Sunday, May 18, 2025
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Sense and Sexibility: A definitive ranking of Austen’s leading men

Welcome to my definitive ranking of Austen’s romantic heroes and, as an auxiliary ranking that I was not actually asked to add, my favourite actors.

AUTHOR’S DISCLAIMER: This is a sensitive and controversial topic which I will attempt to treat with all due diligence. Please feel free to disagree. However, I am right. Let us begin.

8. Edmund Bertram, Mansfield Park:

Wit: Too bored to care. 

Charm: Too bored to care.

Fine Eyes: Too bored to care. 

Percentage of Derbyshire Owned: The man is a priest. I am very happy that he got his cottagecore fantasy. But is it a mansion with an obsequious housekeeper who practically raised you? I think not. Move along.

Gross Factor: Cousins?! No! He’s not the type of cousin Mr Collins is either i.e. nicely undefined so that I can happily imagine for my own peace of mind that he is six generations removed and the product of an affair. Sadly, he is definitely Fanny’s cousin. He should have married Mary Crawford and neatly sidestepped the possibility of web-footed offspring.

Favourite Actor: I wasn’t about to subject myself to actually watching cousins kissing, so I haven’t watched it. I’m giving this one to Jonny Lee Miller as consolation for losing both best Knightley and best Jo(h)nny-as-Knightley.

7. Colonel Brandon, Sense and Sensibility:

Wit: Silent. Brooding. He’s like Darcy if he never proposed to Elizabeth.

Charm: None at first, but points for his dedicated care and love for Marianne at the end.

Fine Eyes: Was he hot? I neither know nor care. He was old, this I know for sure.

Percentage of Derbyshire Owned: Very rich, which is something we love to see from an Austen hero.

Gross Factor: The bit of me that would excuse his dullness because of his kindness has been viciously trodden on by the fact that he is old enough to be her father. Austen, stop! Get some therapy!

Favourite Actor: I’ve only seen Alan Rickman and I love him lots so let’s go with that.

6. Edward Ferrars, Sense and Sensibility:

Wit: Not dazzling, but not stupid.

Charm: Bumbling, shy, generally Richard Curtis-eque.

Fine Eyes: ‘Not handsome.’ Whoever cast Hugh Grant didn’t listen to this.

Percentage of Derbyshire Owned: It was very attractive of him to give everything up for the sake of Lucy’s reputation, although perhaps he knew she was a fortune-seeker and played the long game. I imagine at the end Elinor turned to him and said ‘I love you; however, given I am a woman who cannot work, how do you plan to finance our future lives and the many children we are sure to have due to 19th century superstitions being our only family planning method?’ to which I think he would have responded with some stammering Grantian reply.

Gross Factor: None, I am pleased/shocked to report!

Favourite Actor: Hugh Grant. I will provide no other justification than this.

5. Charles Bingley, Pride and Prejudice:

Wit: He’s good-humoured but malleable and gullible.

Charm: A sweetheart!

Fine Eyes: Very handsome! Good for you, Jane Bennet.

Percentage of Derbyshire Owned: £5000 a year!

Gross Factor: None! Well done, Austen!

Favourite Actor: Christopher Sean as Bing Lee in The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, an online web series adaptation in which Lizzie has a vlog. He really earnestly works for Jane’s forgiveness in this one.

4. Henry Tilney, Northanger Abbey:

Wit: When you say you want a funny guy, he’s the one you mean. He somehow manages to make fun of Catherine to her face and yet also be very sweet. He’s also very clever and well-read (Henry is, in fact, the only Austen man I could actually see myself being with because he is – get this – a normal human being. Maybe he just reminds me of Gilbert Blythe).

Charm: Major points for being very kind to Catherine, a loving brother, having a moral compass and coming all that way to apologise. Minus points for mocking her but also, she deserved it.

Fine Eyes: He’s pretty good-looking, I think. His big pull is actually having a brain, though.

Percentage of Derbyshire Owned: He’s got that whole cosy priest vibe going for him too, but I love him, unlike Edmund, so this time I won’t pretend I’d prefer a mansion to a sweet little parsonage. He is also willing to give it up for Catherine. Aw.

Gross Factor: None, again! Keep restraining yourself, Austen!

Favourite Actor: JJ Feild. Watch Austenland – it’s a masterpiece.

3. George Knightley, Emma

Wit: Supreme, biting, cutting. It’s like if Mr Bennet was young(ish) and attractive. He has excellent judgment. It’s very good of him, for the sake of my sanity, to actually be able to see what’s happening. It gives me hope.

Charm: Kind, considerate – to everyone but Emma. I love that he is the only one who doesn’t coddle her. Definitely top-notch flirting tactics.

Fine Eyes: Older but rugged. 

Percentage of Derbyshire Owned: Rich, but willing to give up his independence to live with Emma and her father!

Gross Factor: He says he’s been in love with her since she was a child. I would like to brush this off as a joke and think instead that he only realised because of his jealousy of Frank. That had better be true, because he’s 16 years older than her. 

Favourite Actor: Johnny Flynn, you can move in with me and my weird dad Bill Nighy any day of the week (okay, for real, the 2020 Emma is a fever dream of brilliance which builds their relationship beautifully and the way he looks at her is impeccable).

2. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Pride and Prejudice:

Wit: Extremely clever with zero self-awareness. Very mean, and then suddenly the nicest man on earth. Mr Personality Transplant 1813.

Charm: 0-100 in less than a year. Desperately in love with Lizzie, Miss Reader Surrogate 1813, so we feel loved too.

Fine Eyes: Canonically fit.

