Saturday 11th April 2026
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Is television too small for the both of them?

Theo Davies-Lewis
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Is television too small for the both of them?

Back in December 2014, BBC Four released a documentary titled The Fight for Saturday Night. Presented by veteran television executive Michael Grade, the show detailed the ratings battle between the BBC and ITV for dominance on Saturday night, and highlighted how presenters, producers, and executives endeavoured to create bigger and better live shows to win over the British public.

Of course, since the 1950s—when London Weekend Television was trying to steal away the BBC’s audience base—a lot has changed. We’ve seen not only technological advances and a shift in presentation techniques, but also a change in how shows are broadcast.

The advent of streaming services like Netflix means that audiences do not always have to wait in suspense for the next episode of a series; instead, they can binge-watch it. Of course, the whole concept of a service like Netflix would have been laughed off by the figures interviewed by Michael Grade for his documentary, but its popularity, despite being a shock even for the platform’s proprietors, is undeniable.

After all, by the end of 2016 Netflix had 93.8 million subscribers, nearly 20 million more than 2015. This is a far cry from the days when the main service of the company was to sell DVDs.

Some complain that this has had a negative effect on the shows produced: if episodes are available all at once, the emotion, drama, and action seem to deflate somewhat, the tension of the weekly wait trumped instead by the cheap thrill of immediate access. Consequently, the viewer may be less inclined to appreciate the show. Yet, Netflix’s shows—from House of Cards to Homeland, Thirteen Reasons Why to Stranger Things—are some of the most popular and successful on the planet.

So, does this signal the end for scheduled programming on major broadcasters such as the BBC? Not quite.

The BBC could never be like Netflix, and vice-versa. Scheduled programming is still important for older generations, and Netflix cannot exactly provide comprehensive analysis of local issues in countries all over the world. Key items such as the news, soap operas like EastEnders, and entertainment shows like Strictly Come Dancing belong on a schedule for order, continuity and consistency.

Organisations such as the BBC have not ignored the importance of online streaming. Corporations realise the opportunities that streaming provides, and there are even whispers that BBC Radio may head online, a move the importance of which may only be understood in retrospect.

Clearly, there needs to be a balance between scheduling and streaming. Each has a role to play in the ever-shifting landscape of modern television, and each has an audience to cater to.

Week in Science: 07/05/17

Cherwell Science and Tech Editors
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Week in Science: 07/05/17

It’s not easy keeping up with all the events going around the University. With Week in Science, the Cherwell Science and Tech editors bring to your attention interesting talks around the city and university.

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The Butterfly Effect – What Does it Really Signify?

 Presented by Oxford Mathematics Public Lectures.

Date and Time: 9th May, 17:00 – 18:15 pm.

Location: Lecture Theatre 1, Mathematical Institute, Radcliffe Observatory Quarter, Woodstock Rd, OX2 6GG

Speaker: Tim Palmer

Description: Meteorologist Ed Lorenz was one of the founding fathers of chaos theory. In 1963 he showed with just three simple equations that the world around us could be both completely deterministic and yet practically unpredictable. In the 1990s, Lorenz’s work was popularised by science writer James Gleick who used the phrase “The Butterfly Effect” to describe Lorenz’s work. The notion that the flap of a butterfly’s wings could change the course of weather was an idea that Lorenz himself used. However, he used it to describe something much more radical – he didn’t know whether the Butterfly Effect was true or not.

Tim will discuss Lorenz the man and his work, and compare and contrast the meaning of the “Butterfly Effect” as most people understand it today, and as Lorenz himself intended it to mean.

Tim Palmer is Royal Society Research Professor in Climate Physics at the University of Oxford

Entry: Free – to book a place, email [email protected]

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An evening “flight” over two modern topics in Mathematics Random Fractal Cruves and Rough Paths Theory

 Presented by Oxford Invariants Society.

Date and Time: 9th May, 20:00pm.

Location: Andrew Wiles Building

Speaker: Magarint Vlad

Description: The flight will leave from the – “terminal” – conformal mappings of domains of the complex plane – and will fly over the history of this development and prepare for landing at the first layover destination -the definition of SLE (Schramm-Loewner evolution).

After the first stop, the passengers will be asked to move to the “terminal”- Rough Paths Theory. We will ”fly” together across the development of a deterministic theory on Stochastic Differential Equations and prepare to land at the destination: the definition of Rough Paths and Rough Differential Equations.

The sky is announced to be crystal clear and we will be able to see during the twilight fractal rivers. Food on board: conformal pizza.

Entry: The event is free for members and £3 for non-members. Memberships is also available for £15, for life.

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The Sound of Symmetry and the Symmetry of Sound

Presented by Oxford Mathematics Public Lectures.

Date and Time: 11th May, 17:00 – 18:15 pm.

Location: Lecture Theatre 1, Mathematical Institute, Radcliffe Observatory Quarter, Woodstock Rd, OX2 6GG 

Speaker: Marcus du Sautoy

Description: Symmetry has played a critical role both for composers and in the creation of musical instruments. From Bach’s Goldberg Variations to Schoenberg’s Twelve-tone rows, composers have exploited symmetry to create variations on a theme. But symmetry is also embedded in the very way instruments make sound. The lecture will culminate in a reconstruction of nineteenth-century scientist Ernst Chladni’s exhibition that famously toured the courts of Europe to reveal extraordinary symmetrical shapes in the vibrations of a metal plate.

The lecture will be preceded by a demonstration of the Chladni plates with the audience encouraged to participate. Each of the 16 plates will have their own dials to explore the changing input and can accommodate 16 players at a time. Participants will be able to explore how these shapes might fit together into interesting tessellations of the plane. The ultimate idea is to create an aural dynamic version of the walls in the Alhambra.

Entry: Free – to book a place, email [email protected]

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String theory, black holes, and the quark-gluon plasma 

Presented by Oxford University Physics Society.

Date and Time: 11th May, 20:15pm.

Location: Martin Wood Lecture Theatre, 20 Parks Rd, OX1 3PU.

