Tuesday 7th October 2025
Blog Page 863

“One of the greatest war movies ever made”

Matthew Vautrey
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“One of the greatest war movies ever made”

Considering the amount of hype around this film, whether that be through extensive advertising, the excitement of a new Christopher Nolan project, or the anticipation for Harry Styles’ first acting credit, I was surprised to be greeted with a commemorative t-shirt on entry to the cinema, declaring that I’d been to watch it. It’s the sort of thing you might be paid to wear, not given once you’ve already bought a ticket. And yet, after not even two hours of some soldiers getting on and off boats, I’m very tempted to make it a wardrobe staple.

Detailing the seemingly fictional events of the Dunkirk evacuation during World War II, the film follows the embarrassing military fiasco on the continent, which left over 400,000 British and French soldiers surrounded by the enemy on a beach in Northern France. With larger naval ships unable to dock in the shallow waters, and German bombers and U-boats slowly picking them off, it was down to a flotilla of civilian fishing boats to save the armies.

Of course, this being a Nolan film, it would be too simple to keep the storyline linear; instead he chooses three interconnecting stories, each with an individually paced timeline, jumping from beach to fishing boat to spitfire with sometimes dizzying speed. The plot, if it can be called that, seems confusing before you realise that chronology has been altered, but once you do one uniting theme becomes evident: survival. The result is nothing short of a spectacle, with action Michael Bay would be proud of, but that feels uncomfortably real, nearly all shot in 70mm IMAX film. The characters themselves play a supporting role to the vast spectacle of disaster and despair they are subjected to, most remaining unnamed soldiers throughout. This is fitting given that the real antagonist is not the Germans per se but what their ever-looming threat represents – it’s not so much good against evil, as the struggle for survival against death.

If ever there was an example of why practical effects – special effects produced physically during filming, not in post production – are superior in all regards, this is it. You can only sit wide-eyed as a destroyer sinks in under a minute, extras pouring off it like water, while a spitfire chases the bomber responsible 30 metres above them. This is likely why the performances given seem real, as almost every bullet and explosion seen by the viewers was experienced by the actors. You’d expect something impressive when a studio provides $150 million in funding, but that doesn’t make the result any less staggering.

If you expect to walk out feeling an overwhelming nationalistic pride for Britain you probably don’t know what happened at Dunkirk, and thankfully this sombre tone remains even when (not-really-a-spoiler alert!) those lucky enough to escape return to cheering children at the train station and the ironic praise of “well done”. Indeed, the entire film echoes with the realisation that these men will never be the same again, none more so than Cillian Murphy’s shell-shocked character only credited as ‘shivering soldier’.

In the hands of a less experienced director this could easily have become quite repetitive, as seemingly every attempt to escape the beach becomes a claustrophobic fight to avoid shrapnel or drowning. But where Dunkirk succeeds is by never actually letting up on the tension, making it one continuous struggle that keeps drawing you in. Particular thanks must be given to Hans Zimmer, teaming up with Nolan once again to provide a soundtrack that keeps the pace frantic but suspenseful, and perfectly suits the big-screen IMAX format this movie was intended for.

Is it Nolan’s best film to date? Quite possibly. It’s not his typical summer blockbuster, with little to no dialogue, and none of the sleek modernism that has come to define his body of work. But this is definitely not one for illegally streaming on your laptop if you want to appreciate the sheer force of the visual feast. On the contrary, if you do get to experience it in full 70mm film you will be seeing one of the greatest war movies ever made.

Made-up honours sold using Oxford reputation

Akshay Bilolikar
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Made-up honours sold using Oxford reputation

Oxford University’s reputation has been used by Ukrainian businesspeople to sell made-up honours for over £9,000 a time, an investigation by The Times has revealed.

Honours running into the millions of pounds have been sold under the guise of the Europe Business Assembly (EBA) and on the reputation of the University, with awards such as the “The Queen Victoria Commemorative Award” selling for up to £9,300.

The business, which uses photographs of colleges in its advertising and copies the University’s typeface in its logo, claims to offer those attending events access to “exclusive Oxford University lectures.”

Former EBA staff claim they were encouraged to approach businesses and academics from developing countries with mass emails and cold-calls, with anybody who expressed interest asked to pay several thousand pounds to meet the company’s administrative costs.

One former employee, who spoke to the Times, said: “What’s £8,000 for a certificate? £8,000 is not a lot to have ‘Oxford’ on your wall.”

The EBA, run by a father and son from offices in both central Oxford and Ukraine, has given out thousands of awards since 2000 and seeks to trade on the reputation of Oxford University.

It also sells membership of organisations such as the “Academic Union” and the “International Club of Leaders”, and charges authors for articles included in its self-published journal, the Socrates Almanac.