Percentage of Derbyshire Owned: Canonically 50%.

Gross Factor: It says a lot about what Austen has done to me that I look at an age-gap of eight years where the woman is so young and say ‘that’s fine.’

Favourite Actor: Matthew McFadyen, I love you so much. That is the problem. It’s called Pride and Prejudice, not Pride and Crippling Social Awkwardness with a Light Sprinkling of Internalised Snobbery. Colin Firth makes me hate him, sympathise with him, and love him. Also, Matthew, this is 2005’s fault in general, but he has better hair. So, it goes to Colin. Just.

1. Frederick Wentworth, Persuasion:

Wit: Clever, competent, succeeds professionally against all the odds. Pretty cutting to Anne, but she deserves it! 

Charm: ‘You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.’ Persuasion is my favourite book of all time for a reason, and it’s because he loves Anne Elliott so much it allows her to feel joy again.

Fine Eyes: Very handsome.

Percentage of Derbyshire Owned: We love a self-made man! Get that coin, Frederick!

Gross Factor: A very small age difference? No close or quasi- familial relationship? Jane, this is your best work!

Favourite Actor: Nothing beats Rupert Penry-Jones and his longing looks.

Oxford SU fights for renter protection amid student rent strikes

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Oxford University Student Union and Oxford Brookes Union has written a letter to major lettings agents in Oxford reminding them of their duties under the law and asking for greater protections of students who have been badly impacted by the coronavirus pandemic.

The letter was sent by Róisín McCallion, VP Welfare and Equal Opportunities at Oxford SU, and Daisy Hopkins, Vice-President of Student Wellbeing at Oxford Brookes SU. It argued that the impacts of the coronavirus pandemic, including job losses and caring responsibilities, made it “increasingly difficult” for some students to make rent payments.

The letter went on to remind landlords of Government advice on evictions, which encouraged landlords to “work together to put in place a rent payment scheme where people are struggling to pay their rent”. The advice also reminded landlords that they must give tenants three months’ notice before they seek the termination of a tenancy.

All landlords have been granted a three month mortgage holiday by the Government, meaning that private landlords may stop paying towards their mortgage without impacting their credit scores. While renters have been granted an extended three-month notice period before the termination of a tenancy, tenants will still be liable for their rent.

Given the exceptional circumstances presented by the pandemic, the welfare officers went on to propose a number of additional measures designed to protect those students who had been made most vulnerable by the pandemic. The additional measures are as follows:

  • For students who are unable to return home for whatever reason, an extension of their tenancy should be granted in incidence that Covid-19 isolation measures continue past the end of the fixed term period of their tenancy. This will prevent the individual from being made homeless.
  • Students that have been financially impacted as a result of the situation and cannot move out receive a significant rent reduction or a rent holiday where no rent payments are required throughout the current crisis.
  • Partners should be lobbied to follow the advice of the National Residential Landlords Association to suspend rent increases for the next 12 months, including reversal of planned rent increases for upcoming tenancies.
  • Consider a no-penalty contract release for students who are no longer living at the tenancy address, without transferring any costs to other, remaining tenants. If students have already paid for the next period, this should be refunded along with their deposit.

The letter encouraged lettings agents to forward the letter on to landlords, and support the requests, assisting landlords where necessary.

Speaking to Cherwell, Róisín McCallion emphasised the importance of students being allowed to remain in privately rented accommodation for the duration of the pandemic, noting that students who were estranged from their families or who lived in abusive households would need to be able to continue their tenancies in Oxford regardless of the length of their tenancy contracts. Without additional protection these students could be made homeless by the crisis.

McCallion also highlighted the fourth recommendation to landlords, that no costs should not be transferred to remaining tenants if one tenant chooses to leave the contract early. Tenancy contracts typically make tenants collectively responsible for rent and other payments, but the SU has requested that other students should not be held liable for the financial situation of co-tenants.

The Student Union offers advice to any students who are facing financial or residential difficulties, but due to the significant increase in the number of students who were making requests for residential advice, the Union decided to send the letter to all lettings agents letting to students in Oxford.

So far, McCallion says that while some agencies have responded positively to the letter, so far none have made concrete commitments to the measures outlined in the letter.

A spokesperson for College and County told Cherwell that they have “shared [the letter] with some of the relevant landlords.

“Some of the ideas are in line with government proposals, but some of the ideas in the letter are unrealistic for many clients (especially those with business loans and not mortgages)

“Where we have students who are in genuine difficulty, I am sure we can help them negotiate a solution with our clients. One of the problems is that there are a number of students who really do not have any “hardship” who are asking for “relief” from their landlord and making Landlords sceptical about the genuine ones.”

Cherwell also reached out to Allen & Harris, Andrews, Chancellors, Connells, Scott Fraser and Oxford Lettings for comment. None have replied.

All Oxford colleges have waived tenancy fees for students who are not returning for Trinity term.

In the meantime, students across the country have initiated rent strikes, demanding that students in private halls and university-managed accommodation should be granted relief from their third-term rent.

Cherwell spoke to ‘Liberate the University’, a movement which is coordinating rent strikes at Universities in London, including University College London. The group has demanded that students in all forms of accommodation should be allowed to leave their lettings contracts early, that belongings left in rooms should be stored from collection when it is safe to do so, that students remaining in halls should be granted a 20% rent reduction, and that all halls should enforce a uniform policy in regard to rent payments.

The group currently believes that between one hundred and two hundred students are currently on rent strike at London universities, although many are worried about legal or disciplinary action being taken against them.

The movement saw early success, with UCL operated halls and University of London intercollegiate halls agreeing to three of their demands. However, most private halls have still not agreed to any of the demands.

