Monday, May 12, 2025
Blog Page 41

Brasenose hosts talk by suspended spokesman for the Israeli government

Over two dozen students protested yesterday outside Brasenose College during a talk by alumnus and former Israeli government spokesperson Eylon Levy. Following Nikki Haley’s event at Blavatnik School of Government last week, this was the second time a controversial speaker was announced at short notice.

Protesters organised by Oxford Action for Palestine (OA4P) sat outside the college gate, temporarily trapping students and fellows inside. A student trapped inside told Cherwell that when they attempted to get out, they were “tramping over protesters who grabbed and scratched and screamed”. Protesters also yelled “Shame! Shame!” at people leaving and asked questions like “How do you feel about a genocidal maniac speaking at your college?”

According to a flyer posted inside Brasenose the day of Levy’s event, it “will be a valuable opportunity to gain some insight into the current conflicts in the Middle East, from somebody right at the centre of the events”.

OA4P called for an emergency rally about an hour before the event, alleging that Levy’s event was not announced until the last minute: “As has been patterned in recent talks this term, the University deliberately concealed the identity of the speaker until shortly before the event began, to avoid rightful accountability and reputation damage.”

This follows last week’s OA4P protests outside a Blavatnik School of Government (BSG) event featuring former US ambassador to the UN Nikki Haley. OA4P alleged: “BSG clearly knew that the Oxford community would not welcome Haley’s presence, given that the School hid her identity as the Dean’s Forum speaker from the student body until this morning.”

Brasenose and BSG did not respond when Cherwell asked about the dates of announcing Levy and Haley as speakers respectively.

A Brasenose spokesperson told Cherwell: “Brasenose College values open dialogue and the exchange of diverse perspectives. The event, organised by students, provided an opportunity to engage with a speaker and alumnus who has held a prominent role in public affairs. We acknowledge that the speaker’s previous comments have sparked debate and took steps to ensure the event proceeded safely for all involved.

“Some disruption occurred, affecting some students, staff and visitors, but normal access resumed shortly thereafter. We respect the right of individuals to voice their views through peaceful protest and remain committed to fostering an inclusive environment based on mutual respect.”

Levy studied PPE at Brasenose and emigrated to Israel. He served in the Israeli defence ministry, worked as international media adviser to the president, and became the government’s English-language spokesperson following the 7th October attacks. Levy was suspended earlier this year following an online row with then-UK Foreign Secretary Lord Cameron, BBC reported.

Review: Endgame – ‘Nothing is funnier than unhappiness’

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Devilish Whimsy’s production of Samuel Beckett’s Endgame captures Beckett’s seamless blending of comedy, providing us with a hopeless vision of the future while simultaneously evoking gallows humour, inviting us to laugh at our powerlessness to escape this apocalyptic fate. Against the tragic contemporary backdrop of escalating global and political crises, this production’s use of laughter in the bleakest situations feels as relevant today as it must have done to the original 1957 audiences.

Beckett’s play, set in an apocalyptic landscape, depicts the unsettling relationships between whom we assume to be the only four survivors: Ham, who is blind and unable to stand; his servant Clov, who is unable to sit; and his senile parents who spend the entire play sitting in bins. The play’s small cast skilfully handles the demands of capturing the complexities of these relationships. Rowan Brown and Guan Xiong Lam deserve particular recognition. From the confines of their newspaper-covered dustbins, they manage to alternate with great energy between weary bitterness and nostalgic tenderness towards one another.

The relationship between Nate Wintraub’s Hamm and Lyndsey Mugford’s Clov, around which the majority of the play’s action revolves, is also impressively executed. Wintraub, in a brocade jacket and velvet smoking hat, portrays Hamm as if he were a rake from an Edwardian melodrama thrust into modernity. Unable to function in this unfamiliar setting, his impish charm sours into infantile petulance. In contrast to this mercurial theatricality, Mugford brings an emotional numbness to the role of Clov. While Hamm has responded to the unknown catastrophe by collapsing into self-pity, Clov uses emotional repression as a coping mechanism. Despite their characters’ constant bickering, Wintraub and Mugford manage to create a briefly tender and poignant moment of solidarity; the stand-out scene of the play was when Mugford’s Clov, after refusing to touch Hamm, placed a caring hand on his shoulder while apologising for throwing a stuffed dog at him. Through the absurdity of the moment, we as audience members were given a brief vision of a more optimistic future of love and affection before Clov’s return to numbness.