Speaker: Andrei Starinets

Description: Nuclear matter created in heavy ion collisions at accelerators such as the LHC is known as the quark-gluon plasma. Despite being incredibly hot and dense, it shares a number of properties with quantum liquids, although it is not described by the standard Landau Fermi-liquid theory. Theoretical understanding of the quark-gluon plasma requires non-perturbative tools. One of them, known as gauge-string duality or holography, comes from string theory, and relates spectra of black hole excitations to transport properties of the models of the quark-gluon plasma.

Entry: £3 for non-members. Free for members (membership is £10, and for life)

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Controlling and Exploring Quantum Matter Using Ultracold Atoms in Optical Lattices

Presented by Oxford Physics Department.

Date and Time: 12th May, 16:30 to 17:30pm.

Location: Martin Wood Complex, Department of Physics, Parks Road, OX1 3PU. 

Speaker: Dr Immanuel Bloch

Description:  More than 30 years ago, Richard Feynman outlined the visionary concept of a quantum simulator for carrying out complex physics calculations. Today, his dream has become a reality in laboratories around the world. In my talk I will focus on the remarkable opportunities offered by ultracold quantum gases trapped in optical lattices to address fundamental physics questions ranging from condensed matter physics over statistical physics to high energy physics with table-top experiment.

For example, I will show how it has now become possible to image and control quantum matter with single atom sensitivity and single site resolution, thereby allowing one to directly image individual quantum fluctuations of a many-body system or directly reveal antiferromagnetic order in the fermionic Hubbard model. I will also show, how recent experiments with cold gases in optical lattices have enabled to realise and probe artificial magnetic fields that lie at the heart of topological energy bands in a solid. Using a novel ‘Aharonov-Bohm’ type interferometer that acts within the momentum space, we are now able to fully determine experimentally the geometric structure of an energy band. Finally, I will discuss our recent experiments on novel many-body localised states of matter that challenge our understanding of the connection between statistical physics and quantum mechanics at a fundamental level.

Entry: Free – no registration required.

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Think like an Amateur, Do as an Expert: Fun Research in Computer Vision and Robotics 

Presented by Kyoto Prize at Oxford.

Date and Time: 10th May, 14:30 to 15:45pm.

Location: Blavatnik School of Government

Speaker: Dr Takeo Kanade

Description: For Dr Kanade, good research derives from solving real-world problems and delivering useful results to society. As a roboticist, he participated in developing a wide range of computer-vision systems and autonomous robots, including human-face recognition, autonomously-driven cars, computer-assisted surgical robots, robot helicopters, biological live cell tracking through a microscope, and EyeVision, a system used for sports broadcast. Dr Kanade will share insights into his projects and discuss how his “Think like an amateur, do as an expert” maxim interacts with problems and people.

Dr Takeo Kanade is the 2016 Kyoto Prize Laureate for Advanced Technology.The Kyoto Prize is an international award to honour those who have contributed significantly to the scientific, cultural, and spiritual betterment of humankind. The Blavatnik School of Government is pleased to host the Kyoto Prize Laureates as part of the inaugural Kyoto Prize at Oxford events.

Entry: Free – to book a place, register here.

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Trump’s first 100 days have been a succession of failure and fear

Alex Doody
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Trump’s first 100 days have been a succession of failure and fear

Speaking as a supposed linguist, there was something perversely fascinating about Trump’s language on the campaign trail: it was short, it was simple, and it was proactive. Yet it was also terrifying, coupled as it was with a divisive rhetoric of Islamophobia and nationalism. Sentences like, “We are going to build a wall and make Mexico pay for it!”, filled with the suspiciously self-confi dent bravado of an underhand used-car salesman, gave Trump his populist outsider appearance and appealed to his fanbase, but made him look like an angry wannabe-fascist to his rivals.

Simultaneously, pre-election Trump had a remarkable unpredictability, and an ability to both provoke and be provoked. From China to Kristen Stewart, from exes to contractors, nobody was immune from his judgement or wrath—a trait which Hilary exploited on her campaign trail when she argued that we ought not to entrust America’s nuclear arsenal to a man who could be enraged by tweets. 100 days into the Trump presidency, how much of his ambitious plan for America has he achieved? What has changed?

Trump made his mark early in his presidency with the “Muslim ban,” or rather a ban on people from countries Trump doesn’t like. Touted as a key policy—with Trump advocating immigration freezes and a “Muslim registry”—it was promptly shut down in a rather timely reminder that the executive branch is thankfully not absolute.

The other pillar of Trump’s plan—the Mexican border wall, to empty America of so-called “bad hombres”—has thus far fallen quite flat; from a “big, shiny wall” to a fence, to a plan which America will pay for now but Mexico will definitely be paying for in the future. (About as definitely as the turkeys will be paying for their own gravy). Obamacare, that evil front for FEMA death squads, gay frogs, forced abortion, and the second rapture, remains undead—though Medicaid is dying an agonising death. Nothing seems to actually be getting done, and the frustration in the air must be tangible.

Trump promised quantifiable results, that he would bring back jobs and penalise China, yet there doesn’t seem to be evidence of Trump following up on this pledge. Though employment has increased, it will take Trump-time to fairly be called a ‘jobs president’. So Trump has tried the foreign policy route, leaving us all feeling somewhat disconcerted.

He has defied Putin by attacking Assad and moved carriers into the Pacific, just off the Korean peninsula. Trump is prodding sleeping bears for the sake of showing off his power on the world stage. Fortunately this has not ended in complete disaster, for now. Nonetheless, Trump is showing a reckless and unpredictable side. Trump got involved in Syria and Afghanistan for emotional reasons, not after a lengthy consideration of the facts or the consequences.

This inability to control his outrage and anger—in the form of a tweet or a bomb—remains the single most terrifying aspect of a Trump presidency as a Brit. Gendered bathroom bills are a terrible thing, but legislation governing who gets to use which toilet will not cause a nuclear apocalypse.

That being said, the America beyond Trump’s head has never been so divided over issues such as these. Never before has one side of the culture war been so embodied by a president. America has seen cities full of protests and workplaces emptied by strikes since 20 January.