UCL had initially asked students leaving their contracts early to vacate all possessions from their room in contravention of lockdown regulations, however this policy was quickly reversed.

UCL did not reply to a request for comment.

A spokesperson for Sanctuary Students, which operates a number of halls of residence across London, told Cherwell: “While we understand that some students and parents are disappointed, the decision was made with the wider interests of our customers and communities at the forefront of our minds.

“We continue to house a significant number of national and international students in our properties in various locations and for many of these, our accommodation is their primary home. All our sites remain open and without our accommodation these students may become homeless. It is essential we continue to provide them with support staff and access to a safe, secure, managed place to live.

“We are aware that student loan payments will continue through this period and the government is encouraging tenants living in rented accommodation to pay their rent as normal. We have also been encouraging any students with financial concerns to contact us to discuss their situation and will be happy to offer them flexible payment options through an agreed payment plan.”

Cherwell also reached out to Urbanest, another student accommodation provider which has not agreed to the demands made by LtU. Urbanest did not reply to the request for comment.

Students at the University of Surrey also threatened a rent strike over payments of third term rent. The University later announced that no students would be required to pay fees for rent in University-managed accommodation for their third term.

A spokesperson for ‘Surrey, Cut the Rent’, the organisers of the rent strike, told Cherwell that they “know that university management keeps a close eye on student campaigning, and… know for a fact they were aware of the size of the potential strike and we do believe that the threat of a rent strike impacted their decision with the partial fulfilment of demands.”

The group encouraged all students to email their concerns to accommodation managers.

The University of Surrey did not respond to a request for comment.

Image by Isabella Lill

Review: Jerskin Fendrix’s ‘Winterreise’

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Weird things are happening in the world of pop music. Charli XCX and Carly Rae Jepsen have bounced back from ‘Boom Clap’ and ‘Call Me Maybe’ to spearhead a new wave of daring experimental songwriting. Kanye released a swear-free gospel album. Grimes is pregnant with Elon Musk’s baby and giving us regular updates on how she is nourishing her child by eating vegan ‘sludge’. Who or what, then, might emerge from this bizarre period in musical history as the latest unstable pop genius, the artist to define the 2020s?

Enter Jerskin Fendrix, a poorly shaven, upper-middle-class millennial armed with Ableton Live and a classical music degree from Cambridge (fortunately he’s talented enough that we can forgive him that). Fendrix’s achievements to date include writing the score for a V&A remake of Alfred Jarry’s absurdist play Ubu Roi and releasing a Christmas single with London math-rockers Black Midi, but his debut album Winterreise has to be considered the outstanding moment of his career so far.

The album’s title, translating as ‘winter’s journey’ in German, is a name fit for an opera. And an opera it is – Winterreise is meticulously arranged, its songs flowing into each other in congruent movements, despite the fact that most of them have had single releases at some point over the last few years. The precocious Fendrix (real name Joscelin Dent-Pooley) is at centre stage, a natural performer who embodies personas with ease; what else do you expect from someone whose stage name is itself rockstar material, equal parts legendary guitarist reference and bizarre sexual innuendo?

Winterreise’s opening track, the 7-minute ‘Manhattan’, is a prime example of Fendrix’s classical sensibilities. It opens with a delicate piano riff that wouldn’t seem out of place in the opening titles of a 90s family movie, but which quickly escalates into frustrated hammering. A bassoon enters, reminiscent of the ‘Grandfather’ part from Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf. Pitched down vocals and synthetic strings add to a simmering orchestral crescendo which, no sooner than it reaches a climax, is sliced apart by trap-inspired hi-hats and a rock-opera melody. Fendrix’s lyrics seem to document a frenetic and somewhat psychotic love affair, set (where else?) in a snowy New York City. The track reaches the only logical conclusion it could, in the form of a coda pairing an overdriven guitar solo with the sound of rattling cutlery. In short, it’s about as diverse as pop music gets.

The disparate influences keep coming on ‘Onigri’, a PC Music-inspired banger with lyrics about Japanese rice balls and stalking. “I wanna wake up when you wake up/I wanna die when you die”, sings Fendrix in high-pitched autotune; the deranged narrative combines with a naive vocal style and YouTube-football-compilation-style synths to humorous effect. ‘Last Night in New York’ is an unnerving industrial soundscape of revving motor engines, thunderclaps and factory mechanisms. Fendrix’s voice lurks beneath the surface in a murmur; only right at the end of the track does it burst out into a hypermasculine, faux emo cry.

A trio of warped pop songs constitute Winterreise’scentral movement. On ‘Black Hair’, the album’s lead single, Fendrix crafts an ominous loop from an 808 kick drum and a cabasa, before ripping off Ke$ha’s ‘Tik Tok’; the perplexing opening line “Wake up in the morning feeling like Constance Wu” is the first of the track’s countless references to modern culture, which also include Stabilo highlighters, Awkwafina and the Met Office. Fendrix again assumes a stalker/serial killer persona which, paired with a recurring sub-bass/spasming synth interlude, is genuinely fear-inducing. CBS could easily use the narrator as inspiration for the next season of Criminal Minds, such does he mutter “black hair, black hair” to himself as he goes through his victim’s belongings.