Director Killian King successfully emphasised the environmental themes of the play; at the back of the set, two windows are covered in white paper to capture the barrenness of the outside world and the contemporary threat of rising sea levels is alluded to at one point with the sound of waves. Hamm’s line ‘nature is dead’ reminds us that the play’s dystopian setting may not be as far into the future as we would like to think.

The characters all bring humour to their roles, whether in the physical comedy of Clov dragging Hamm around the stage in an enormous armchair or in the darkly comedic jibes the characters direct towards one another (and at one point the audience). However, ultimately this production is a deft rendition of Beckett’s absurdist cry of despair for the future.

A literary map of Oxford

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Bookshelves are the most revealing part of a room. It’s there you’ll discover if your potential hook up is into incel-adjacent self-help books (in which case, leave as soon as possible) or bruised editions of old paperback classics (in which case, they’re a keeper). An Oxford undergraduate’s bookshelf, however, is more likely to be filled with an unchanging set of volumes, brought ritualistically to Uni at the beginning of each term as part of an optimistic belief in the existence of free time. In a city with such a rich cultural history, you can absolve yourself of the nagging guilt over these books left to gather dust by absorbing the inspiration its alleys and canals have to offer. Below is the perfect afternoon dawdle, chasing the ghosts of literary greats through the town – particularly beautiful right now as the leaves start to turn.

First stop – Christ Church College and the Thames

The richest, biggest, and most pretentious of Oxford’s Colleges, it is also the site on which Mathematics don Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (better known as Lewis Carroll) found inspiration for Alice in Wonderland. A boat trip from Folly Bridge to Godstow undertaken by Carroll and the three daughters of a dean from the college on the 4th July 1862 was later identified by the author as the date of inspiration for his nonsense novel. Its protagonist is supposedly based off of the middle daughter, Alice Liddell, with whom Caroll enjoyed a particularly close relationship – it’s been speculated by a biographer of Liddell’s that his sudden break from the family occurred after his desire to wed the 11-year-old girl was discovered.

(Hint: This connection to Alice in Wonderland is why you’ll find Alice’s Shop opposite the college.)

Up High Street to University College

Percy Shelley’s name does not usually figure on the list of Oxford’s literary alumna. Possibly because his stay at the university was so short.  He was expelled five months after arriving at University College in 1810 for circulating a pamphlet called ‘The Necessity of Atheism’ that he and fellow student Thomas Jefferson Hogg had written.

Down Magpie Lane to Merton College

Don’t ignore Magpie Lane as you pass through – Robin Swift, main character of R F Kuang’s dazzling 2022 ‘Babel’, spends a brief few months of semi-blissful ignorance at the beginning of the novel living here in student accommodation. Kuang’s study of academic complicity in imperialism could not be further from the homely nostalgia of ‘The Hobbit’, written by future fellow of Merton College J.R.R.Tolkien. Merton, mischievously re-imagined as ‘Judas College’, plays a crucial role in Max Beerbohm’s Zuleika Dobson. It is Zuleika’s familial connection to the university that allows her to gain access to and wreak havoc upon the sexually frustrated men within Edwardian Oxford.

Up Merton Street to Magdalen College and Holywell Cemetery

Magdalen College dons were taken by surprise in 1878 when Oscar Wilde, notorious University-wide for his aestheticism and disobedience, graduated with a double first in Classics. Some fifty years later, The Inklings – a group of writers including C. S. Lewis and J. R.R. Tolkien – began their regular meetings at Lewis’ fellow’s room in the college. Behind the college lies Holywell Cemetery, which not only contains the grave of Theophilus Carter, reputed inspiration behind the Mad Hatter, but also Kenneth Grahame, who wrote ‘The Wind in the Willows’, and the son for whom it was written.