As for the world inside the White House, that too appears to be in disarray. Trump has been characterised as a loner, stressed, and hunched in front of CNN. He has suffered from leaks and gaff es oozing from all areas of his administration. His own staff have popularised “alternative facts” and “fake news.” According to Press Secretary Sean Spicer, Zyklon B wasn’t a chemical weapon and so Assad is worse than Hitler.

There have been far more serious leaks though, suggesting Trump will sign any executive order handed to him, and that Steve Bannon has been taking advantage of this fact. Melania, meanwhile, is costing the taxpayer millions as she (perhaps wisely) sits out the administration in New York. All the while, poll ratings are slipping to lows of under 40 per cent and Trump is so hated that even Ivanka’s fashion lines have become untouchable.

One thing that certainly hasn’t changed is Trump himself. His policy of ‘tweet now, think later’ shows no sign of abating. Who can forget his suggestion that Obama had wiretapped his New York apartment, and then his attempts to suggest that GCHQ had done the same. There was the embarrassing moment Trump refused to shake Angela Merkel’s hand, revealing him as an uneasy diplomat, and the article where he openly admitted that being president was “harder than expected.” Trump is finding out on all fronts that the presidency isn’t a business where he can shout at his underlings until the problem is solved. He’s finally realising that the presidency does not endow him with the same powers of reality TV to simply solve everything with a few careful edits. No wonder he spends so many weekends playing Golf at Mar-a-Lago. With so many people portraying your administration as incompetent, leak-prone or run by Steve Bannon, I’d be tempted to fly there and never come back.

So do I fear him? Or do I pity him? He does have control over a nuclear arsenal. He may be only 100 days into a four year term, but I feel he is almost more worthy of our ridicule for his 100 days of floundering.

Asian actors are invisible in Hollywood

Vivien Zhu
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Asian actors are invisible in Hollywood

Everyone knows the Oscars are the crème de la crème of acting accolades – yet it was even more special this year as the 2017 Oscar nominations were dubbed “the most diverse yet”. Six black actors were up for the main acting awards and records were smashed when the first black woman was nominated in the editing category, and the first African-American was nominated for cinematography.

This is all well and good, but for the “most diverse” Oscars yet there was a surprising lack of Asians on the list of nominees. The only Asian nominated in the acting categories was Dev Patel, a British-Indian actor. Where was the representation for other Asians? The answer is: it doesn’t exist, because Asian actors are invisible in Hollywood. As Gemma Chan, a British-Chinese actress, points out: “You’re more likely to see an alien in a Hollywood film than an Asian woman”.

The few Asians that are recognisable are usually typecast into certain roles: Ken Jeong is always “the kooky Chinese guy”, Jackie Chan is “the karate dude” and Lucy Liu is “the sexy Asian chick”. Even the characters that you would presume to be Asian are cast with white actors.

The most recent casting controversy was Scarlett Johansson as the lead in Ghost in the Shell, a film adaptation of a popular Japanese anime. The situation was worsened by reports that the film was testing digital effects on Johansson to make her look “more Asian”. People were understandably angry at this revelation: Constance Wu, an American-Chinese actress, vented on Twitter that this reduced the Asian race to “mere physical appearance” and that it completely ignored other aspects of Asian culture, identity, and history. Admittedly, whitewashing isn’t anything new—Mickey Rooney’s inane caricature of a Japanese man in Breakfast at Tiff any’s was one of the most memorable performances in the film. However, that was 56 years ago—shouldn’t we have moved on by now?

Though recent reports have suggested that there has been some progress, this is primarily on the small screen. Shows like Fresh Off the Boat and Dr Ken have had a satisfactory reception from Western audiences but an occasional Asian presence on TV just isn’t enough, especially when the characters adhere strictly to Asian stereotypes. Ken Jeong plays a doctor (a typical Asian job) in Dr Ken, and Randall Park’s character in Fresh Off the Boat is a Chinese immigrant desperately trying to achieve the American Dream. These attempts to integrate Asians into Hollywood may be admirable but the method is patronising. The most recognisable Asian-centric shows are all comedies, as if Asians are nothing but a joke. Judging from the reception of shows that do try to move away from Asian tropes, it certainly seems that way: Selfie, an American romantic comedy show about a white girl (played by Dr Who’s Karen Gillan) falling in love with her Asian boss (played by Star Trek’s John Cho) was cancelled after only one season, citing low ratings. Though there could’ve been many factors leading to the show’s cancellation, it’s likely that people just couldn’t comprehend an Asian man as a romantic lead.

The most commonly cited reason for the lack of Asian castings is that Asian actors are not bankable. But what about the massive source of potential income from the Asian film industry? As the continent with the highest population, it follows that it also has the highest number of filmgoers—the gross box office sales in China alone for 2016 were worth $6.6 billion.

So why hasn’t Hollywood tried to appeal to this potential goldmine by casting more Asians? Even the collaborations they have done with the Chinese film industry has only resulted in a token Chinese segment in the film—an entire act of Transformers 5 was moved to Hong Kong for no discernible reason.

Asian stars are not “bankable” because there aren’t enough job opportunities for them to build up a “bankable” reputation. The studios are not willing to take the risk of casting an Asian as a lead because the success rate is so low—if it isn’t even received well on the small screen, how could they risk it on the big screen, where the losses would be significantly higher? But with the potential income from the Asian film industry, Hollywood can afford to—and needs to—take more risks.

The film industry is all about risk; actors embark on their career knowing this. But Asian actors have to take a bigger leap of faith and so far, they are getting little out of their gamble. What Hollywood doesn’t recognise is that Asians have their own unique stories to tell and this is sorely needed to inject life back into Hollywood—the monotonous production of film sequels and book adaptations have led to murmurs that the industry is becoming stagnant. To save both the film and TV industry and achieve true diversity, we need to push for change.

Stop romanticising racists in the football community

Daniel ODriscoll
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Stop romanticising racists in the football community

As I emerged from the metro station into the afternoon heat of Madrid’s Puerta del Sol, the adage ‘Mad dogs and Englishman go out in the midday sun’ circled around my mind ad nauseam.

As opposed to the relatively subdued scene I had witnessed during the previous days, the square was filled with a sea of blue shirts and Midlands accents. This was, by no means, a rowdy crowd: fans of all ages, races, and genders ate, drank, and played impromptu games of football, generally contributing to a carnival atmosphere, which, at least from my own perspective, genuinely appeared to be inclusive, even family friendly. A companion of mine spoke of similar scenes, at least early on, in the famous Plaza Mayor.

They had even voiced their relief that it was Leicester City, and not Chelsea or another English team with a bigger reputation for crowd trouble, that had been drawn for the first-leg Champions League clash. Indeed, I myself remembered having read, after their Premier league triumph, of Leicester’s family-like ethos. For example, free beer and cupcakes are given out on their chairman’s birthday, as well their relatively multicultural fan base. This seemed to me to be a step in the right direction, away from the bad old days of bigotry and violence on the terraces which have, in past years, affected my own hometown of Cardiff.

I was consequently shocked to hear news that evening of antisocial behaviour and violence between fans and the Spanish police. Reports of the usual jingoistic chants like, “ten German bombers” as well as the more specialised, “You Spanish bastards, Gibraltar is ours”, were accompanied by videos of the lighting of flares, the throwing of objects at police, as well as the subsequent baton charges, tear gas, and even, ‘allegedly’ rubber-bullets, with which the authorities replied. All of this caused me to wonder, what changed the dynamic from one of friendly excitement to one of tension and aggression? Booze? Police overreaction? Brexit? Even Englishness itself?

It is almost inevitable that the gradual descent from day-drinking into day-drunkenness will cause any crowd of football fans to get rowdier. Yet a specific, most likely very small, subset of fans were clearly unable to resist turning pre-match joviality into outright antagonising of anyone not from ‘Ingurrland’.

While my own experiences of watching Welsh international football have certainly been punctuated by the occasional childish anti-English chant, particularly during the Euros last year, the reactions of locals to such behaviour from Welsh and English fans abroad still differ immensely.

In 2016 French paper L’équipe went as far as to call the Welsh supporter contingent in Bordeaux “magnificent” and “above all peaceful”, venturing the explanation that the Welsh “must ‘put beer away’ better than others”, while the French media, perhaps in some cases unfairly, roundly condemned the English as violent boozed-up thugs. Regardless, local authorities consistently seem to detect violent and unruly undercurrents in the behaviour of English fans at both club and international levels. Deliberately provocative elements, such as the controversial content of their chants, which reference foreign wars and terrorism more often than most fans from the British Isles, often add an intimidating, even sinister, undertone even with the presence of a language barrier.

Meanwhile, some prejudice against English supporters may merely be a legacy of a decades-old negative press coverage over English football fandom. Unlike elsewhere in Europe, England has seen little to no growth in groups of professional, only martially trained, ultras in the mould of Russia’s Orel Butchers.

My lingering questions about the roles of Leciester fans themselves in all this were at least partially answered on my flight back to Wales the following day. In contrast with the near-empty flight which I took on the way to Madrid, the queue to check-in was packed with worse-for-wear Leicester fans. Several large groups middle-aged men were on the flight and my seat was in the middle of them. The fans I sat next to were roughly my age. After striking up a conversation I found out that, though many also supported Rangers (prompting half-jokingly murmured sectarian songs after I revealed the fact that I’m a soon-to-be Irish citizen whose family support Celtic), they had already followed Leicester elsewhere in Europe, cutting short their lads holiday in Benidorm to get the train up for the match.

Though boisterous and loud, these men were genuinely nice guys and later told me that the police had been out to get Leicester fans the day before. Nonetheless they did admit that some were poorly behaved and claimed that a much older fellow Rangers fan from Leicester had received a ten-year ban.

Soon after I heard two guys a few rows in front of me faux-whisper bigoted remarks about their fellow Asian fans, clearly audible both to me and to those discussed—“Shit, look at her in the headscarf—hope they’re not ‘terriyakis’”: this was not in any way a harmless or inclusive joke, but callous mockery.

Moreover, at the end of the flight, a middle-aged fan with Glasgow Rangers tattoos on his arms across the aisle looked behind him at two bearded Asian men and said loudly: “Didn’t realise ‘they’ were sat there, thank God they didn’t put me by them.” No other fan attempted to moderate the behaviour of these imbeciles, some even chuckled, despite the fact that I myself felt (and indeed still do feel) guilty not speaking up. It is unfortunate that the behaviour of a tiny minority, both in public clashes in central Madrid and in subtler, but no less despicable, incidents such as that on the plane, tars people’s impressions of Leicester fans. Yet, this issue is not unique to Leicester.

Across English football, a small, but vocal and poisonous, minority often grows to dictate the atmosphere at events, often only ever being condemned by ordinary fans retrospectively, sometimes even being defended by them until violence erupts and controversy ensues. This gives rise to environments in which the nationalistic bravado of the individual matters more than the good of the entire fan base.

Now more than ever, in times when social media has been proved capable of capturing every idiotic chant or obscene gesture, fans must go above and beyond to police harmful behaviours that would otherwise go unchecked among their fellow fans lest we see a repeat of 2015’s racist actions by Chelsea fans on the metro.

Appeals for positive change through informal moderation among fans themselves and the promotion of anti-violence and anti-discrimination campaigns are what is needed, the reinforcement of stereotypes surrounding football fans and the near-romanticising of the ‘English hooligan’ is not.

Regent’s meat-free motion given the chop

Claudia Rowan
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Regent’s meat-free motion given the chop

A JCR motion pushing for the rescission of ‘Veggie Wednesdays’ at Regent’s Park College was abandoned this week amid controversy among students.

Despite the motion being withdrawn during the meeting this week, due to a lack of necessary statistical evidence, Regent’s Park JCR President Ella Taylor-Fagan, speaking exclusively to Cherwell, said that it is possible that the motion will return in the next meeting. Taylor-Fagan commented that “the motion was brought forward by two members of the JCR, after concerns were raised about the financial and environmental implications of veggie Wednesdays”.

Reports from the meeting suggest that the proposers insufficient knowledge of the topic led Taylor-Fagan to urge a postponement.

Regent’s Park’s current tradition is to provide solely meat-free options in college hall on Wednesdays. This was begun in 2015 as a result of a JCR referendum instigated by then-finalist Will Yates, and was at first met with positive support.