‘Swamp’ is another psychological study, this time of a disturbingly one-sided e-relationship; “I’ve known you for one year now/and I wanna know what you look like”, growls Fendrix. The neglected male lover lists his mundane character flaws (“I overseason my food/I text girls when I’m drinking”) and partakes in an imaginary dinner date, seemingly oblivious to just how maniacal he sounds, and still proclaiming to be his e-girlfriend’s “raison d’être”  as the synth-pop chorus builds to a crescendo. Great songwriters tend to enjoy flirting with irony, and Fendrix is no different: when he sings “I wanna be Ezra Koenig”, it is impossible to tell if the Vampire Weekend frontman is being revered or ridiculed. This style of writing reflects that ubiquitous Internet-age fear of judgment which causes us to hide behind online personas at all costs rather than publicly reveal our own opinions.

Fendrix parodies this online role-playing to the extreme on ‘A Star is Born’, the final member of Winterreise’s core triptych, and the album’s best song. His brash, self-aggrandising lyrics perfectly and hilariously channel the nauseating cockiness of Gen Z ‘influencers’ such as Jake Paul; “Call the fire service/cos I’m on fire/Call me Icarus/I’m getting higher and higher” is surely the funniest couplet of 2020. The synth hook might sound like a litter of seal pups has been passed through a vocoder, but this is sing-along EDM magic, and the irony makes it all the more fun. Tracks such as ‘I’ll Clean Your Sheets’ and ‘Depecc’ offer a little more sincerity towards the back end of the album, but Winterreise is at its best when Fendrix puts himself in the shoes of someone even more unhinged than himself. Throughout, he directs proceedings from behind a digitally engineered mask of vocal distortion and autotune, sculpting a masterpiece that, with its video game aesthetic and throwaway pop references, perfectly reflects the joys and perils of modern Internet culture. You might describe closing track ‘Oh God’ as the sound of an existential crisis composed solely of First World problems, and that more or less sums up the album as a whole, too. Kesha, Kanye, Grimes: take note.

SATIRE: Captain Tom We Need You!

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Many have been quick to point out the unhelpful but increasingly widespread practice of reverting to military language to describe the nation’s ‘war’ with COVID-19, but more striking in the case of Boris Johnson is his fondness for discussing each problem like it’s a training exercise on a private school playing field. Speaking on his first day back from recovery, Johnson was eager to stress the need to look on the bright side: “This is the moment of opportunity. This is the moment when we can press home our advantage.” Distressingly, it’s just as easy to imagine these words being bellowed at full volume by an abusive American football coach, rather than reassuringly into a camera by a head of state.

One of the milder symptoms of lockdown would appear to be that we’ve all been indulging in one too many trips down memory lane. Personally, I live in a sort of dream-haze-waking-nightmare where the years 2006-07 replay on an endless loop, and I’m back in Catholic School saying Hail Marys. For Johnson however, the nostalgic destination of choice is clearly an Eton College games lesson – circa 1979.

Johnson is hardly the first young gentleman to make that well-travelled leap from the hallowed rugby pitches of Berkshire to Number 10 Downing Street. The 20th in fact. But surely no other Old Etonian has quite so aggressively channelled their inner sportsman once making it to high office? Johnson went on to say: “If this virus were a physical assailant, an unexpected and invisible mugger… then this is the moment when we have begun together to wrestle it to the floor.” Happily, Johnson is on home turf here: ‘wrestling assailants to the floor’ slots neatly into the SKILLS section of his extensive CV, right next to ‘crap biographies’ and ‘divorces’.

Many will have seen the video of Johnson barrelling straight into a ten-year-old schoolboy during a visit to Tokyo in 2015. Now it seems that unfortunate boy was simply the dummy run – a training exercise for the real ‘invisible mugger’ to come. If all it took to stop COVID-19 was an ill-timed rugby tackle, we could sleep soundly. It turns out it’s a bit more complicated than that.

The fundamental problem here is category error. Johnson was never meant to be a ‘wartime’ Prime Minister, or even a vaguely serious one at that. We liked him because he smashed through polystyrene walls on Brexit-themed JCBs. The formula worked fine when the problems on the in-tray were hypothetical, but now it’s all getting a bit too real. Getting angry at Johnson for failing to behave like a serious politician at this point is like casting Jamie Laing and Spencer Matthews in Waiting for Godot, and then demanding a refund because you weren’t sufficiently moved. It was never gonna happen, pal.

Still, if the enemy here is ‘invisible’, at least we can be grateful for some highly visible heroes. Chief among them is, of course, newly crowned chart-topper Captain Tom Moore. Having raised nearly £30million for ‘NHS Charities Together’ at the time of writing, you have to take your hat off to him. However, there is something a little unedifying about watching a 99-year-old struggle up and down his garden to raise money for a National Health Service built on the founding principle that ‘it is not a “charity”’.

Besides, how long until the goodwill runs out? Much as we’d love him to, Captain Tom can’t alleviate the anxieties of an entire nation by himself. Surely, it’s only a matter of time until every Brit over the age of 85 is sanctioned with enforced periods of physical exercise, providing tabloids with an unending supply of heart-warming material. As Moore will soon discover, anyone dubbed ‘inspirational’ by the red-tops is playing a race against time. If I were him, I’d be thinking of ways to keep that spotlight from flitting off elsewhere – laps of the North Circular rather than just his garden for instance. That would surely keep the nation going.

Until that day comes however, Johnson’s buller optimism will have to do. “In spite of all the suffering, we have so nearly succeeded,” he told reporters on Monday. Unless ‘nearly succeeded’ is an Etonian euphemism for ‘shattering defeat’, this was a horrific case of misreading the room. For a man desperate to go down in history alongside his hero Churchill, Johnson suddenly looks dangerously out of his depth. It turns out the thick sheen of carefully cultivated eccentricity which has carried him this far is less fun when thousands of lives are on the line. We might need a few more laps from Captain Tom yet.