Down Holywell Street to the Bodleian and Rad Cam

Grahame bequeathed all his royalties to the Bodleian despite never studying at the University; this imaginative hold of the library’s over generations of writers is testified to also by the central place it occupies in Babel and Deborah Harkness’ All Souls trilogy. In the former, Kuang constructs a towering new linguistics building in the midst of its courtyard, whereas in the latter the witch Diana Bishop discovers an arcane text that inducts her into a community of magic-casters and vampires. Walking past the Rad Cam, you’ll come to the approximate location of Jordan College, a parallel universe equivalent of Exeter College, where Philip Pullman was an undergraduate and decided to use as his main character Lyra’s Oxford base in the His Dark Materials trilogy, a subversion of Milton’s Paradise Lost.

Up Catte Street to Hertford College

Hertford boasts not only the Bridge of Sighs, but also the distinction of having Evelyn Waugh as an alumna. His satirical Decline and Fall comments on elite circles of interwar Britain.It begins with the expulsion of main character Paul Pennyfeather after getting caught up in the actions of the Bollinger Club (a very thinly veiled fictitious Bullingdon Club), whereas Brideshead Revisited is a work of nostalgia for easy hierarchy.

Down Broad Street to St John’s College

Philip Larkin, arguably the most sour poet of the 20th century, spent much of his time as an undergraduate at St John’s College writing lesbian stories under the pseudonym Brunette Coleman. One of these, entitled ‘Michaelmas Term at St Bride’s’, is set in a women’s college with striking similarities to Somerville, which segues us away from Larkin’s sexual frustrations to the next stop.

Up St Giles’ Road to Somerville College and Jericho

The Eagle and Child, once a famous Inklings’ haunt, now stands lifeless on this road, despite having been bought by the American Ellison Institute of Technology last year. Somerville itself is a much happier sight. It’s been home to A.S. Byatt, whose beautiful Possession explores academia, forbidden Victorian affairs, and Brittonic poetry; Dorothy L Sayers, a writer of feminist mysteries who set her Gaudy Night at an alumni dinner at a certain ‘Shrewsbury College’; and others including Iris Murdoch, Frances Hardinge, and Vera Brittain, whose semi-autobiographical Testament of Youth begins with her preparations to study at Somerville being abandoned by the advent of the First World War.

Optional last stop – Woodstock and the greater Oxford area

The first of Colin Dexter’s thirteen Inspector Morse novels begins with a group of women waiting for a bus to Woodstock, which now runs from Keble Road just outside Somerville’s main entrance. As – and if – you take the bus out of Summertown to this quiet village belonging to Blenheim Palace, you could end this literary ramble on a depressing note by reflecting on the bleakest story to find inspiration from Oxford’s dreaming spires. Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure tracks the eponymous character’s desire to attend ‘Christminster’ as a scholar. This  is made impossible by the sexual and class standards of late Victorianism. Hardy himself was never able to progress his education past the age of 16, and Jude never manages to gain access to the colleges he longs to be a part of. The full story is so unrelentingly comfortless that it’s thought to be the reason Hardy gave up writing novels, and tried his hand at poetry instead.

One of the most surreal aspects about life in Oxford is the opportunity to walk the same roads as the figures you study, and those revered and studied before them. But the various imaginations that have found their outlet in the city enable you also to discover the paths of those figures who exist ordinarily only on the page. It’s a privilege that should not be neglected – we hope you’ll embrace it instead, on wanders such as this.

Should we judge a book by its cover?

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When was the last time you read a book without ever seeing its cover? They’re the first thing you see and I believe our experience of books is intrinsically tied up with the way that they look. If this is the case, is it even possible to avoid judging them? Bookstores and libraries have a wealth of choice, so a book cover has to be enticing enough that you pick it up in the first place. If the cover isn’t the genre you’re looking for, you might put the book down before even reaching the blurb. Designing a book cover requires a significant amount of effort and thought: it can make or break book sales.

Plenty of people also actively focus on the aesthetics of books. If given the choice between two designs of the same book, I’m sure lots of people would choose to buy the nicer (in their opinion) of the two. I know when I buy classics I’m always particularly drawn to the beautiful clothbound editions. Although I’ve only come to own one second-hand clothbound classic,  so clearly costs can play a part too. I’ve also been tempted in the past to buy copies of books I already own just because a new version of the cover has come out, or in order to have matching covers for a trilogy or series (again, cost and wastage are prohibitive here for me). So there you have it. On several levels, plenty of people do in fact judge books by their covers. Sometimes more consciously than others.

I don’t mind if people choose aesthetic books to add to their collection. I’m happy that people enjoy reading, and buying a book for aesthetic purposes doesn’t stop you from actually reading it. The idea of choosing a book by its cover might be frowned upon, but if people are reading for enjoyment then is it really so wrong for aesthetics to be part of this enjoyment? In addition, book covers are a form of artistic expression. People collect art for the sole purpose of enjoying the way it looks; why can’t the art created by book cover designers and illustrators be similarly admired? 

For those who believe we shouldn’t judge books by their covers, maybe this sounds controversial at best, terrible at worst. But the fact remains that plenty of people do judge books by their covers, so much so that it can affect book sales. According to Penguin publishing, designing a book cover requires designers, but also editors, marketing, sales, and production teams. Whilst the author is consulted and their input considered, it’s down to the art department to make the final decision. Publishing houses have to consider their target audience, retailers, and their competition whilst designing a book cover. This illustrates that we do in fact judge books by their covers. It means you can infer a lot about a book from the cover alone. You can often tell the genre, the narrative tone, the author (if you’ve read their other works), and their target demographics too. If you like books of a certain genre, you might pick up a book cover which reminds you of that. What comes to mind for me are books which might be classed as ‘dark academia’. These tend to look visually dark and often have covers in a gothic style. Think The Secret History, Babel, Ninth House, If We Were Villains. They all have different covers, and the books are in fact different in tone and contents, but you can tell they could all be grouped together as dark academia books. 

Romance books are another example. To me, Ali Hazelwood and Hannah Grace’s book covers all follow similar aesthetics: they regularly feature swirling fonts and two lovers against pretty, often pastel, backgrounds. The covers alone show that they’re light hearted romance novels. Sometimes a book straddles multiple genres, and you can see which has been focused on through the cover design. Both Emily Henry and Sally Rooney’s novels feature covers with bold coloured and minimalistic backgrounds. Henry’s book covers, however, use brighter and more saturated colours and tend to also feature two romantic leads. This gives the impression that her books fit within the romance genre, but might have a higher degree of realism than Hazelwood’s, for example. The covers of Rooney’s books, on the other hand, tend to opt for more muted tones of red or green and are more minimalistic covers than Henry’s. This indicates that whilst there might be a romantic story, the real draw is literary fiction and an element of realism, rather than a guaranteed happy ending.  

All of this suggests that book covers often follow cover design trends: minimalistic covers with muted colours for realism, pastels and a happy couple for romance. It seems that designing a book cover involves the difficult task of trying to create something that follows a trend whilst also being individual enough to be set apart from competitors. And sometimes, this leads to incredibly similar covers. The first book in Lauren Child’s Ruby Redfort series, marketed towards 9 -14 year olds, came out in 2011. The first Geek Girl book, written by Holly Smale, was published in 2013. Around two years after this, the Ruby Redfort series underwent cover redesigns, and when I saw them I was immediately reminded of the Geek Girl covers. Coincidentally, Harper Collins was the publishing house behind both covers. It felt like a direct message to the readers: if you liked Geek Girl, read this! I was surprised. Having read both and only liked one of the two series, I didn’t think they were all that similar. But it makes sense; if book covers really do influence what we buy, why not follow the successes of other books. Why not take advantage of fans of one book looking for their next fix in the form of another? And if book covers are a marketing tool, maybe we should judge books by their covers. 

However, by judging a book by its cover alone, we may end up judging authors by the one part of their book which they have had little to no control over. Not all book covers are successful. I was disappointed at the redesign of Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows duology. The covers went from conveying a mysterious fantasy story set in the same universe as Bardugo’s other books, to covers which I would likely interpret as literary fiction or Romance.  They don’t represent the contents or mood of the books, and I’ve seen others online say similar things. I remember seeing them and thinking that if I saw the new covers in a bookstore, I wouldn’t be drawn to them in the same way. That’s not to say I wouldn’t pick up the books at all, but would I buy them? I’m not convinced. 