Awards are given at ceremonies held at hired venues including the Oxford Town Hall, the Institute of Directors in London and other locations in Europe, with awards bestowed by John Netting, a former lecturer at Oxford Brookes University.

Ceremonies, which borrow from British state pageantry, often feature paid public figures such as the scientist and Lincoln fellow Baroness Greenfield. Awards cite a “patent” number as evidence of legitimacy, but the number corresponds to an expired trademark for a trophy design.

One former employee told The Times that they were asked to muddy the distinction between the EBA and Oxford University.

“We were selling the idea that they were becoming part of the great Oxford institution,” the former employee said. “It was just up to adding and finding random email addresses from universities and contacting them.”

Two Portuguese mayors, Ferndando Ruas and José Maria da Cunha Costa, used public money to buy “Best Cities” awards in 2013, local reports said. Ruas is now a MEP, and said he believed that the EBA was credible.

Stephen Rouse, a spokesperson for Oxford University, told Cherwell: “We welcome the opportunity to make very clear that this company, its events and its awards have absolutely nothing to do with the University of Oxford.

“Anyone who is ever unsure if an advertised course or award is actually connected to Oxford University is always welcome to contact the University and we will be happy to check for them.”

“An ethereal but disillusioned fairytale grounded in historical reality”

Katie Sayer
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“An ethereal but disillusioned fairytale grounded in historical reality”

The Charing Cross Theatre is an odd little venue, hidden between Embankment and Charing Cross station, and tucked underneath the Hungerford Bridge. What was once a Victorian music hall has been converted into a theatre with a capacity of 265, and with the atmospheric rumble of trains overhead every so often, the venue is defined by an intimacy that could make the wrong production feel claustrophobic. For Yank!, however, the venue could not be more perfect, and the blend of intimacy and anticipation, almost redolent of an air raid shelter, feeds in perfectly to two hours of musical extravaganza that is a lot more victory-on-the-home-front than blitz-spirit.

Written by brothers David and Joseph Zellnik, Yank! tells the story of Stu, an 18-year-old conscript who joins the war effort in 1943, falling in love with one of his comrades, Mitch, before being taken on as a reporter for Yank magazine (the real military paper released weekly throughout the war). After travelling around various US military bases as a journalist, Stu hears that his company have been sent to the frontline as part of the now-infamous Big Push, and opts to return to them, reconciling with Mitch and formulating an American-Dream style plan for after the war that is as tragic as it is endearing. After being arrested for suspected homosexuality, Stu is faced with a choice between military prison and a return to the front line himself, and in true romantic tradition, Stu opts to join his lover.

There is definitely a strong tonal disjunct between the two halves of the play. The first half has all the makings of a romantic comedy, albeit one that is set in the midst of the war effort, as we watch Mitch and Stu fall in love, in a romantic arc that could belong to any standard heteronormative Hollywood affair. Andy Coxon’s brooding, Aidan Turner-esque Mitch is the perfect complement to Scott Hunter’s high-pitched nervousness as new recruit Stu, and the chemistry between the two actors is undeniable. It is clear to see why both have been nominated for Offie awards for Best Male Actor. When combined with a number of light-hearted show tunes, this makes for a first half that is charmingly optimistic, characterised by its warmth and humour.

Consequently, the grittier second half is all the more powerful for being so unexpected. Stu’s entirely spoken monologue as he faces the front line alone on stage is driven home by its dissonant departure from the Glee-esque tone of the first half, and the use of sound and light to emulate a war zone makes phenomenal use of the intimate space. If the first half, with its romantic duets and warm brand of humour, is akin to a rom-com, then the second half is a more traditional, poignant war drama. The move from a From Here to Eternity vibe to a Saving Private Ryan feel, gives us the impression that what could have been a fairytale has been grounded in a sad historical reality.

Arguably, this is the intended effect. The promotional posters read that ‘some stories didn’t make it into the history books’, and the sense we get that Yank! is a love story that will always be slightly ethereal is reinforced thematically in the play. The thriving gay scene in the Pacific Islands where Stu is stationed is definitively an underground venture, defined by secret toilet codes and initials in diaries that act as Stu’s only material reminders of the existence of this subculture. Perhaps it is merely contextual awareness from the audience, reinforced by the number of references to times and dates that would ring alarm bells from any history students, but we constantly get the feeling that Stu’s contented existence is teetering on the edge of a volcano, awaiting an inevitable ending.