Student sets up ‘Bridge of Charity’ outside station

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An Oxford DPhil student has set up ‘Bridge of Charity’, an initiative where donated bags of food and basic necessities are hung on the pedestrian bridge outside Oxford train station. It is designed to combat food poverty while resources are under pressure during the pandemic.

Alexandra Fergen, studying for a DPhil in Modern History at Merton, encourages volunteers to fill a bag with essentials and write the contents on the bag. They can then be collected for free by people who need them. The initiative is inspired by the Gabenzäune (donation fences) seen around Germany, her home country.

The initiative has already been well received. After the first day, many of the bags were taken overnight and were replaced with new donations.

Fergen told Cherwell: “Bridge of Charity is a local initiative that I am organising in response to that pandemic. It basically seeks to help those who lack the money or access to basic goods and other necessities in these difficult times.

“I’m setting this up is because research shows that the pandemic has exacerbated food insecurity in the UK and many people are being are forced to skip meals. Many food banks and soup kitchens and other charities that are really important are closed or only offering limited services. As lockdown continues and as the number of cases increases, food insecurity becomes an ever-growing problem.

“The beauty of this initiative is that there is no middle man. It’s easy and its self-sufficient, but it really depends on the community and people’s willingness to participate. I hope that it will be welcomed here as well. I decided to set it up on a bridge, this particular bridge because of its central location of course, but also more generally because of its symbolism. A bridge is symbolic of community, cooperation, and support.”

The initiative can be found on Facebook and Instagram, and people are encouraged to post pictures of their contributions with #bridgeofcharityoxford.

Image provided by Alexandra Fergen

Cinema: The venue transcending the visual

Maybe if I had known, I’d have stopped to take a picture. I’d have kept that ticket. Maybe if I’d known, I would have made sure I wasn’t “too busy” to catch another movie the following Saturday. Maybe… maybe… maybe, if it hadn’t been our last, the memories of it would have been blurred with countless others a long time ago. The memory of the last time we went to that two-screen retro cinema, weeks before it closed down. 

For someone who finds loud noises, flashing lights in dark rooms, and the enhanced presence of strangers ridiculously overwhelming, the old cinema a couple of miles away from her home should not be enlisted as one of my favourite places to be. And yet, there I was, silent tears falling down my face when I heard the news. The Picturehouse has been shut down. Had run out of business. Online streaming platforms had usurped its place as entertainment provider on weekends and Friday afternoons. 

I couldn’t believe it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m as big a fan as anyone of slumping in bed with my laptop, watching the latest addictive show till the early hours of the morning with a bag of crisps by my side. It’s an incredibly simple thing to do, and entertainment is almost certainly guaranteed. But it’s never quite right. It’s never quite the same as having that experience of watching something on the big screen for the first time, popcorn and Coke neatly placed on each side. 

There’s something about sitting in (lord only knows) how many years old couch chairs that will never be able to smell of anything but popcorn, with surrounding speakers blasting out the opening titles’ tune, that no comfy bed, no sofa nor lounge at home, will ever be able to replicate. There’s something about seeing the silhouette of that same stranger, a couple of rows in front, every new MCU opening night, smell of cheese nachos coming from their seat, that no marathon at home in your Spider-Man onesie will ever be able to bring back. There’s something about slurping away on your drink – accidentally biting into the straw as the action on the screen becomes a bit much – silently praying that you didn’t drink it all too fast, that you’ll make it through the film without being interrupted by an inconvenient trip to the bathroom – that having a “stop” and “rewind” function on your laptop can never even attempt to simulate. 

It wasn’t the entertainment that came from watching a film on a Saturday evening that my tears were mourning after the loss of our local retro cinema. It was the experience. It was the particular convergence of sensory stimuli at one specific moment in time, trapped in my memories forever in association with the latest film release.

They all flash in front of me as I type these words on the page, creating a movie of their own as they intertwine. Bringing the ice-cream flavoured times of childhood summer afternoons spent in that dark room – running away from the heat, desperate for some aircon – together with those Friday nights fourteen-year-old me would spent third-wheeling my best friends on their date – would they actually kiss this time?  

As far as that space was concerned, no matter who we were, how we dressed, smelled, ate, we were always welcome. There would always be something to watch. A horror movie on Valentine’s Day, and romcom on Halloween. A post-break up, latest YA adaptation, an old classic – usually a musical – being shown every three month. It always seemed to have an answer, even if it only kept us occupied for a couple of hours. 

But I suppose that’s just the thing: it was always more than short-term entertainment as a form of escapism. It was more than just a convenient “hang-out” spot for puppy love and overly warm nights. No. It was a constant in our lives. 

It’s been quite some time since I’ve visited the site. Been quite some time since the credits rolled up. And yet, I seem to lie here waiting for a post-credit scene. A last 24 seconds to bid it goodbye. To thank it for the memories, for the experiences it enabled me to have. 

I wonder what those 24 seconds will smell like. Will it be the Christmas ensemble of freshly gifted perfumes, and rather salty popcorn? Will Skywalker blue be the colour that lights up the finale? Will it sound like Célene Dion, professing her love one last time? Or maybe like Alexandre Desplat, harmonising along to Turing’s decoding of Enigma? Will it taste like cheap lipstick and nacho cheese? 

With nothing but speculation and two decades of memories worth of possibilities, there is one thing I can assure. I know those 24 seconds will feel like home. 