Maybe ‘judge’ is the wrong word. We should accept that we are influenced by book covers. That they do contribute to the opinion we form of a book. That being drawn to a cover can be the reason we pick it up in the first place. But we need to be conscious of this. Maybe we need to start giving a chance to the books we wouldn’t usually take a second glance at. 

Blood is compulsory: The films of Martin McDonagh

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Under normal circumstances, asking me to write about a filmmaker who’s changed my outlook on life might invite something moving. There are plenty of directors, after all, who have that effect. Scorsese’s parade of doomed hyper-masculine protagonists marches on like a premonition. Francis Ford Coppola’s best work touches perfectly on the ways unremarkable people react when everything falls apart. Or, on the lighter side, I could muse for hours on the simple joys of Wes Anderson; a man I’ve never met and never will, yet who reminds me of an old relative who effortlessly evokes long-departed times and places. 

For all their merits, though, none of those three ever drunkenly told Sean Connery to ‘f**k off.’

Martin McDonagh, above all else, is an idolater. His plays, unapologetically drawing on his Irish roots, appalled the stuffed shirts of Fleet Street with their violent, absurd depictions of working-class life – but at the same time, caused a furore across the sea on the grounds that McDonagh, a Londoner by birth, was stereotyping his homeland for his own gain. He might now sit at the head of British film and theatre but if that head were to meet a similar fate to those of his protagonists, it might make for grisly viewing.

The chaos inherent to his films is perhaps best exemplified in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017), in which Mildred Hayes (Frances McDormand) erects the titular fixtures in protest at the police’s inability to find her daughter’s murderer and rapist. This seemingly reasonable frustration leads to a small-town death spiral: a suicide, a defenestration and an arson attack, all stemming from the attempts of the parochial and the powerful to protect their reputations. 

America as depicted in Three Billboards is angry and fractured. However, while this perspective on the country earned critical acclaim, it also provoked the ire of some quarters in the media. The film’s portrayal of race was especially criticised, with the bigoted and violent Officer Dixon (Sam Rockwell) becoming an apparently sympathetic figure despite not changing his ways. It’s true that Dixon and Mildred grow closer as the film progresses. But rather than assuming that this signifies an acceptance of Dixon, one might easily see it as a symbol of Mildred’s descent into amorality. Everyone turns against Mildred, so she turns against everyone – audience included, as it turns out. She sympathises with Dixon not for his hateful views, but for his ever-present anger at the same world Mildred sees as having failed her.

I’d suggest, therefore, that McDonagh’s handling of racial issues is more nihilistic than ignorant. Themes of cruelty and depravity also run through In Bruges (2008), in which Colin Farrell plays Ray, a hitman driven to suicidal thoughts at the guilt of having killed a child is hunted by his colleague Ken (Brendan Gleeson), who is instructed to kill him in response. The same two actors reprise in similarly bleak roles in The Banshees of Inisherin (2022). In the midst of the Irish Civil War, Gleeson’s character Colm cuts off his own fingers for no reason rather than to avoid talking to his former best friend Pádraic, played by Farrell. In response, Pádraic attempts to burn Colm alive in his own house. Scenes such as these demonstrate McDonagh’s worldview; bitter conflict is practically a given, and the only things more fragile than his protagonists’ social bonds are their egos. 

In McDonagh’s work, no one is safe from corruption. The strong female lead joins forces with racist thugs, alienates her son and wishes a violent death upon her daughter on the very day it occurs. The two inseparable friends see their country torn apart by sectarian violence, and mutilate themselves for the sheer sport of it. This conception of society – one without heroes or convictions, dominated by self-destructive vendettas – is striking because, in our uncertain century, it speaks to us more than any traditional morality tale could.

Papicha, power, and cinematic patriotism

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How can we say that Papicha is Algerian, if the film was banned without any explanation in the country shortly before its release? It is a film that belongs to Algerians but not necessarily to Algeria. Given that some accused the film of being western propaganda, though, this description still falls short. Perhaps it is better, then, to say that Papicha is a film that belongs to Algerian women or, to be more precise, to ‘papichas’.  

