuQ
