Friday 1st May 2026
Blog Page 676

A whole new ball game

Oliver Donaldson
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A whole new ball game

Arriving at university, it may feel like certain racket sports such as table tennis, squash, badminton, paddle, racquets or real tennis are a little off the beaten track. However, there are numerous variations and combinations of the above sports which pass under the radar and reveal a whole range of different sporting worlds, both in the UK and abroad. For example, how many people have heard of a “racketlon”? Not a huge number, I would guess. This is a combination sport in the model of a triathlon or a decathlon which originated in Finland and Sweden and requires competitors to play a sequence of the four most popular racket sports: tennis, badminton, squash and table tennis. This is a typical example of how racket sports, and the simplicity of their elements, allow for endless imaginative scope and can spawn an infinite number of variations.

Be that as it may, racket sports have followed an interesting trajectory over the course of their history: that of a decrease – for the most part – in the complexity of both the playing space and subsequently the rules involved. Jeu de paume (literally “palm game”), one of the earliest known ball-and-court games, originated in France and – a precursor of real tennis – introduced paddle-bats or battoirs and then strung racquets by the late 17th century. Like real tennis, the quirky dimensions of a jeu de paume court, with its galleries, slanted roof and oddly spaced lines, have been vastly simplified in relation to modern-day lawn tennis courts. This is perhaps reflective of the tendency to overcomplicate the regulations of a sport upon its creation – and then simplify as the sport develops. Indeed, the odd dimensions of a jeu de paume court derive from the fact that the game was originally played – using one’s bare hand – in streets and medieval courtyard-like locations from the 12th century onwards in France, before official and royal courts were constructed.

There are a number of direct variants to jeu de paume: “Basque pelota” which developed in the Basque regions of south-western France and north-eastern Spain, encompasses a variety of court sports played with a ball using one hand, a racket, a wooden bat or a basket, against a wall or, more traditionally, with two teams face-to-face separated by a line on the ground or a net.

However, not all racket-based sports have the same roots or follow the same lineage. Different countries have developed their own ball-and-racket-type games. Take pelota mixteca (literally “Mixtec-style ball”), claimed by many to be a descendent of a 3000+ year-old Mesoamerican ballgame, which is a team sport similar to a net-less tennis game. The players wear sturdy and elaborately decorated gloves, the flat striking surface of which (much like a racket) they use to strike a small solid ball. Teams consist of five players and take up their positions on one half of a long narrow court – roughly 100m long by 11m wide. These distinct differences and similarities to European racket sports make it unclear whether this Mexican sport is entirely free of European influence.

Indeed, sports can sometimes act as an example of colonialist influence. “Ball badminton” was a game played as early as 1856 by the royal family in Tanjore, the capital of Thanjavur district in Tamil Nadu, India. Like cricket, this sport enjoys its greatest popularity in India. It is a racket game in the vein of badminton (of course) played with a yellow ball made of wool and with teams of five. This is one of numerous spin-offs and variations of what we might consider more popular racket sports nowadays. There is “squash tennis” (an American variant of squash, but played with a ball and racquets that are closer to the equipment used for lawn tennis, and with somewhat different rules), “racquetball” (similar to squash except that the court has different out-of-bounds demarcations and uses a racket more in the shape of a paddle), “qianball” (often described as a mixture between tennis and squash or squash without walls), “stické” (which combines elements of real tennis, racquets and lawn tennis), “crossminton” (which combines elements from badminton, squash and tennis but has no net in between and no prescribed playground as well as a ball which is heavier than a conventional badminton shuttlecock), and “pickleball” (which combines elements of badminton, tennis and table tennis). This mix-and-match approach to different racket sports reveals the subtle complexity of these hidden sporting worlds.

Variations of traditional racket sports can also be of the more humorous kind. Take “miniten” (a portmanteau word, derived from “mini” + “tennis”) which is a tennis-like game created by naturists. Devised in the 1930s in order to provide a suitable game for naturist clubs which often lacked sufficient land to create full-sized tennis courts, the rules and scoring are similar to tennis and normal tennis balls are used, but the court is much smaller; instead of rackets, players use wooden bats known as “thugs”, which are shaped like a box around the player’s hand. Two-racket tennis is also a thing, utilizing the same rules as the more popular one-racket sport but implementing another piece of equipment. The sport was created by an American physics professor named Don Mueller – dubbed the “Edward Scissorhands” of tennis – who was presumably either very bored or looking to show off his ambidexterity. “Soft tennis” – tennis with a softer ball – and “speed-ball” – essentially swingball – are now both recognised sports, despite both originally being created to introduce beginners and children to tennis.