The term ‘papicha’, as well as being the film’s title, is one tossed about frequently throughout the film. A typical example of ‘algérois’, a mix of  French and Algerian Arabic, at times as a term of endearment and at others as an insult. A ‘papicha’ is essentially a pretty, funny and emancipated girl; someone who studies, someone who dreams and thinks for herself. In other words, someone who challenges the status quo of Algerian society in the 90s. Someone like Nedjma, the film’s protagonist: a French literature student with future plans of becoming a fashion designer who features as the film’s protagonist. 

The 90s in Algeria are often referred to as ‘la décennie noire’ (‘the black decade’) – which is about as cheery as it sounds. In 1992, the Algerian Civil War broke out with Islamist groups fighting the incumbent government after their electoral victory at the polls. The 1990s in Algeria represent a call back to the most radical version of Islam possible in the country and this is what we see in the film: Nedjma’s successful journalist sister is shot, her French professor is kidnapped whilst giving a lecture, and the autochthonous white haïk garment is replaced by Middle Eastern black hijabs. 

Though the threat posed by rapacious men is omnipresent Papicha, women arguably carry out the most shocking scenes of Islamist violence. Mounia Medour, the film’s director, is hence able to mimic the complexity of gender relations; women often perpetuate the structures by which they are oppressed. 

Despite being inherently political, this is an extraordinarily artistic film. As the Islamists’ reign of terror becomes increasingly restrictive, colours slowly start fading from our TV screens, a metaphor for individuality vanishing into thin air. The boutique from which Nedjma would buy sequins, colourful fabric and leopard print lingerie only sells black clothing by the end of the film. The best Nedjma can do is resist – a dangerous act that will not go unnoticed by those around her. 

The main criticism generally levelled against the film is that Mounia Medour’s target audience is  French and that, consequently, she reinforces stereotypes regarding Algeria . Nonetheless, it seems to me that Medour is representing a quintessentially Algerian form of feminism. For Nedjma, resistance is synonymous with being faithful to Algeria: when a boy she likes offers to take her to France to escape the violence, she turns his offer down right away, angry and disappointed at his cowardice. Her attitude may demonstrate a naïve and stubborn belief that things can change but – more importantly – Nedjma’s feminism does not come into conflict with her Algerian identity. This is a film as much about resentment as about love towards one’s country.  

Though set in the 90s, Papicha still has a lot to tell us about the way Algeria is today. It is true that women no longer fear for their lives if they do not wear the hijab outside or ululate too loudly, but in a country where femicides fill the newspapers and less than a fifth of women work, there are still a lot of ‘papichas’ awaiting change. 

Review: NUTS – ‘a harrowing portrait of deceit and desire’

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Following the success of Bedbugs last year, expectations for Coco Cottam’s newest play were bound to be high. With NUTS, she not only meets these but exceeds them, offering a harrowing portrait of deceit, desire, and the murkiness of morality. The play marks a departure from her previous work, veering into a more plot-driven territory while retaining the strength of character that made Bedbugs so compelling. 

NUTS centres on the intense friendship of two women, Eve (Alice Macey-Dare) and Nina (Orla Wyatt). The precarious balance of their relationship topples into chaos when a man, Liberty (Rufus Shutter), invades their flat. His urgency to move in and murky past sets in motion a series of emotional conflicts which unravel this seemingly perfect friendship. What begins as a lighthearted and witty examination of friendship soon develops into something darker and more psychologically complex.

Cottam’s script is stripped back and poised; relying on subtle exposition and controlled tension rather than more bombastic drama. The plot is intentionally minimalist, focusing on the emotional ramifications of Liberty’s arrival. NUTS’ complexity emerges in subtle, seemingly insignificant moments between characters- a cutting remark or a flicker of doubt teasing at what is to come. 

Such a script leaves actors precariously exposed; thankfully this is a challenge they faced brilliantly. Alice Macey-Dare’s Eve radiates a palpable sense of fragility, a character whose self-doubt slowly consumes her. As Liberty, Shutter is convincingly charming, his smooth exterior concealing a more menacing presence. Shutter pulls off this precarious balancing act effortlessly, from the start the audience is sceptical of Eve’s trust in him. As Tasch, Thalis Kermisch threatens to steal the show, delivering a monologue so devastating that it is difficult to watch. Orla Wyatt is particularly spectacular as Nina, whose initial self-assurance is worn away by Liberty. Wyatt’s performance is both painful and compelling, her OUDS debut casting her as a talent to watch. 