The impression we get that Yank! is akin to a disillusioned fairy-tale is also reinforced by the way the narrative is framed. The opening scene is set in the modern day, with Scott Hunter playing the 21st century man who finds Stu’s diary in a junk shop and reads it aloud, before we enter properly into the narrative with Hunter as Stu. This structure imbues the production with a sense of self-awareness – the narrator describes how he found “Remembering You”, the big number and defining refrain of Yank! on iTunes – and this prevails throughout the script, with much comic relief coming from a self-aware pastiche of gay stereotypes.

What the Zellnik brothers have achieved with Yank! is an important and inspiring musical that gives a voice to the muted gay subculture in the US military during WW2. This original and self-empowered script is brought to life by James Baker’s vivid direction, with Chris Cuming’s excellent choreography particularly standing out. It is also impressive that the cast are as adept at dancing as they are at acting and singing, and the unexpected tap dance number is especially enjoyable.

Overall, Yank! tells an important story in a mode that is entertaining and unpredictable, perfectly blending humour and gravity to produce a play that is insightful and inspiring. The cast and creative team are excellent, and with tickets starting at £15 for students, this interesting and original production strikes me as the perfect way to make the most of the long vac. 4 and a half stars.

Despicable Me 3 and Cars 3: this summer’s prime animated franchises

Jonnie Barrow
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Despicable Me 3 and Cars 3: this summer’s prime animated franchises

To review the third instalments of two very different family film franchises, I braved the fiercest cinematic obstacle a man can face. I went alone. On a Friday afternoon. In screens packed full of irritating children and their exasperated parents. It’s indisputably the very worst way to spend time in a cinema – but I did it for you, dear reader. You deserve to know which of these films is the best way to distract a young cousin you’ve been forced to look after by an overbearing aunt who just wishes the two of you would get along even though you have nothing in common and you’d rather sit inside catching up on Game of Thrones before the new season comes out so you don’t get riddled with spoilers. Or, y’know…another totally random, non-specific scenario… Let’s just get down to the reviews, shall we!

I really like the first two Despicable Me films. I even think the second one is probably a stronger film than the first, so I was feeling ready to see what the third one would bring. My optimism was sorely misplaced. Despicable Me 3 is a lazily written, astonishingly inert film that numbed a hyperactive screening full of young children into submission through its sheer lack of ideas or coherent storytelling.

The warning signs start with the film’s main story idea – Gru has a long-lost identical twin brother, called Dru, who he must team up with because the script says so. Seriously, not only does this main arc employ the most tired cliche available to a writer with no ideas, but it doesn’t even make much sense within the actual movie. Dru is also incessantly irritating; at one point Gru stops and says “I miss the minions”, and you could hear the whole cinema wishing they were back, too.

This main storyline only takes up about half the running time, because it’s far too thin to support a whole movie, so the rest is a muddle of meaningless, unfunny comic interludes and sideplots. The minions are quite funny but have absolutely no impact on the plot, while the rest of the screenplay flounders in its attempts to give the rest of the cast anything at all to do.

While people generally seem to like the Despicable Me movies, the Cars trilogy is perhaps one of the strangest film series in cinema: a series of movies that not many people seem to like at all, that seems to exist only to sell toys so that Pixar can fund more interesting movies. It’s the Pixar series that no-one likes, never living up to the heights of Pixar’s best. Worse still for Cars 3, it’s preceded by a brilliantly inventive, charming, funny, warm-hearted short film called ‘Lou’ which seems like it’s setting the actual movie up to pale in comparison.

What a surprise, then, that Cars 3 manages to recapture the emotional heart of the first film, combining some of the most beautiful animation Pixar have ever done with some fairly canny story ideas to craft a solid, if not groundbreaking, film.

The conceit of this latest outing for Lightning McQueen is basically Rocky IV: Lightning is too old to compete with the new younger racers, but wants to race anyway, so he has to train to be the best again. It’s a simple, well-trodden story, and with a tighter focus could’ve produced a great movie to cap off the trilogy.

Unfortunately, large amounts of Cars 3 are far better to think about in retrospect than they are to watch in the moment. At one point towards the end of the second act, Lightning turns to another character and complains about how much time they’ve wasted, and I was left agreeing resignedly. The second act is just a series of skits which add very little to the story and feel like textbook filler, which is unusually weak storytelling for the Pixar team. But, like in the best sports movies, it’s when all seems lost that things turn around and improve – and such is the case with Cars 3 and its third act.

Thanks to some brave and interesting storytelling choices that I wont spoil here, and some borrowed heart from the first movie (including using some old recordings of the late, great Paul Newman as Doc Hudson), Cars 3 manages to stick the landing with relative ease. Though it isn’t exactly a resounding success, between these two films, I know which I’d rather be forced to watch as a babysitter on a rainy July afternoon.