This all goes to show, alongside the offhand and spontaneous approach to sports like beach tennis and padel, that there is endless scope for imagination and invention when it comes to racket sports. However, the increasingly quirky combinations with other sports that arise nowadays, such as “eclipse ball” (a combination of volleyball, tennis and badminton) or “tennis polo”, demonstrate that racket sports are returning full circle to their more complex origins.

OUP Twitter calls out Indian opposition leader’s ‘fake’ screenshot

Rit Anand
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OUP Twitter calls out Indian opposition leader’s ‘fake’ screenshot

Oxford University Press (OUP) attracted praise and criticism last week when the Twitter account for Oxford Dictionaries, which it runs, became involved in the Indian general election.

Rahul Gandhi, the leading opposition candidate to incumbent Prime Minister Naredra Modi, took to Twitter to suggest that his neologism had been added to the Oxford English Dictionary. In the screenshot posted by Gandhi, ‘Modilie’, a portmanteau of ‘Modi’ and ‘lie’, is defined as “to lie without respite.” Along with the screenshot, Gandhi wrote: “There’s a new word in the English Dictionary. Attached is a snapshot of the entry :)”

In response to the politician’s tweet, the official account for Oxford Dictionaries, which is maintained by OUP, replied: “We can confirm that the image showing the entry ‘Modilie’ is fake and does not exist in any of our Oxford Dictionaries.”

Twitter users replied to the tweet with some of them posting memes. One user responded to Gandhi’s tweet with a screenshot from Urban Dictionary with the entry ‘rahulled’, based on Gandhi, meaning “to talk irrelevant nonsense to questions asked by someone and thereby make a complete fool of oneself”.

Another joked: “Rahul can now lay undisputed claim to an Oxford education.” Users speculated about the reaction of Gandhi. One warned Oxford Dictionaries: “Now Rahul Gandhi and his cronies will call you a liar.”

Another predicted: “Now piddis will create new snapshot for “Oxfordilie””. Gandhi’s supports have been nicknamed ‘piddis’ since the politician claimed that his dog Piddi runs his Twitter account.

Gandhi coined the term ‘modilie’ after alleging that Modi interfered in a major arms deal with the French government, against the wishes of the Ministry of Defence. The allegations were later found to be unsupported by government documentation.

Gandhi was resoundingly defeated in the Indian general election on Thursday, with Hindu-nationalist Narendra Modi winning a second term as Prime Minister. He also lost his parliamentary seat in Amethi, which has long been a stronhold, described as the “family bastion seat.” He will continue to sit in parliament, however, representing his second seat.

Modi successfully compared his biography as the “son of a poor tea seller” with Gandhi’s upbringing as part of a political dynasty which continue to be common in India. Some of his party have argued Gandhi’s family history could be seen as an asset as he is likely to have “political experience.”

Oxford University Press declined to comment, but stood by the content of their tweet.

Driven to Tears

William Atkinson
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Driven to Tears

Recently, I did something very un-masculine. I cried in public.

This wasn’t just at Avengers: Endgame. Admittedly, my college wife did have to ply me with copious Kleenex on my first viewing. But whilst I found the fates of Iron Man et al. tear- jerking, those were the silly, childish tears of a silly, childish man who was probably invested in those characters to a degree that rather undermines the serious Oxford historian look. Apologies to the late, great Stan Lee, but I was crying at something much more important to me personally. I was crying at the speech my grandfather gave at the celebrations for my grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary. 

It was a low-key speech, at a low-key event, by a low-key man. That’s in no way an insult – my grandfather just isn’t one for the lime-light. He’s one of those wonderful, unshowy men who have kept this country ticking over for hundreds of years. It wasn’t a long speech; only a few lines. But they were the most moving I’d ever heard. OxStu writers and Union hacks take note. 

Why was I crying? Well, for one thing, it was a beautiful speech. Grandad, shaking slightly as he tapped his glass, got up, quietly got the Atkinsons’ collective attention, and spoke about my grandmother. I wish someone had filmed it, as they were the loveliest words I think I’ll ever hear. He told us how beautiful she’d looked when he’d first seen her, by the building where they both worked. They were the same age I am now. He spoke about how he’d written to her every day when he’d gone away for his national service in Germany. He told us of how she was his best friend. How he’d been honoured to marry her. How he’d loved her every day, and even more now. Being an Atkinson, at this point he welled up slightly, said thanks, came over all shy and sat down, to our rapturous applause. And hiding in that applause, I wept, more moved than I’ve ever been in my silly old life. 