Mastering the group-watch with cheap horror flicks

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The credits start to roll once the house is completely overwhelmed by fire. The monster is somewhere inside, and it’s already been defeated. This scene is a burial. Whatever remains of the horror is being eradicated somewhere in front of us, beneath splintering wood, cracking plaster, and cleansing heat. When the image fades to black I peel my eyes away from the slow scroll of names, and I’m back in my room, alone. Somehow it is already 3am. Mirrors, books, windows – everything around me is re-enchanted with mystery and potential. 

On my other monitor, flickering green rings around their Discord avatars show me that several of my friends are experiencing a similar sensation. I’ve had the VoIP app open for the whole movie, and typically there’s a buzz of commentary that makes this kind of viewing distinct from that of a cinema. But everyone has been totally silent for these closing scenes. Now, as we reintegrate into the world, the noise resumes. 

‘Absolute crap’

‘Goopiest and horniest one so far. I loved it’

‘The director was absolutely telling on himself’

I’ve been watching films with this group of people for years now, though the particular configuration often shifts around. Some of them are friends from home. For them, this is a convenient evolution of an older hobby now that adult life has spread us all out. Others I have never met in real life, but our similar taste and sense of humour makes them perfect viewing companions. This kind of remote movie-going is becoming increasingly popular. The Google Chrome plugin Netflix Party, which synchronises streaming, now has over 9 million downloads – its growth undoubtedly hastened by social distancing rules. Changes in the way we consume cinema correspond to changes in the kind of films we watch. For us, group viewing has always lent itself to the horrors of the late 70s and early 80s. 

Your stereotypical Awful Film Fan gravitates towards the inversion of arthouse directors. The sparse action and long running time of a Tarkovsky, Herzog, or Ozu gives them plenty of time to cogitate new ways of overintellectualising their hobby, while also rendering inaccessibly private the heady ruminations of their boring genius. By contrast there is an immediate and communal appeal to horror schlock. From 1975 onwards this whole genre is dominated by synth-heavy soundtracks, animatronics coated in latex and slime, and the sneaking suspicion that you’re watching someone displace a complicated fetish. The films of Carpenter, Argento, and Cronenberg are often sneered at as lowbrow because of their simple plots and reliance on suspended disbelief, but this is silly. It is precisely these qualities, along with acting that you might generously call ‘enthusiastically blunt,’ which renders them perfect for group viewings.

Cracking jokes or remaining silent forms a paratext that would be impolite to replicate in the cinema. By viewing these movies together you are placed into a reciprocal relationship with the filmmaker, complicit in the creation of creeping dread or comic release. The group-watch is a kind of performative aestheticism in that regard, which perfectly mirrors the unashamedly camp quality of what you’re watching. This is something that is lost in a lot of reimaginings, and one reason why Luca Guadagnino’s 2018 remake of Dario Argento’s Suspiria (1977) fell so flat.

Horror movies are defined by intertextuality, but thankfully for us all I can defer the task of exegesis to the communities of fans online. Letterboxd, one particular point of concentration, allows users to log and rate films they have seen, lending film consumption a completionist edge. It also promotes user-created lists, encouraging deep-dives into obscure and ephemeral sub-genres in a way that historic taste-arbiters IMDb and RottenTomatoes fail to. There is a real sense of exploration as you work your way into a catalogue of films that have been largely forgotten after a limited theatrical release, based on nothing but the recommendation of someone called ‘Giallo_pudding_Pop.’ Many of these films, to put it lightly, will be crap. Other times you will find something like the Australian slasher Next of Kin (1982), a film so staggeringly underrated that it incentivises you to write a Cherwell article. Either way, exploring these things with your friends will probably be a good time. 

As music consumption shifted online we saw an explosion of innovation on sites like Soundcloud and Bandcamp. Artists were given easy access to niche material that had previously been all but lost. The market is currently too small for many of these horrors to be restored, or uploaded to big streaming sites. This marginality is reflected in the mediocre financial performance of films like Peter Strickland’s In Fabric (2018) and Anna Biller’s The Love Witch (2016), both excellent homages to the period. Perhaps this will change now. When we are once again allowed into the sunlight, who knows whether the communities  developing around the group-watch will find a way to fully reanimate the shambling spirit of mid-century horror. 

Review: The Artist’s Way

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This is both a book review and a book recommendation. Julia Cameron’s book – The Artist’s Way – is the perfect book to pick up, read, and do during isolation. It’s not a new book by any means. It was first published in 1992 but it remains important and useful today. The essence of the book is about rediscovering or discovering your creative self. I’m hoping this review will persuade you to read the book itself but, at the very least, try some of her key practises for a week even if you are tempted to deride it as ‘spiritual nonsense’.  

A recent feature in the Sunday Times on Julia Cameron described her as ‘The Original self-help Guru’. Julia Cameron, commenting on the current lockdown, said “Westerners have a hard time doing nothing. Writing is empowering.” Julia Cameron already lives in her own sort of ‘splendid isolation’ in the New Mexico Mountains with her dog. She has no email. No social media. But she does have a phone for use in emergencies, or magazine interviews with the Sunday Times. In case you’re doubting the commitment of Julia Cameron, she writes everything by hand – including her books – and writes cards rather than emails to her friends. She has published forty books and has lots of penpals. 

The essence of the artist’s way is two key practises; ‘morning pages’ and ‘the artist’s date’. Morning pages should be done every day without fail. They should be 3 sides of A4 paper, handwritten (if possible), and come totally from your stream of consciousness. You do not re-read them until Week 9 of the course. It is as simple as that. The second tool – the artist’s date – involves doing something by yourself just for the sake of it. Cameron suggests shooting a whole roll of film and not showing it to anyone. Ironically, film was in fashion when she wrote the book and now #35mm is everywhere again. 