We can scrutinise without abusing

Maxim Parr-Reid
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We can scrutinise without abusing

The abuse and vitriol directed at some MPs during the referendum and the General Election campaign was unacceptable on all sides of the political spectrum. Possibly the starkest illustration of the venom within the hyper-partisan political climate is the fact that even Laura Kuenssberg, the BBC’s Political Editor, must have a bodyguard. But even within this narrative, we must bear in mind the crucial distinction between abusing politicians, and holding them to account. We can condemn racist and sexist attacks on Diane Abbott whilst wishing for proper scrutiny of a prospective Home Secretary.

During the election campaign, much was made of Diane Abbott’s inability to remember how much Labour’s policy of extra police officers would cost. Abbott’s repetition of the phrase “it will cost” in a BBC interview became almost iconic for all the wrong reasons, alongside a certain reference by the Prime Minister to “fields of wheat”. The gaffe breathed life into meme culture. The substance – police funding – only increased in importance during the campaign, particularly in light of the Manchester attack.

It’s crucial that important policies such as policing, which is key in the Home Secretary’s portfolio, can be costed. The criticism of Abbott’s inability to remember the cost of this policy should not be equated with some of the more unpleasant attacks on Abbott on grounds of race or sexuality. The interview in question made no references to Abbott’s ethnicity or the fact she was female.

Importantly, Abbott’s awkward interview led to a debate about police numbers. This was a debate which ultimately shone the spotlight on Theresa May’s time as Home Secretary from 2010 to 2016, and the Conservatives’ reduction of police numbers. Although the way Abbott was scrutinised by the BBC and others was intense, it raised an issue that become more important as the election campaign continued, and one which ultimately shifted the focus to Theresa May rather than Abbott.

The debate over whether politicians are fairly criticised and held to account by journalists, and the media, is always going to be a matter of opinion. Ultimately, the General Election emphasised the importance of accountability and the extent to which politicians can be scrutinised by the public. The interview gaffes of Abbott and Corbyn were memorable. It’s important to remember that Corbyn was grilled on Labour’s childcare policy in the same way Abbott was on police numbers.

Another key moment in the election campaign, and indeed a theme which ran throughout the election, was Theresa May’s refusal to debate her opponents. Caroline Lucas’ assertion that “the first rule of leadership is to show up” sums up many people’s reactions to May’s absence from public debates. It is far better for politicians to attend an interview or a debate that doesn’t go well than not to turn up at all.

The way Diane Abbott was pressed by the media during the election was hardly personal. In 2005, the then Conservative leader Michael Howard was asked the same question no less than fifteen times by Jeremy Paxman. It’s important to reject personal attacks on politicians like Abbott and Corbyn when they do happen, but holding these same politicians to account is important for our democracy if it is to be open and transparent.

Adaptating our perception of film adaptations

Jack Allsopp
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Adaptating our perception of film adaptations

It is common knowledge amongst those culturally ‘in the know’, so to speak, that the on-screen version of a book is always worse than the original. Just look at The Hobbit, where Peter Jackson’s greed got the better of him, and whilst huge takings were gathered at the box office, purists and critics were generally sceptical of the quality of the trilogy. By contrast, Tolkien’s Hobbit is a universally loved tale, a book cherished across generations.

Similarly, Baz Lurhmann’s The Great Gatsby was widely, and rightly, derided for failing to capture the essence and the ethereal brilliance of Fitzgerald’s novel, which is a firm favourite in the English Literature A-level classroom. Fitzgerald, during his life, was of the opinion that none of the film adaptations of his novel would ever be good enough. In fact, he was known to walk out of screenings or on occasion would not even bother turning up.

Nonetheless, the assumption that a screen retelling of a book will inherently be inferior should be challenged. One of the strongest cases for this argument is that of Casino Royale. Rightly praised as an excellent film–Daniel Craig, Mads Mikkelsen, and Eva Green play out their roles with consummate ease. Bond is at his heart-stopping heroic best whilst Le Chiffre is sublimely sinister as the antagonist and Vesper Lynd is the ultimate femme fatale. However, those who have read Ian Fleming’s novel are almost always disappointed. Written in an arrogant and laddish style, the misogyny of the work is an unpleasant surprise. Not only this, but Bond car chases are bigger, better, and more visually breath-taking on the big screen than in the imagination.

Therefore, in some scenarios the opportunity presented to a screenwriter to rewrite and rework a story is one which opens up the original to the possibility of improvement. The same can also be said of The Night Manager, where Le Carre’s excessive focus on the bureaucratic elements of espionage and his smarmy tone, which at times borders on xenophobia, means that his novel is a boring, dated read. By contrast, the BBC TV adaptation shed these elements and produced a critically acclaimed mini-series.