I didn’t just cry because it was a beautiful speech. God knows I’ve never been prouder to say I was related to someone than that moment. My grandfather seemed the most noble, most caring and most lovely man I’d ever known. I cried at the joy of being able to say I was related to him. And I cried because I knew I wasn’t half the man he was. Now, Grandad would dispute that. He’s very proud of his Grandson at Oxford. But I’m not, because I’ve lost myself. He’s the reason why I cried, because he showed me what it meant to be a truly great man, and how I and modern masculinity have lost our way.

By the age of 20, Grandad had gone from humble beginnings, to a job in London, to serving his country in the RAF, to marrying the woman he loved – and has loved ever since. That might seem old-fashioned: masculinity defined as hard work, patriotism, duty and love. It might seem boring, but it’s much better than the modern alternative. Modern “lad” culture is selfish and shameless in comparison. Self-control, commitment and care are out; now a premium is placed on brash confidence, drinking until you’re sick, measuring success by how many girls you can chat up and never daring to mention how you feel. I’m tired of it, because it made me feel like a man I’m not. 

I’ve always been a bit of a misfit. I was always the bookish one at school, not helped by being gangly with a crop of silly curly hair. But my parents worked bloody hard to send me to the best possible school, and I love them for it, as it got me here. But I never really fit in. I was the shy, state-school kid at a place full of brash prep-school boys and rugby lads. I couldn’t handle it, and I went through black spots in the very depths of depression. It was my fault, no one else’s, and I got through it, made some friends I loved, and worked hard to get here to Oxford. 

But here I’ve felt like I’ve lost myself. I’m still a bit of a misfit, but I’ve got a great group of friends who are the most wonderful people I know. But I let them down. I spent my first term as a hermit, and the second trying to be someone I’m not. I went out constantly, drank too much and tried to show off. I couldn’t handle being here. I alienated myself some of those closest to me, and lost control. I made a massive idiot of myself. I woke up day after day feeling ashamed of what I’d become. I’d thought being a “lad” was what you had to do in this day and age. But I hated what it made me. 

Being a man doesn’t have to be about subscribing to stereotypes like that. It doesn’t make you any less of a men to not like drinking, preferring to stay indoors, or wiping away a few tears when your grandad makes a beautiful speech. The pressure to follow a certain set of behaviours or risk being called uncool, or even labelled ‘a girl’ (problematic in its own right) is driving the modern man away from being a genuinely nice, kind human being. Men should be able to live in the way they want to without receiving criticism because they decide they want a quiet night-in, rather than sinking seven points in the Swan and Castles with ‘the boys’. 

And so I cried when Grandad spoke, because he showed me the man I wish I was. Not the drunken mess, not the lad, but a decent, loving, hard-working man who didn’t try to show off and be something he wasn’t. As the tears fell down my face, it was like an epiphany. I knew how I had to change – and I knew that I must. So this term I have. There was a big meaningless hole in my life, and I’ve tried to fill it. I’ve spent time with my friends. I’ve relaxed by reading, not drinking. I’ve calmed down, and I feel like a new man. I sincerely hope I seem a better man for it. Nowadays it’s fashionable to lament masculinity. Sure, let’s criticise lad culture. It drove me to despair, and breaking from it’s the best thing I could do. But at the same time, never scoff at the masculinity of a man like my Grandad. He’s never made a speech at the Union or written a pretentious article for OxStu. His values might seem terribly gauche in the modern age. But I’m going to work every day for the rest of my life to be even half as honourable, loving and brilliant a man as he is. I’m sorry, I’ll have to finish there. I think there might be something in my eye. 

Review: Allotment – ‘as if the audience is intruding upon the sisters’ realm’

Franklin Nelson
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Review: Allotment – ‘as if the audience is intruding upon the sisters’ realm’

When is the last time you thought about, visited, or even tended to an allotment? Probably not recently. And the last time you saw a play set in and around an allotment? If never, get down to the BT Studio for this light-hearted play about gardening, which also poses more serious questions about sisterhood and the passing of time.

On entering the BT Studio, the audience is met with an intimate, pared-down setting that succeeds in conjuring an intimate atmosphere, almost as if the audience is intruding upon the two sisters’ realm. Whilst Abby McCann and Hannah Taylor – Dora and Maddie respectively – might have a hard job in trying to engage the audience before the play officially gets underway, once it starts, the two are both convincing by themselves and, together, a great duo: there is no fourth wall here.