First-year Geography student Ethan Dockery, who proposed the motion against ‘meat-free Wednesdays’, was keen to abandon the current arrangement. He commented that, “whilst in theory the concept means well, it doesn’t work in practice as eating in hall on that day is stigmatised—no one wants to eat in a ‘dead’ hall”.

Dockery went on to explain that, as a result of the supposed unpopularity of the practice, the “food made, and other aspects of preparing the food—such as water and energy—gets wasted”. When asked whether he was surprised by the mixed reaction to the motion, he said that he “wasn’t surprised by the reaction itself, but by the size of the controversy… people were up in arms before they had even read the motion”.

One vegetarian student from the college told Cherwell that it was necessary to block Dockery’s motion, as “it decreased the number of food choices vegetarians would have, and the ‘wastage’ argument was irrelevant, as college bases meal provisions on previous weeks. The motion came with good intentions, for example with the proposer hoping for college to decrease the overall consumption of the more polluting meats (i.e. beef)…this should, however, have been the main focus. Vegetarianism without a doubt has positive environmental and ethical impacts, and the consensus in college shows people wouldn’t want to modify veggie Wednesday, which was actually something that drew me to Regent’s.”

Due to students’ opposition, various Oxford colleges have faced similar difficulty when attempting to implement and uphold the policy. Somerville College held a controversial referendum concerning ‘meat-free Mondays’ in 2013, which caused split opinion. In response to the reaction, the college reached a compromise: ‘More-Veg Mondays’.

Somerville undergraduate and Oxford Vegetarian Society co-president Miriam Adler, who identifies as a “longtime angry vegan”, is in favour of introducing meat-free days to as many colleges as possible. Adler commented that “having a meat-free day each week is a great way to encourage students to think about their food choices and the consequences they can have for the lives of animals, or for the environment…changing what we eat is one of the easiest things we can do to make a difference. Of course, one vegetarian meal a week is not enough to have a massive impact, but it gives people an opportunity to open the debate, and it might make the thought of going vegetarian or vegan more palatable!”

‘Meat-free Wednesdays’ in Regent’s Park will continue, unless the revival of the motion receives sufficient support.

Losing our memories and our selves

Carolina Earle
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Losing our memories and our selves

The passage of human life is marked by an aggregation of experience. These experiences, and the memories of these experiences form a great part of who we are. What does the ‘self’ become, and what do we lose when we are no longer able to remember the experiences and moments which shape us? To unwillingly and unwittingly lose ourselves is a state of being which most fear. And yet, one in 14 of those over the age of 65 in the UK are afflicted by dementia. Their experiences and capacities—from inherent motor dexterity to long-term memories—are whittled away. As we lose our memories, we would seem to lose grasp of who we are. It is for those who have known us to remember us. Losing one’s memory is to increasingly lose the understanding of the self, all whilst remaining unaware of our own degradation.

There are various forms of dementia, including Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s disease, with the latter remaining its most prevalent form. The symptoms of those afflicted range from problems in language, to a decreasing faculty of judgement, to changes in mood. Whilst some patients are outwardly perceived as aggressive, others are described as vacant. What is true of all its forms, however, is that its symptoms worsen over time, affecting not only actions in the day-to-day but the entire ‘self.’

A family friend of mine, Evelyn Welch, who is unrelated to the early modernist historian, saw dementia first-hand. Her mother was afflicted by dementia in her later life, with its appearance a devastating, ever-worsening and inescapable fact of both their lives. Evelyn has worked for different pharmaceutical companies, one of which—Eisai—focused to a great extent on Alzheimer’s disease. Her mother was diagnosed with vascular dementia at the age of 80. One day she would sit by her mother, who was no longer able to grasp that it was her daughter who sat by her. And yet, through the strikingly clear—though scarcely conceivable—pain of watching the course of dementia as it took hold, Mrs Welch would always remain ‘mother’ to Evelyn, and never became a woman who she no longer knew. This loss was the crushing and devastating human manifestation of the diseases and chemicals which had taken hold in her brain.

As a child, Evelyn’s mother would stand by the window, waving goodbye as she and her brother made their way to school each day. A blue-badge tour guide from the age of 50, Evelyn’s mother would guide tourists around London—from the dungeons to Buckingham Palace—reciting facts and the history of the city in both English and fluent French to her tour groups. She made sure to maintain a working knowledge of essential news-items, and was always improving and developing: fresh knowledge formed a key part of her repertoire. She was kind and incredibly astute. The most brutal irony of Mrs Welch’s disease would rest in the fact that her memory had been so great. She lived until the age of 94, never afflicted by any major physical disease in the last decade of her life, never in pain. Her heart was strong, and this was true both emotionally and physically.

Despite this physical health, Evelyn’s mother was the one in 14 of those above the age of 15 in the UK afficted each year by dementia. Despite touring until the age of 70, exercising and stretching her mind, this was not enough to counter her affliction. Evelyn cannot pin-point the moment when she first realised that her mother was suffering from vascular dementia. She remembers how she had taken her mother to the doctor, where they discussed the need for her to undertake a mastectomy. Retrospectively, she wonders if this was near the moment at which her mother’s dementia truly began, if this was when the symptoms of the disease first began to present themselves. For even as her mother seemed to engage with the doctor, she remained unable to fully grasp what was being explained to her. It would take another five years for Evelyn and her family to be able to confirm the onset of the disease.

Indeed, when her mother was 80, it was a call from a pharmacist which first alerted Evelyn that something was truly wrong. That day, her mother had returned five times to the same drug store down the road. Each time she asked for, and bought, a tube of fixodent for her dentures. To her, the pharmacist’s exclamation that Mrs Welch had bought enough that day to open shop herself would have seemed absurd—it was evident that for Evelyn’s mother each trip was the first. It was then, when someone outside their family circle had noticed the undeniable affliction of what was on a day-to-day basis a more imperceptible loss of astuteness, that the severity of small lapses and previous worries came abruptly to the fore. This was one of the first of increasingly severe episodes which came to form the daily reality for Evelyn’s mother and her family.