Further, the screen adaptation can also be successful and useful even when the quality of the original is not increased. Take Game of Thrones, which has become a global phenomenon over the course of the last seven years, as an example of this. George R R Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire is undoubtedly an excellent read and the plot of the written series has nuance, depth, and power that is impossible to squeeze into 60 minute weekly instalments over the course of a season. Whilst it would be wrong to diminish Martin’s achievements, the world of Westeros would not have reached such a large audience were it not for Benioff and Weiss who truncated Martin’s sprawling tomes down into something more digestible for the mass market.

To take a few more extreme examples, films like The Godfather, Fight Club, Goodfellas, and The Shining have all risen to become far more well-known than their respective literary ancestor, thereby raising the profile of the original book itself too. In some instances, films have turned written stories upside-down to create something more vibrant for a new audience. Westside Story is the classic case: a brilliant retelling of Romeo and Juliet where the Montagues and Capulets become the Jets and the Sharks thus turned Shakespeare’s play into a musical with greater contemporary appeal and acute social commentary. Also worth mentioning is the transformation of Heart of Darkness into Apocalypse Now, making the paranoid commentary on the horrors of imperialism relevant for a new generation.

Nevertheless, adaptations do not always go so smoothly. Gatsby teaches us that there are some books, which leave too much to the imagination so that any on-screen version will always fall short. Indeed, The Hobbit shows how Hollywood’s greed can sully the quality of great literature. But beyond this, adaptations have the potential to be eminently successful in creating something better and more relevant. This is not a judgment on whether one storytelling medium is superior to the other, but an observation on the relative merits of the visual versus the written. There are benefits that can sometimes be gained from reworking, re-crafting, and remaking stories to be watched rather than read.

“Don’t paint me like one of your French Girls, I’ll damn well paint myself”

Priya Khaira-Hanks
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“Don’t paint me like one of your French Girls, I’ll damn well paint myself”

The only thing I gained from last spring’s Degas to Picasso: Creating Modernism in France at the Ashmolean was a passionate, enduring hatred of female nudes. There was something overwhelmingly frustrating about the hushed, reverential atmosphere, the firmly-gripped programmes and erudite information plaques, the whispers about composition and brush-stroke, all in aid of what was, essentially, a group of cisgendered men being delighted at being allowed to see real life boobies.

Don’t get me wrong, tits are lovely things – as a bisexual person who possesses a fairly good rack I appreciate them from both sides of the argument. But treating them as mystical, profound gateways to knowledge about form and modernism is merely part of the process of putting women on a pedestal – and when they are up there, being idealised, mystified, and honoured, it is hard for women to clamber down and get shit done, maybe pick up a paintbrush and make some art themselves.

In Creating Modernism, despite the female bodies plastering the walls, there was little mention of how women might have actually contributed to the French art scene at the beginning of the 20th century. Tilly Nevin recognised this, bemoaning how the birth of modernism ironically seemed to be lacking that key component of birth: someone who owned a vagina [http://www.cherwell.org/2017/02/28/the-female-artist-speaking-truth-to-power/ ]. It was, instead, a loving paean to cisgendered straight men and their sexual desires. “There was only one mention of a female painter, Berthe Morisot”, Tilly noticed sadly.  In that exhibition, the female body was central in a way that made it an automatic object, whilst female agency was lacking. It was demoralizing, trite, and most heinous of all, boring.

However, several months later and a couple of hours down the M40, an antidote is brewing. Dreamers Awake – at the White Cube Bermondsey – also has an overwhelming focus on the female body – female meaning, of course, the body of anyone who identifies as female, as testified to by inclusion of trans artist Claude Cahun. However, this obsession is from the inside looking out: the body as messy, maligned, and metamorphic subject.

 

“Don’t paint me like one of your French Girls,” cry the women of Dreamers Awake. “I’ll damn well paint myself.”

The fittingly angular space inside the White Cube is currently devoted to the female surreal. The aim is true immersion: the works are not accompanied by plaques or titles, ensuring that you are confronted by the art first and foremost, followed by a frantic struggle to find the artist and name of the piece on the accompanying booklet. Whilst this does mean that time is wasted trying to decipher the map and numbering system – placing numbers by the paintings would have allowed viewers to experience more artistic reverie and less frustrated paper-shuffling – this approach allows for the pieces to speak for themselves, timeless and autonomous, without being subsumed into a stuffy narrative.

The enigmatic work of Kelly Akashi, for example, functions best without possible interpretations or mystery-eroding practical details about how it was made. Instead, in ‘Well(-)Hung’ (2017), life-like bronze hands drip from the ceiling to the floor, intermittently holding torn onion halves. Every pore and wrinkle is evident on the elegant fingers, which are so real it seems they could flutter in dance or curl into fists at any second. They are poignantly suspended between fragility and strength, violence and grace.