The level of maturity and depth brought to the roles is impressive. The shifting relationship dynamics, particularly between Nina and Liberty, are rendered brilliantly. The subtle psychological warfare between them is palpably intense, with Eve being torn apart in the middle. Coco sets up all the relationships in the play as shadowy parallels or disturbing distortions of each other—a complex web within which we too are tangled. 

The intensity of such performances is complemented by the production design. The simplistic set design – comprised of little more than a few chairs and a table – emphasises the close confinement of the characters’ world. The Burton Taylor Studio provides the perfect venue for such a claustrophobic play; the audience is trapped tightly within the same pressure cooker of a flat as the characters. The sound design, too, deserves to be mentioned. Eerie background noises of ticks, squeaks, and heavy breathing play from behind the audience. Although disorientating, the soundscape becomes integral to the subtle heightening of tension, pushing the audience forward into the action. Even the play’s occasional comic moments take on a sinister edge when complimented by such chilling sound design. NUTS works in its ability to keep the audience on edge, waiting for the delicately thin emotional facades the characters have built to come crashing down. 

Ultimately, the play succeeds not just because of its strength of writing and performance, but because Cottam taps into something universal about the deceit and doubt that can lurk beneath the surface of even the most secure relationships.

“Mummy said I’m pretty”: Nepo babies on the runway

Whatever happened to talent? It is a question many viewers of 2025 spring runways asked as yet another catwalk was graced by the relatives of the rich and famous. The internet has been obsessed with this idea of ‘nepo babies’ – someone who gains industry success through nepotism –since Nate Jones’ famous article cover: ‘She Has Her Mother’s Eyes. And Agent’. The obsession stems from the desire to feel that the people who are revered for their talent have been awarded roles because of family connections.

But not all nepo babies are considered equal.

The public accepts talented nepo models like the Hadid sisters; their fame is put down to their own hard work and natural gift for modelling. On the other hand, the shadow of the Kardashian name continues to haunt Kendall Jenner. Despite being the highest paid model, her success is still attributed to Kris and Kim’s connections. The same can be said for Lila Moss, Leni Klum and Lily Rose Depp.

The issue with nepo models centres around the authenticity of beauty. People love the idea that the most beautiful woman in the world is just a normal person. Giselle Bündchen, Cindy Crawford and Heidi Klum became successful because they were scouted from the streets or won talent competitions. That made these women likeable. Naomi Campbell has remained popular in the public eye because she was scouted, worked her way up and advocated for greater racial diversity in the beauty world. But what genuine positive change are people born into this system going to advocate for? The nepo models skip straight to the highest earning gigs with apparent ease: there’s no drive to change an industry if it is already perfectly suited to you.

This issue has been ongoing for at least the past fifteen years, to the point that now it is difficult to name a model who wasn’t born to famous parents. Is it too late to bring back the ‘real’ models? Unfortunately, it probably is. The 2008 economic crash, exacerbated by COVID-19, played a role in shrinking the aspirational class which could once afford haute couture.

Now that the middle class isn’t buying, there is no need for fashion houses to pretend. Beauty trends are inherently exclusionary. Take the 90s ‘heroin chic’ craze. The trend’s emphasis on extremely small sizes glorified extremely dangerous drug habits (hence its name) and glorified under-eating to achieve a desired weight.

BUT changes are being made: Chanel has a new Indian CEO, Victoria’s Secret participated in the ‘Runway of Dreams’ last year and Halima Aden wore a burkini in Sports Illustrated. Still, the overall picture isn’t one of increased diversity and representation. Until ordinary people have enough disposable income to consider these brands, the companies have no reason to look beyond the family names that made them successful in the first place.

‘The Pink City’: Ten generations of Jaipur gems

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Marvelling in a hushed awe at a Mughal-era star sapphire from Burma,  Krishna Choudhary explained when you can tell a stone is valuable. ‘By colour, cut, carat, rarity, pureness’ is the professional answer. ‘But really, it’s when you start tearing up, and simultaneously get an urge to bite into it, that’s how you know.’  He held the 150-carat stone, a deep, translucent blue that snuggled into his palm. As he directed the light above it, the gem burst the light rays into six different ways. It was like opening your eyes underwater and looking up at the sun. 