The rest of the book is exceptional at helping you to identify what helps you be creative and what holds you back. It is also extremely revealing but it might put some people off because it involves more self-reflection than most British people are comfortable with. I’m in the 10th week of ‘The Artist Way’s’ 12-week program. I haven’t read my morning pages back yet but I was meant to in week 9, you don’t have to stick totally to the rules but I look forward to reading them after exams are done. I’ve written for 60 days and counting and it doesn’t matter that most of it is nonsense. Morning pages have helped me start a radio show, develop a short story and even write this article.

It shouldn’t take successful people to get us to try something, but it normally does. Morning Pages have been used by so many people to help them out of a creative rut, some were admittedly creative before but many others are scientists or lawyers or are just people who want to get back into painting or writing after a long hiatus. The famous people include Alicia Keys, Helmut Newton and the ‘inventor’ of the four day week – Tim Ferriss and, last but not least, Elizabeth Gilbert – the author of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’. Don’t wait till after exams, don’t wait till you’ve got your perfect new paper pad or journal. Start tomorrow morning as soon as you wake up. 

I’d like to finish with three quotes from Julia Camera, which summarise the book and specifically morning pages. 

“There is no wrong way to do Morning Pages” 

“You’re trying to catch yourself before your ego’s defences are in place.”

“The second page-and-a-half comes harder, but often contains paydirt.”

Being Ugly: Why We are Not All Beautiful (and that is okay)

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The way which our society regards beauty, is ugly. While there exists a great deal of criticism for when beauty is given more authority than is warranted, many of the problematic ways that we talk about looks often go unquestioned. Saccharin statements such as “everybody is beautiful”, for the most part, are overlooked because of their well-meaning nature, but, regardless of intent, they deserve to be critiqued.

For one, not everybody is beautiful. While everyone is beautiful to someone, no one is beautiful to everyone. Whether or not one adheres to modern beauty standards, we are all more than aware that, with regards to looks, not everybody is equal. Yet, not only do statements that assert that “everybody is beautiful” suggest the contrary, they also imply that there is some sort of objectivity in beauty, as if all beauty can be categorically measured and that we can all come to the same conclusion: we are all beautiful. Both of these ideas are incredibly fallacious and, thus, the statement itself lacks a real foundation, rendering it meaningless.

Furthermore, the fact that it is a blanket statement, in itself, weakens its authority, as it seems insincere. Rather paradoxically, when the scope of compliments, such as these widens from an individual (“you are beautiful”) to a group (“we are beautiful”), it does not follow that the statement is believed by more people but, rather, on an individual level, it is taken less personally and is less effective; it follows, then, that, when the scope is widened to every human being on earth (“everybody is beautiful”), the statement becomes meaningless. Whether someone has always been called beautiful or never been called beautiful, reading that “everyone is beautiful”, will do nothing.

Unfortunately, when these statements have no impact, that is the best-case scenario. The reality is, these statements only act to further perpetuate the inequalities of beauty. When, in response to accusations of ugliness we say the opposite is true, we then tie our value as human beings to our appearance, suggesting that it should matter whether we are perceived to be beautiful or not.

It would be ignorant to pretend that the more beautiful among us do not have privileges based purely on their looks; not only are they often judged to be more intelligent than the average person but, more beautiful criminals are more likely to have judges give them lighter sentences (according to Haidt’s The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion ). In this way, we can see that our unconscious biases with regards to beauty have very real consequences; does it not then follow, that we should make a conscious effort to diminish the value and power that beauty has within our society. Rather than saying that we are all beautiful, why not admit that, while we may not all be the most good-looking, beauty is meaningless.

As Santayana suggests in The Sense of Beauty, beauty “is pleasure objectified”. It has aesthetic value and our world would be far bleaker without it yet, beyond the pleasure which it brings, it is effectively useless and should not govern how we treat one another. While the idea that one should not judge a book by its cover is not a particularly controversial one, these sayings are often not put into practice. Our preference for the more beautiful is so deeply ingrained within us all, that we truly need to make a conscious effort in order to overcome it. Meaningless platitudes like “we are all beautiful” do not serve our best interests and, instead, hold us back.

While we can eat well and exercise, for the most part, beauty on an individual level is based purely on luck and so, is no more an indicator of our value as people than our eye colour. My beauty, or lack thereof, is of concern to myself alone. I want to have the right to be ugly and to be respected, to have my accomplishments not diminished by my inability to adhere to Eurocentric beauty standards. It is impossible for everyone to be beautiful, and that is okay. Ugliness should not be rejected, as that only suggests that it has a value beyond surface level.

Beautiful or ugly, regardless of how my appearance is perceived, I know my worth.

‘L’appetito viene mangiando’: why Southern Italian food is the best in the world

‘L’appetito viene mangiando’ literally means ‘your appetite comes when you eat’. Used half-jokingly to justify squeezing in yet another plate of pasta, my Zio Mario’s maxim says a lot about Southern Italian food. Why waste time tweezering gold leaf onto your desert, sprinkling your soup with tiny jellied pansies or arranging a helping of potato wedges into an ornate Jenga stack when you could just eat it? He would tell you to just put the food in your mouth – that’s when the best bit comes.