This mode of presentation suits lesser-known artists like Akashi, as her work can appear for the first time in equal dialogue with more famous creators, without condescending biographical details about age and graduate shows.

In fact, the more distinguished names do not fare as well in this intuition-based way of consuming art. The recognisable quality of the Tracey Emin, Louise Bourgeois or Leonora Carrington, for example, means that it is difficult to move beyond generalizations like “there is Emin, doing her angry sex thing”. Usually, their distinctiveness would contribute positively to overall messages and themes, but in an otherwise instinctive, sensory, and exploratory wander through the female subconscious, a well-known artistic style creates a jarring moment of lucidity. Carrington’s characteristic horse imagery and zoomorphic figures are dogged by art history and symbolism for instance, appealing to the cerebral rather than the emotive and aesthetic. The works are not bad in themselves, but they seem out of place in an exhibition concerned with bodily responses and wordless connections.

Sculpture thrives in this environment. Another highlight is Rachel Kneebone’s ceramic orgies, where legs, flowers, and genitalia teem in fine white porcelain. Grandma’s best china has undergone a sexual awakening in ‘Shield IV’ (2010), and the result is a mesmerizing commentary on the bubbling sexuality beneath historically chaste and restrained female domesticity. Whilst the nudes of French modernism saw men projecting their own desires onto the female body, Kneebone’s work explores female sexuality as intrinsic and self-creating, blossoming of its own accord – no input is needed from Monsieur, thank-you very much.

There are some moments of pure curatorial genius here, such as placing Mona Hatoum’s ‘Jardin Public’ (1993) – a ball of pubic hair on a wrought iron chair – directly in front of Julie Curtiss’ ‘Venus’ (2016), where a coquettishly posing woman is made out of thick, coarse braids. It is a defiant reminder that however seal-smooth and waxed to perfection your woman is, she is hirsute in nature. Her follicles are stronger than any fragile masculinity. The Leonora Carrington quote on a nearby wall is apt: “I warn you, I refuse to be an object”.

Once you spot one skilful pairing, they appear everywhere. Nevine Mahmoud’s ‘Miss her (peach)’ (2017) works symbiotically with Linder’s photomontages: the most seductive fruit (and emoji) is carved from shiny orange calcite, with a suggestive missing slice. Behind it, blowsy roses obscure the heads and crotches of naked women in ‘Girls of the World V’ (2012), ‘Daughters of the Promised Land’ (2012), and ‘Untitled’ (2012).

Feminine stereotypes are revealed as their own kind of pornography, yet despite this disturbing message, the art is undeniably pretty. I wanted to festoon Linder and Mahmoud’s creations with fairy lights and arrange them in pride of place in my room. Despite, or perhaps because of, embracing the experimental, much of the art on display in Dreamers Awake is more than just clever or ‘good’: it is also beautiful.

These simple white rooms of the White Cube’s industrial box in Bermondsey are populated by the complicated, colourful, and organic. Dreamers Awake doesn’t feature female nudes, but rather naked women – and the show proves that when women represent themselves it is infinitely more interesting, raw, and sexy than the onanistic scribbling of modernist men.

Dreamers Awake is on from 28 July to 17 September at the White Cube Bermondsey

Balliol appoints first female Master

Cherwell News
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Balliol appoints first female Master

Dame Helen Ghosh has been announced as the new Master of Balliol College, the first woman to hold the position in its 750-year history.

Ghosh, who is currently the Director General of the National Trust, was elected by fellows of the college, in a tradition dating back to its founding in 1263.

She will begin the role in April 2018, replacing the current Master, Professor Sir Drummond Bone, who announced his retirement earlier this year after six years in the job.

In an announcement on the Balliol website, Ghosh said: “I am honoured to have been chosen by the Fellows of Balliol as their new Master.

“The College has a remarkable tradition of outstanding scholarship, research and teaching, which I believe will be as important in helping society meet the challenges of the 21st century as it has been at any time in its 754-year history.”

Photo: Chuca Chimas/Flickr

Ghosh is no stranger to Oxford, having read an undergraduate degree in Modern History at St. Hugh’s before completing an MLitt at Hertford.

After leaving Oxford, Ghosh spent 30 years working for several departments within the civil service, focusing especially on child poverty and housing.

Dame Helen’s current tenure at the National Trust has created some controversy in the national press. In April, the National Trust was drawn into a row over its decision not to include the word ‘Easter’ in its branding for Egg Hunts, prompting accusations that it was downplaying the significance of the traditional Christian festival.

The row led to an intervention by the Prime Minister, St Hugh’s alumna Theresa May, who described the move as “ridiculous”.