From a biological standpoint memory is multi-faceted: we differentiate temporally between the memories which last mere milliseconds—allowing us to see and understand a panorama by the layering of snap-shot images—and those long-term memories which last for many years. And yet, fundamentally, memory is conceptualised in the cultural and emotive sphere. What one might crudely take as mere ‘images’ at a biological level, are imbued with and inspire emotion. It is memory which writes and underpins both our personal and national histories, shaping our perceptions of the past and of the present. In short, if one is the sum of their parts, what of those parts without the memory which would ostensibly give these parts their meaning and purpose?

Evelyn recalls one of the more terrible moments which took place at one Christmas a few years on. She had hosted a dinner party, attended only by close family. Throughout the evening, her mother had continually asked her a million questions—“have we,” “where,” “what…”. And in the early hours of the morning, as Evelyn stood in the kitchen, washing the piles of dishes from that evening, her mother came to her asking what she was doing. Despite the fact that mere hours before the home had been filled with noise and the people she had known and cared for a lifetime, it was evident that Evelyn’s mother in no way recalled that anyone had come to them, or anything of the course of the evening. Evelyn remembers her frustration as she led her mother back to the living room, and how upon returning to the kitchen she stood “crying my eyes out”. And yet, when she returned to see her mother—to apologise for her frustration, to see how she was—Mrs Welch simply turned around and said “hello” to her daughter. She was surprised to see her and said that she had not realised Evelyn had been in the house.

Evelyn tells me how her mother’s prolapsed bowel prevented her from going out by herself. Though it made her weaker and weaker, Evelyn painfully calls it a blessing in disguise. To know that her mother was inside was to know that she was safe. Her loss of memory and communication, despite her ability to perform the most simple tasks (unlike the affliction of Alzheimer’s, whose symptoms may comprise an inability to perform such basic, internalised actions) meant that she would be unable to explain to someone where she lived if lost or if asked, where she was going, nor who she herself was.

On hearing Evelyn’s story, I think of my own mother. My mother, who has seen and held me at my worst and my best, who I do not need to explain myself to, who understands my gestures, my grunts, who indulges me, and rights me, and who knows who I am and all that I have done.

I think of my grandmother who is now 85. She’ll call me by my sister’s name before letting up a well-humoured chuckle as she retraces her steps, correcting her mistake. How she hugs me, and still calls me ‘tesoro’ and who makes sure her hair is brushed, (sprayed with volumiser if the occasion is a special one), and lipstick done before she makes her way slowly but surely to the shops and to the doctors, or on walks through the neighbourhood. And yet, she refuses to allow anyone to help her as she hangs up the washing or bends down to cut herbs in the garden for her cooking. She has always remembered to call me on my birthday. She lets loose great bursts of elegant laughter as she recalls how my grandfather stepped on her toes at their first dance, or how she and her best friend sputtered along together in a rickety at when they learnt how to drive. Her eyesight has deteriorated, and yet, she knows who I am. If I were to open the front door one day to my beautiful nonna—she will always be the most beautiful soul to me—and be received by a blank stare where all that life was held before, with no attempt to recognise a face that she no longer knew, the least I would do is cry. The least.

For, though she would never be lost to be me, she would be lost to herself and I may be lost to her. It is a thought that pains me to entertain, I hesitate to write words that I pray will never come true. And yet, this was the painful reality of what afflicted Evelyn’s mother, and that which Evelyn saw happen to her mother, as each day she would move less and perceive less. She was always obliging to her carers, thanking them when they came, four times each day. And though she would attempt to show interest in the pictures Evelyn placed before her, it was evident she did that her mother did not realise the faces looking back at her in the pictures were family, with little idea of who was beside her.

Evelyn never believed her mother was gone—she says that she lived in the hope that her condition would improve, despite telling me that deep down in her heart, she knew in her heart that she would not. And yet her brother—a musician—wrote a song for his mother, ‘The Girl in the Window.’ Mrs Welch no longer waved from the window after a visit from her children, and as with the disappearance of this recurring gesture, for Evelyn’s brother, he felt that he had lost his mother, too. Evelyn tells me of the small victories: keeping her mother in her own home, as she had expressed a wish for years before; the painlessness of her slipping away; the way she sang along to very old songs and how she knew to answer in French when her relatives called from abroad: her peace.

And yet, it would be self-evident to say that the whittling away of memory, and the whittling away of the self took much of her mother from Evelyn. Though Mrs Welch lived to the age of 94, her daily life became a routine, as she became increasingly vacant to the world and the people around her. To listen to such a story is devastating, and the pain of living through such a numbing and hitherto irreversible process unimaginable.

I talked to Jina, the head of European and American affairs specialising in dementia at another pharmaceutical company. She tells me that though difficult, companies are making progress in producing more effective medicines for dementia.

Despite the failure of all clinical trials in the past ten years to produce effective treatment, she explains that studies are now evolving. There is a move to focus on earlier diagnosis and treatment, in order to prevent the deterioration of the brain before the symptoms of Alzheimer’s and other dementias present themselves in their strongest form. And yet, the complexities of producing an effective drug are ever-present: from the billion-dollar cost and the question of governmental funding to the under-prioritisation of care for the elderly. Despite reserved views on David Cameron, Jina tells me that under his tenure, funding for research in her field has increased. She tells me that the industry has had a history of international collaborations, and continues in this vein. Though a long process, and a difficult one, it is this science, and these billions which are hoped to one day prevent the degradation of memory and the vacuum which has taken so many like Evelyn’s mother.

We will continue to exist even if we do forget, and we will continue to disappear into the great fabric of the world, even if we are able to remember. And yet, the devastation of a life unknowingly lived is the painful truth of dementia, and it is Evelyn’s pain, and unwittingly that of her mother which we hope will one day be remedied by drugs of the likes produced in companies such as Jina’s. To forget is to lose, and it is the ability to know that you are living which strives us to work towards remedying such premature loss. Where there is life, there must indeed be hope. We must remember—as far as we are able—that we cannot forget those whose memories are being drawn from them, not resigning ourselves to helplessness or the difficulty of this affliction.