My family, based in Campania, a bit further down from the Amalfi Coast and inland of the island of Capri, are gobby creatures in all senses of the word – they love using the holes in their faces to talk (or rather, shout) as much as they love filling them with food. This seems to make sense to me, since when we talk we share ourselves with one another, just as we do when we eat. Despite Italians loving chit chat – I can’t go 10 steps in Italy without Nonna stopping for a three hour chat with a nearby man/woman/stray cat whom she claims we are ‘related’ to – there’s something that their cooking which words cannot express. This explains the series of hand gestures or sayings they’ve developed; my Zio Anthony, upon finishing a particularly tasty dish of insalata di polpo (fresh octopus salad) last summer, drops his fork, closes his eyes and whispers ‘fine del mundo’ – his seafood is so good it has literally caused ‘the end of the world.’ A bit much if you ask me, but it attempts to evoke the feeling only a carbonara, lasagne or cannolo can.

It’s incredibly pretentious to describe Southern Italian food as a ‘multi-sensory experience’. But the heat appears to actually make the food better: whether it’s from helping the growth and flavour of ingredients or speeding up cooking time, the Mediterranean sun does have a certain magic in making dishes fall perfectly together. The views help it taste better too – the town of Agropoli is home to Ristorante Barbanera, overlooking the Cilento coast and harbour (pictured). The ocean-eyed Aldo graces our table with plates of frittura di pesce (fried calamari, prawns and sardines), spaghetti alle vongole and antipasti con ricotta e bocconcini (lil mozzarella balls – incred), which are as tasty as the Instagram content my brother harvests from the seascape. The Campanian hills, about an hour or so from Vesuvius, are just as majestic as the iconic buffalo they home and the mozzarella and ricotta produced in the region. Both are a staple for both tourists and locals; a local (Dad likes to say ‘cousin’) of Capaccio used to supply cheese to Jamie Oliver.

Cilento’s harbour

My Zio Ninuccio remembers aged 14 receiving pieces of chocolate from American soldiers upon the liberation of Capaccio from the Nazis in 1943. The hilltop town houses Bar Centrale and Ristorante Pizzeria U’Scugnizzo (the ‘Street Urchin’), again places at which I’ve enjoyed eating since a young child. My mum and I stroll around the Giardini, pistacchio and nocciola gelato in hand, just as we did ten years ago. Maybe it’s the slower pace of life– good luck finding a shop open between midday and 7pm during July or August– but things do seem a lot simpler down there, from the snail-paced daily routine to the small pool of ingredients people choose to eat from. New Year has seen my annual pledge to vegetarianism and my subsequent tirade of excuses: ‘No, I am an eco-warrior but, I just, it’s so hard to find meat-free alternatives know what I mean’ (absolute rubbish, I am well aware). When pigs fly and JP Morgan finally comes knocking on the door having seen my LinkedIn profile, and I can therefore afford my second home on the Amalfi Coast, it will be incredibly easy to go veggie: the Southern Italian diet excludes a lot of meat, the heat not conducive for lush, grazeable pastures.

Product of an English mum (says sorry a lot, can’t get a tan) and Italian dad (aggressively gesticulates when drunk), the Mediterranean lifestyle has always been a source of intrigue for me. In particular, there’s always seemed a hushed secret to the inexplicable wonder of the cooking; not only are seats at all the best eateries dished out only by word of mouth, but in Hastings, East Sussex, my Nonna or Grandma Carmela makes it very clear that the kitchen is strictly her terrain, before emerging hours later with a plate of unfathomable deliciousness. Upon offering my services for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time being told to jog on, I wonder what it is that attracts Nonna to such laborious dishes. She spends over five hours every Easter whipping up a Neopolitan Easter cake, a Pastiera. Don’t get me wrong, I will stuff my face when it’s completed, but doesn’t it make for a lot of work? Under the joys of lockdown, this Easter I tried to replicate my own version, pulling out what appeared to be a simple set of instructions from my Dad’s box of recipes. 45 minutes later I am scrunched on the floor in tears, egg in hair, apron tossed across the kitchen: ‘Scrap that.’ I’m one for traditions, but I had to draw the line somewhere.

Perhaps my incompatibility with the kitchen flags yet another problem with the snowflake generation. My Dad rams the phrase ‘labour of love’ down my throat multiple times when justifying the unnecessarily long amount of time taken for a good risotto. I’m learning that it is just as much a ‘love of the labour’, an enjoyment of meals from their conception to consumption. Whereas I might drag myself on a ‘welfare walk’ around Uni Parks or give my dogs a cuddle if I’m feeling a bit down (they’re desperate for lockdown to end), Carmela will rustle up a warming minestrone soup. For my Mediterranean relatives, food is intrinsic to an idea of ‘home’: its appearance is as rustic as the slightly dishevelled towns in which it is created, but its flavour is also just as rich with cultural history. With one of the oldest populations in Europe, it is no surprise that mealtimes in Southern Italy to this day remain a family affair.

The best food I’ve had in Italy is always at the table of my Zia Rina, who, at the end of the sweaty slog from Naples airport, rewards us with a plate of pasta al forno (sort of like a meat pasta bake with boiled egg – just go with it). I never used to get why my Dad would tear up upon tasting his own parmigiana (bit arrogant if you ask me), or why he would find it impossible to watch that scene in Ratatouille without openly weeping. For him, and increasingly for me, making gnocchi and listening to the national anthem before Italy play in a football match (we still don’t talk about the 2018 World Cup) serve a similar purpose: both turn the drizzle of our sleepy Somerset village into the bright June sun of Capaccio in 1982, a year in which, Italo stresses, Italy not only qualified for but won the World Cup. Lockdown is proving tricky for many reasons, but the lack of human contact is especially difficult for one of the cuddliest populations in the world; it might be some time before I get to experience the cheek-pinching ciaos and double-kissed arrividercis of my family, but in the meantime getting a tomato-y hug from my Dad’s pasta will have to do. Even writing about it has cured my hunger to be in Italy, just a little bit.

Image by Wiki images