In a secluded eighteenth century mansion, the Saras Sadan Haveli, we found the headquarters for the Royal Gems & Arts in the old town of Jaipur. This residence has an opulent combination of bright colours from the Rajput Middle Ages and the remnants of Victorian inspiration, revealed by a well-preserved kaleidoscope of frescoes in natural pigments covering every inch of the walls and ceiling. However impressive these are, an equally dazzling treasure that lies within these walls is the Choudhary family’s jewellery collection. Krishna Choudhary, who is running the business alongside his parents Santi and Shobha, showed me a precious selection one by one, letting me handle each piece and relish each of their corresponding stories.

Jaipur became known as the “Pink City” when, in 1876, Maharaja Ram Singh had most of the buildings painted pink — the colour of hospitality — in preparation for Queen Victoria’s visit. Although the epithet of the city continues to bear a spectre of British colonial presence in India, there are locations in Jaipur that remain an authentic testament to its historical heritage intertwined with a tapestry of cultures, religions, and political identities. Central to this history is the Choudhary family, whose contributions to jewellery-making establish a legacy that underscores how gems and designs can hold cultural memory. 

In 1727, the Hindu Rajput ruler Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II moved the capital of Rajasthan to Jaipur, and invited Choudhary Kushal Singh to relocate to the new capital, bringing with him his knowledge and experience in financial and administrative matters. Over generations, they transitioned from minting coins for the royal authority to becoming the royal family jewellers. The labour-intensive pieces that they designed often served to bejewel the royal men, and less so the women, who were wrapped in the rarest colours and kinds of fabrics. Jewellery was a way to distinguish how important a person was, and the essence of Indian jewellery could be defined by the “more is more” aphorism. Photographic documentation of royals reveals how they always carried an impressive weight of valuable stones. 

India’s rich culture of jewellery is partly a result of its geological advantages. The mines of Golconda, the earliest diamond mines known to man, are known to have yielded the highest grade of diamonds, Kashmir is known to have produced the rarest and most beautiful sapphires, and the greatest emeralds arrived to India from Colombia through commercial exchange via the Portuguese-controlled ports of Goa. Jewellery-making in India underwent a significant evolution in the Mughal period (1526-1761), when the craftsmen of the royal workshops welcomed Persian influences into the Indian artistic tradition, creating a style that came to define itself, even past the fall of the dynasty. When India came under British rule in 1858, the Mughal style endured and extended its influence on Western aesthetics and practices. Thereafter, as the family began thinking of showing their pieces to a global audience, the Persian carpets on which the business was conducted were replaced by glass vitrines. There are various design elements that make Indian jewellery quintessentially Indian. For instance, the traditional “kundan” technique, which involves setting stones in gold, as well as the “meena” technique with its intricate enamel painting are special to India. Furthermore, the execution of motifs like elephants, falcons, fish, lions, as well as the use of patterning and colour define the artistic tradition. Krishna founded Santi Jewels in 2019, and has since been creating designs that fuse the authenticity of these techniques with experimentation, giving some of the vaulted, age-old gemstones in the family’s collection beds to lie within contemporary renditions.

By incorporating uniquely Indian elements such as the jaalis – architectural ornamental openwork screens – into contemporary designs, Krishna, as the 10th generation jewellery maker from his family, marries the rarest gems with the most intricate craftsmanship available today.

Lessons From A Taiwanese Coaster

I woke up in a world
Where everything was beautiful,
And nothing hurt.
Love was utterly abundant,
A brimming harvest
Which stretched from winding rivers,
To concrete forests.
Frayed pockets of clouds,
Lightly tapped, caressed and
Welcomed into this utopian Earth.
Frail sprig homes,
Reinforced into their ash groves,
With tender care and loving cadence.
As eyes are glazed
With a gentle coat
Of peace and understanding.

I idled through this glowing land
Worry pressing on my brow,
Puzzled and inept,
As I tried to explain my unease.
Until it hit me,
How can one truly appreciate beauty,
If you have not sobbed on your knees.