However, the chairman of the National Trust, Tim Parker, praised Ghosh’s management of the charity. “She will be leaving the organisation in great shape – one clear of its future direction with ever growing levels of investment in conservation,” he said.

Ghosh will take over from Drummond Bone in 2018. Photo: Richard Williams for the National Trust.

Ghosh was also praised by Bone, the current Master of Balliol: “She brings all of her wide knowledge and experience – the College will be in the hands of someone who understands its values and has the abilities, energy and standing to develop its role in the years ahead.”

Dame Helen said she was excited about “welcoming students from the widest possible range of backgrounds to the College and to helping create a supportive and stimulating environment in which they can fulfil their potential.”

Who is Edward Enninful?

Nicole Rayment
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Who is Edward Enninful?

This April, upon British Vogue’s revelation of Alexandra Shulman’s successor for the highly extolled and sought after role of editor-in-chief, the internet and tabloids underwent a buoyant craze.

Having worked for British Vogue for over two and a half decades, the longest period of time anyone has ever served as its editor, the fashion world sat in angst awaiting the revelation of Shulman’s supersede: Edward Enninful OBE. For many, British Vogue’s choice for the new appointed editor-in-chief was unprecedented as he is the publication’s the first male and first black editor. So who is the fashion mastermind on everyone’s lips?

Born in 1972, the creative hails from Ghana but moved to London with his family when he was a young boy. The son of a seamstress, Edward Enninful’s first insight into fashion was furnished by his mother, whose patterns and uses of bold and bright colours he consciously absorbed. However, it wasn’t until the age of sixteen, when he was scouted on a train by stylist Simon Foxton, that Enninful became truly inspired by the exhilarating realm of fashion, which he highlighted in an interview for Telegraph Magazine in 2009 by describing his ephemeral modelling career as his “baptism into fashion”. During his teenage years, Enninful turned heads thanks to his distinctive style, described by many as ‘edgy elegance’, and is even known to have played a vital role in redefining street style during the grunge movement of the 1990s.

Between the ages of sixteen to eighteen, Enninful became wholeheartedly enthralled by the lively and bustling fashion industry, working both as a model and as an assistant stylist to Beth Summers, the editor of i-D magazine. This was the publication that was to appoint him as Fashion Director at the age of eighteen following Summers’ departure, a position cherished by Enninful for two decades. The fashion virtuoso’s experience within the industry ranges from being contributing director at Vogue Italia and American Vogue to being the fashion and creative director at W Magazine, as well as working as an advertising consultant for campaigns and runway shows featuring labels such as Christian Dior, Dolce and Gabbana, Giorgio Armani, Valentino, Fendi and Gucci.

One of Enninful’s biggest and most legendary projects constitutes the ‘Black Issue’ which he implemented for Vogue Italia, in which only black models, including the likes of Jourdan Dunn, Naomi Campbell and Alek Wek were featured. His aim was to overtly fight for diversity, describing the chief motive behind the project as striving to put a halt to the “white-out that dominates the catwalks and magazines”. The issue’s triumph was prodigious: to this day, Enninful’s ‘Black Issue’ boasts the record of Vogue Italia’s best selling edition: over 40,000 extra copies were printed by Condé Nast.

British Vogue has been in the recent spotlight following the recent polemic of Lucinda Chambers’ abrupt tell-all interview for the London-based critical fashion journal Vestoj. In the interview, Chambers nonchalantly discusses being fired by Edward Enninful after thirty-six years at the prestigious magazine, and lays bare her pessimistic standpoint towards the current state of the fashion industry. After the interview was published, a poignant sense of precariousness regarding the magazine’s future filled the minds of many devoted readers of British Vogue.

However, it appears that for the new editor-in-chief, innovation and nonpareil vision are what constitute the cornerstone of a successful fashion publication. In a 2014 interview for W Magazine, Enninful stated: “fashion to me is about self expression, it’s about creativity, you can say so much with fashion, it speaks about the time we live in: it really sums up a time.” To truly depict the importance of discussing the issues of the era which we inhabit through fashion, Enninful has brought along his own team of influencers who have hugely impacted the today’s popular culture. He has replaced former fashion director Lucinda Chambers with British stylist and photographer Venetia Scott, and enlisted supermodels Kate Moss (who has been a British Vogue contributor since 2013) and Naomi Campbell, as well as acclaimed British film director Steve McQueen, as contributing editors of the publication.

Condé Nast international chairman and chief executive Jonathan Newhouse affirmed that Edward Enninful was “an influential figure in the communities of fashion, Hollywood, and music which shape the cultural zeitgeist” adding that “by virtue of his talent and experience, Edward is supremely prepared to assume the responsibility of British Vogue.”