Dora and Maddie, we are led to believe, are two quite different, perhaps even competing, siblings. Dora is forthright and serious, Maddie more mischievous and, at least to begin with, prone to siding with her sister. And yet this imbalance of power is seen to shift as the play progresses, with Maddie emerging from beneath her sister’s shadow and, in so doing, revealing a latent tension between her and her sister’s worldviews: “Dora knows best. She always does. Maddie knows best. She knows.”

Both for the fact that only two people are on stage and for the fact that the play incorporates and takes advantage of elements of the absurd – have you seen a play begin with the characters eating raspberries from their fingers and thumbs? – Allotment necessarily calls to mind Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. Like Vladimir and Estragon, Dora and Maddie laugh and get on each other’s nerves, seem cut off the from the outside world and are obliged to grapple with the passing of time. The implication is that the sisters start out in the allotment as youngsters and remain there as they grow older; references to discovering sexuality point to this interpretation, but they do seem a bit forced. Like Vladimir and Estragon, the two repeat themselves and each other, as much in gesture as in speech, but they break with the mould cast by Beckett in breaking the fourth wall with frequent asides to and, more generally, engagement with the audience. Serving a more interactive experience and presenting us with a  three-dimensional picture of the protagonists, this is an interesting move on the part of the directorial team.

Besides the plotline, which is stronger in places than in others, McCann and Taylor’s extensive recourse to movement and physical comedy adds another dimension to the play. Much is done in spite of the more pared-back staging arrangements, common to BT Studio productions, and so those responsible for the set design are to be commended for their creativity.

Lighting and sound are good, save for the last scene which makes use of a strange and frankly uncomfortable musical arrangement. Doubtless it was the intention of the creative team to induce a sense of unease in spectators as the play reaches its crescendo, but the reason for doing so is not made clear.

In all, then, whilst its approach to broaching the duality of light-hearted and profound questions is not always successful, Allotment promises some laughs and two solid performances.

Review: Twelfth Night – ‘dispels the myth that Shakespeare isn’t funny’

Maebh Mulligan-Smith
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Review: Twelfth Night – ‘dispels the myth that Shakespeare isn’t funny’

Friday afternoon saw a Brasenose quad transformed into a tent of revelry for Brasenose Arts Week’s production of Twelfth Night. We were treated to the classic Shakespearean combination of mistaken identity, cross-dressing, unrequited love, and eventual marriage – not dissimilar to many an Oxford night out (though, admittedly, the marriages are more collegiate in nature and generally less legally binding.)

A tent adorned with hosiery set the scene, and this functioned throughout the play as both decoration and prop. A relaxed atmosphere was evoked by the casual seating arrangement, which consisted of a mixture of chairs and cushions. This arrangement allowed everyone to have a good view and to watch with ease as the narrative unfolded on stage. It also made the garden production feel more casual and intimate, bridging the gap between theatre and college lawn.

Complete with a marquee, dramatic make-up, and theatrical displays of drunkenness (as well as awkward interactions and some rather persistent flirting), the production was wonderfully appropriate for Oxford’s so-called “Ball Season”. It was also visually stunning, intermixing various performative elements – music (and, occasionally, dance) featured to form a truly classical performance.

The costumes hinted towards classic Renaissance attire – with a corset here and some very striking cross-gartering there – though, interestingly, these were combined with more contemporary dress, such as mesh shirts and boxer shorts. The simplicity of the costumes nicely complemented the pastel colours and glitter of the actors’ make-up. This attitude towards costume, with its blending of the traditional and contemporary, seemed almost redolent of Emma Rice’s work during her (brief) stint as Artistic Director at Shakespeare’s Globe.

That the production may have drawn inspiration from Rice’s work was also evident in other elements of the performance as well, such as the use of the pop songs to punctuate the narrative. These were sung beautifully and endearingly by the Fool, and seemed to hearken back to the tradition of interspersing drama with madrigals. The music was often moving or employed for comic effect, such as when the Fool gave a (somewhat spiteful) rendition of Gnarls Barkley’s ‘Crazy’ behind a dejected Malvolio, accused of madness. The singing, however, didn’t always accurately convey the nuances of the plot. Furthermore, whilst rather enjoyable, the play’s conclusion, with an all-singing, all-dancing a capella mash-up extravaganza, was a little bemusing. Nonetheless, this ending gave all actors the chance to demonstrate their varying levels of skill and offered a nice opportunity to see all the characters finally on stage simultaneously.