My date with Theresa May

Charlotte Tosti
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My date with Theresa May

As you might imagine, I was incredibly nervous. Even more nervous than usual, actually, because I’d needed to drop my tendency to be ‘fashionably late’ to dates since this was the Prime Minister, and I knew that I was nothing but a narrow line in her day’s schedule. Being late would have lost me everything. Though, to be honest, it’s my vote she needs now. Hopefully electioneering will delay her a few minutes. I pick a table in the darkest corner of the café, and attempt to calm down. Suggesting how many Theresas I know could be a conversation starter. I try to think of as many Theresas as I can. Saint Teresa of Ávila, Mother Theresa, Teresa (or ‘Tess’) of the D’Urbervilles, Theresa Villiers (the less significant Theresa in the Tory party)—

The Theresa arrives just as my mind game starts to run dry. She produces a wry smile, and I stand up to shake her hand—or should I grab it and hold it like Donald Trump? But she goes in first and I offer nothing but the ‘dead fish’.

Before we read the menu, I compliment her on her dress sense, pointing out her fashionable leather flared trousers, the well-trimmed navy blazer patriotically accompanied with a white blouse and crimson silk scarf. She smiles reassuringly, and gives a modest thank you, avoiding any comments on my less remarkable, and certainly less expensive, outfit. She knows I’m amongst the working poor.

The waitress trots up and we make our orders. I play it safe, a cappuccino, no cocoa powder on top. Theresa stays true to her British colours, ordering herself a pot of English breakfast.

“Something to have with your drink?”

“Ah, you know what I’d like”, she says suddenly. “One of those…crunchy almond biscuits from Italy—cantucci! They’re in most cafes, in every Costa, or Café Nero, you know…”

The waitress looks uneasy.

“I’m sorry, we don’t stock those ones anymore.”

Theresa remembers we have now left the EU, and asks what else they have.

“Erm, I think we’ve got some Madeira cake? There might be some bread pudding lying around…”

There is a long pause. I know Theresa is indecisive, I remember she took ages deciding when to trigger Article 50. Who knows how long it’ll take for her to choose between one bland snack and another. She can’t stop a slight scrunching of the nose.

“We’ll be fine, thank you.” She gives another Cheshire cat smile.

As she has to look friendly in public, she stops the waitress and asks her name and where she is from. Maybe she thinks prime ministerial friendliness is a category on TripAdvisor. The waitress looks slightly nervous, and seems to peer out of the window in case one of the vans designed to deport illegal immigrants is hovering around.

“I’m Paola, from Valencia—but I’m going back as soon as the visa expires.” With that, she rushes off. Theresa looks uncomfortable. I reassure her that it doesn’t matter as she can’t vote anyway. She responds with an ambiguous “hmm.”

I raise her spirits by having a rant about David Cameron and his spinelessness. I load her with compliments about how she can—to quote herself—”lead a country”, get better press than Jeremy Corbyn (she smirks—she knows that isn’t hard), and strut through the White House and face the Beelzebub himself.

“Hold your horses, Donald is actually quite a gentleman.”

Wow, I can’t compete with that. My office only happens to be oval-shaped, and I don’t have a shiny yellow combover, or a Tower of Isengard in New York. I try to steer the conversation away from politics. She gets too much of that.

We reminisce about the places we have travelled to, and she asks me what one of my favourite cities was. I muse about Brussels, but remember I have only ever visited a petrol station there, so I make something up. She doesn’t seem to notice my fabrication, and looks morose as I recall how tasty the chocolate was—how one box of Guylian is worth thousands of barrels of Quality Street. I reassure her. “I understand, I guess you aren’t so welcome in Brussels anymore?” She gives a solemn nod.

Eventually, I realise that wherever we seem to steer the conversation, it reminds us of our continental bereavement. I scan my eyes around the café. It’s dreadful. Customers sit wiping greasy bread pudding raisins off their chins, the smell of burnt bacon pervades the air, whilst the salt cellars and Heinz tomato ketchup bottles sit as numbly as plastic mini married couples by the odd plate of untouched Madeira cake. Now Vera Lynn is playing on the radio. I have to put Theresa May out of her misery. I want to hear Nouvelle Vague covers, and I want the people to drink espressos and eat croissants and Danish pastries. I want a portrait of Jean-Claude Juncker to hang upon the walls like a portrait of Chairman Mao.

On the premise that being Prime Minister makes her some sort of genie, she asks me if I had one wish that she could grant, what would it be?

“Easy. To reverse Brexit.”

The Cheshire cat grins again. She puts down the china cup, carefully wiping the fuchsia lipstick stain off it. She raises her eyebrows.

“Well, Brexit means Brexit!”

Her aide walks in to signal our time is up. And, with that, she bids me goodbye and drives off to visit a local grammar school to tell the students how great they are.

A limp, lifeless insult to every single viewer

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A limp, lifeless insult to every single viewer

Some will say that attacking an Adam Sandler Netflix comedy is the sign of a weak critic, one devoid of imagination, one shooting fish in a barrel simply because he can. Those people are absolutely right: the majority of his films are so aggressively, incessantly, irrepressibly mediocre, that to write yet another fuming tirade about them would be to admit absolute creative bankruptcy.

Here, therefore, is yet another fuming tirade about one of his comedies.

Sandy Wexler follows the titular Sandy (Adam Sandler), a mendacious Hollywood manager, as he seeks to cultivate the talent of Courtney Clarke (Jennifer Hudson), a singer that he discovers working in a nearby theme park. The plot proceeds as though it were locked into the twin tracks of cliché and trope, never deviating from the beats of romance thwarted and triumphant love that one would expect in a low-rent rom-com.

Sandy is one of the most infuriating characters ever put to screen, consistently irritating, unlikeable, and ineffectual, his every second onscreen nigh-on unwatchable. For the role, Sandler has adopted a shuffling gait, a softly-spoken, slightly-lisping voice and a laugh like that of an asthmatic seal. Every word he speaks and every gesture he makes seem to be performed with the sole intention of eliciting maximum annoyance from the audience.

Even beyond his grating externalities, it is impossible to support Sandy: he lies chronically without convincing a single person, launches into fits of rage without warning, and he fails every one of his clients repeatedly. It might work if he was deplorable but efficient; it might work if he was honest but hapless; it might even work if he was both contemptible and ineffective but was then punished for being so. But Sandy gets the girl, leads a terrific career, and enjoys long-term happiness despite the dishonesty and ineptitude which characterises him throughout the film’s 130-minute runtime.