With Edward Enninful’s plentiful experience in the industry, his idiosyncratic eye for style and the tremendous support and adulation that he has received over the past few decades, the new editor-in-chief will patently thrive at the helm of the fashion bible that is British Vogue.

“Refreshing, original and honest – a genuine delight to watch”

Katie Sayer
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“Refreshing, original and honest – a genuine delight to watch”

After Fleabag, Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s foul-mouthed phenomenon, completely took off, with a sell-out run and a smash-hit television adaptation, the pressure was always going to be on for her friend and Co-Artistic Director, Vicky Jones, when she announced her own new play earlier in 2016. If Touch had been merely an emulation of the same caustic, sexually-charged cynicism, unfavourable comparisons with Fleabag would have abounded. Similarly, if Touch had even slightly shied away from the uncomfortable topics that Fleabag confronted so forwardly, critics would have hailed it as just a diluted version of the same brand that brought nothing new to the table. Consequently, what Vicky Jones achieves with Touch is even more monumental when the context of production is considered – she manages to perfectly negotiate the line between originality and excess.

Touch tells the story of Dee, a 33-year-old woman who has recently moved to London, and is unable to get her life together. Told predominantly through the lens of Dee’s approach to sexuality, as represented by 5 contiguous partners, Touch expertly presents a woman on the verge of crisis – the audience can see that Dee’s life isn’t going to plan, even while she herself is content to “make peace with fucking everything”. Her one night stands include an 18 year old intern, a 50 year old BDSM enthusiast, and her first lesbian experience, but we do not get the sense that Dee is defined by hypersexuality – rather, she just seems curious about the world. Indeed, if the protagonist were 19 years old, the story of a Welsh girl from the valleys moving to London with a temporary job, as told through her sexual experience, might constitute a coming-of-age. As it is, Dee is 33 and yet still seems to have something to prove.

Dee’s age is something that is implicitly a driving force, but also something that could be touched on more. The blurb of the play script welcomes us to “the secret life of a 33 year old woman”, and this is obviously an age Jones has chosen deliberately as best representing the kind of purgatorial world that Dee inhabits. In the mid-range between independence and loneliness, youthful freedom and experienced sophistication, confidence and lack thereof, Dee’s story is defined by the conflict of youthful sexuality and  committed maturity. Those who remember Fleabag‘s defiant concluding outburst, that “my body as it is now is really the only thing I have and when that gets old and unfuckable I might as well kill it”, might expect a similarly hedonistic brand of nihilism, but Dee’s philosophy is far more contemplative, as she considers whether she has experienced enough of the world to be able to settle down and not feel like she missed out.

Although Amy Morgan seems at times slightly too young to be 33, she nails the characterisation of Dee as a woman who isn’t extreme or desperate, but rather just floundering. While Fleabag was characterised by a darker self-awareness, Dee seems endearingly naïve by comparison, more like a disillusioned Bridget Jones than a voice of anger and frustration. Her experiences are accessible and her outlook comprehendible, and it is the honesty, rather than the urgency, of Touch that makes for such compelling viewing. It is brave of Vicky Jones to produce a play that breaks down the rose-tinted spectacles without ever pushing the boat out too far.

The one thing I am cautious of is neglecting to do justice to the comic essence of the production. Much as it frames an excellent discussion of gender politics in the modern sexual sphere, first and foremost Touch is a comedy, and in that aspect, it excels. Managing to expertly blend its message with its medium, the humour that is diffused throughout the play is both self-aware and genuinely original. The opening scene, in which Dee ostensibly gives her new boyfriend a lap dance while using the opportunity to actually tidy her flat, sets the tone for 90 minutes of laugh out loud comedy that is unabashed and also unafraid of subverting the expectation for it to be modern and edgy. There are some excellent jokes to do with sex, yes, but there are also some excellent jokes that are absolutely not.

Vicky Jones’ authorial voice is genuinely unique and refreshing, but part of the success of Touch is thanks to the creative team. Amy Morgan is well supported by an outstanding cast, out of whom Edward Bluemel is particularly funny as arrogant intern Paddy, and the rotating stage that houses Dee’s shoebox flat is employed to excellent effect. The energy of the production, overseen by dramaturg Phoebe Waller-Bridge, cannot be understated, and as the cast return to take their bows, the audience fizzles with audible excitement.

Touch is doesn’t try to be overly shocking, and doesn’t aspire to make any grand statements. Instead it is quietly self-confident, defined by its honesty, as funny as it is modern or political, and a genuine delight to watch. I am confident that this will not be the last we hear of Touch, and that we will be seeing much more of Vicky Jones in the future.

Touch is playing at the Soho Theatre until August 26th. Tickets available here: http://www.sohotheatre.com/whats-on/touch/

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