And yes, the film runs for 130 minutes.

The film fundamentally cannot sustain such a gargantuan length. The narrative through-line is a simple, stock story, one that could be whipped through in half-an-hour by a better film. The film is only so long because it is entirely ignorant of how to pace its exchanges, scenes, and sequences. There is not a single moment which feels like it is the right length—every single one is extended to breaking point, and then stretched out for another few minutes, just for good measure.

In one scene, a character repeatedly forgets to record Courtney’s demo track, leading to an outraged outburst from Sandy. This sequence—which runs for several minutes—does not contain a single actual joke and yet keeps on going, and going, and going, refusing to stop and refusing to do anything interesting, and refusing to show the slightest regard for anyone watching it. A film does not need perpetual forward momentum to succeed. But, if you are going to take a slower approach, every moment needs to justify itself, needs to prove its worth by being funny, or amusing, or affecting, or something other than mind-numbingly inert.

In fact, the only moment in which Sandy Wexler manages to reach the heady heights of reduced disinterest are in its infrequent forays into dark humour. Yet these gags reveal yet another of its failures: the film is entirely unaware of why it exists. If Sandy Wexler simply knew what it was—even if that meant being a dime-a-dozen love story—it would be less offensive than the noxious trash fire currently streaming on Netflix.

So yes, perhaps it is too easy to lay into an Adam Sandler comedy. But then Sandy Wexler never seems to put in any effort either, so why should I? When a film has so little concern about its own quality, so little regard for doing anything of interest, so much contempt for its audience’s time, how can one respond to it in any other way?

American art at the cutting edge of the 21st century

Altair Brandon-Salmon
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American art at the cutting edge of the 21st century

Two shows. One, the most high profile exhibition of contemporary American art. The other, a Visual Arts MFA degree show—not contemporary art, but one example perhaps of the future of art in the US. The former is, of course, the Whitney Biennial, on until the 11th June at the Whitney Museum of American Art, in its new, very precociously-designed home in New York City’s Meatpacking district. Renzo Piano (architect of the Centre Georges Pompidou and the Shard) has created a glossy, metal and glass, angular frame to the museum, right at the end of the High Line. In a sense, it is Piano’s work who introduces the Biennial, the first installation in the exhibition. The Columbia first-year MFA exhibition, which was on from 24th March–8th April, is less glamorously located on the eighth floor of Schermerhorn Hall, a nineteenth-century Beaux-Arts, red brick building at the heart of the Ivy League-university’s campus in Morningside Heights, on the Upper West Side. Yet once inside the gallery space, the comforting familiarity of blank white walls returns and we are no longer so far away from the Whitney after all.

The Whitney Biennial is intended as a sampling of contemporary American art: it makes no claim to comprehensiveness, nor it is as prescient as it seems. Critics like The New Yorker‘s Peter Schjeldahl have taken great pleasure in pointing out that the curators—Christopher Y. Lew and Mia Locks—made their selection of works before last November’s presidential election. Indeed, the last Biennial had one hundred and three different artists represented, while here we are down to a more digestible sixty-three. On the other hand, Columbia’s MFA twenty-five strong cohort, are very conscious of the spectre of the 45th President of the United States. Meg Turner’s striking black and white, upside down American flag, entitled ‘It’s already happening/it has always been happening here’ breathes in the air of political anger and protest.

Which is not to say the Biennial shirks current concerns—its most controversial work, Dana Schultz’s impressive, almost abstract painting ‘Open Casket’ has drawn ire from activists for a white woman portraying the mutilated body of Emmett Till. References, implicit or otherwise, to Black Lives Matter abound. One of the pieces operates more as polemic than art, Frances Stark’s ‘Censorship Now!!’ excerpting from Ian F. Svenonius’ book, which argues freedom of expression is a ploy of capitalist oppression—ironic for a work exhibited within a corporately-sponsored museum which claims to celebrate artists’ expression.

One of the most striking elements of both shows however, is the return to canvas. Of course, painting has never really gone away and the periodic cry from critics of either the death or revitalisation of painting occur with predictable cyclicality. What marks the works at the Whitney and in Columbia though, is their determined representational qualities, shirking abstraction. Aliza Nisenbaum’s ‘Latin Runners Club’ at the Biennial, a large-scale portrait of a cast of diverse runners recalls public murals, while Samantha Nye’s ‘Entertainment For Men (Bard And I As Triplets)’ from the MFA exhibition, shows three nude, blonde middle-aged women entwined by phone cords on a deep, flattening red background. Indeed, even in the galleries in Chelsea, works on walls dominate: certainly they are far more saleable than more avant-garde art forms.

Yet what I think is the crux of the comparison between the Whitney Biennial and the Columbia MFA show is that question of quality. The best work at the Biennial—such as Samara Golden’s genuinely awe-inspiring installation ‘The Meat Grinder’s Iron Clothes’, or the stained glass of Raúl De Nieves—is profoundly beautiful, moving, and thought-provoking all at once. Yet the worst (and make no mistake, the curators’ tastes are not infallible: you will find plenty to dislike), like the infographic that is the collective Occupy Museum’s contribution to the show, is not very much better in terms of craftsmanship, polish, and confidence than the work at Columbia. This is all the more surprising when you recall it is a first year MFA show. Certainly, the powerful ‘Revenge/Regret’ series of encrusted paintings, cleverly utilising a corner of the gallery space to surround the viewer in images hovering between representation and abstraction, could see Tanya Merrill one day gracing the hallowed space of the Whitney or the Met Breuer.

The gap is not so great, the difference in quality from the chosen representatives of contemporary art in America today not as large as you might expect. Perhaps that is because the future of American art, as exemplified by this grouping of MFA students, is so enamoured with the present art of America, their subjects and styles and forms merging together into a thick, rich morass. We shouldn’t read this as a condemnation of the Whitney Biennial: on the contrary, it is a testament to the talent that has yet to break through that it is already operating on such a high level.

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