Ultimately, Brasenose’s production did full justice to Shakespeare’s comedy. With a fast-paced dialogue, interspersed with the occasional contemporary reference, it dispelled the myth perpetuated in GCSE English classes that “Shakespeare isn’t funny.” Such throwaway references were not lost on the audience and helped to successfully translate Shakespeare’s humour. Indeed, this is evident from the fact the performance was punctuated and invigorated by bouts of laughter from the audience. An explanation of a Shakespearean ‘fanny joke’ was particularly memorable, with a character stating that Malvolio’s comments on chirography, with reference to his mistress’s “C’s, U’s, and her T’s”, simply “sound like ‘cunt’.” The bluntness of this in the context of the play was incredibly refreshing. This, together with one of the strongest ensemble casts I’ve seen in Oxford student drama, made the overcast Friday afternoon fly by on gilded wings.

The Sackler Family’s Dishonest Donations

Emma Ball
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The Sackler Family’s Dishonest Donations

It can be extremely difficult to separate art from its context. To inherit benefits from a patron essentially endorses the methods which they have taken to do so. In a time of critical debate concerning the inheritance of art, with concerns over the legality of the possession of colonial plunder attracting discussion, it is imperative that artistic institutions emphasise their moral role as well as their creative one.

Recently, the Sackler family and their company Purdue Pharma have been involved in lawsuits concerning their brand of painkiller: Oxycontin. The deceptive nature of their marketing campaign has led to public outcry and protest against this family. As there is an existing crisis of opioid addiction in the United States, it is perceived that that Sackler family have preyed on the weakness and desperation of many in order to further their own profits. Unfortunately for the artistic community, the Sackler family is a name which has long been involved in large donations to museums and galleries, from the Guggenheim to the Victoria and Albert Museum. These galleries are now faced with a difficult question: do they want to continue to accept the financial support and therefore publicly align themselves with such a family?

To take on sponsorship from an individual is to facilitate their commercial move for self-promotion, as well as to acknowledge that they will possess a degree of influence over the institution. Most galleries have consequently decided against accepting further donations. The National Portrait Gallery in London, for example, recently decided to refuse their offer of £1 million, with both sides claiming it would just be a “distraction” for the gallery. The strong implication here is that today, museums and galleries are highly subject to popular opinion. Dependent on the support of the public, it is imperative that they retain a good image. This issue also highlights a much wider debate around art and its presentation.

The actual art which would have been contained in the galleries would not have been directly linked to the activities of the Sackler family, and yet this is not the essential point. To persist with an acceptance of a donation would not only be negative for the institution, but also for the art placed there. Tainted by judgement of the crimes of the Sackler family, the art would therefore acquire a new and more negative significance in the mind of the viewer. In the world of the arts, ends do not justify the means. An artistic institution simply cannot disregard the origins and nature of their inheritance.

When galleries are supposed to celebrate the best of human achievements, they should not degrade themselves by affiliating with the worst.

The Sweet Smell of Excess

David Alexander
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The Sweet Smell of Excess

“White elephants – the God of Hollywood wanted white elephants, and white elephants he got – eight of ’em, plaster mammoths perched on mega-mushroom pedestals, lording it over the colossal court.”

So begins Kenneth Anger’s gossipy movie memoir Hollywood Babylon, referencing D.W. Griffith’s gigantic Intolerance (1916). It’s immediately clear what Anger perceives to be the thrusting force in the development of Hollywood’s appeal: gloriously overblown, gleefully bloated excess. Flash forward roughly a century from Intolerance’s opening night, and the promise of thrilling excess is at least in part responsible for drawing audiences to Martin Scorsese’s The Wolf of Wall Street. Audiences, it seems, love films centred around extremes.

Excess, and its unavoidable corollary, inequality, are perdurable elements in the societies which duly provide audiences for Hollywood’s most extravagant creations. We all hear the cries and whispers of this or that debauched incident and like to tut and scorn; but why then are we so obsessed with seeing representations of this kind of behaviour on screen, and reminding ourselves of the extreme lives some can happily enjoy while others have little or nothing.

Maybe we can err on the side of idealism and claim that we’re seeking an explanation for extravagant behaviour. Is Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jordan ‘Wolf of Wall Street’ Belfort right when, in reference to his extravagant, obnoxious and massively successful brokerage house, he gurns that “Stratton Oakmont IS America”? Is Michael Fassbender’s sex addiction in Shame really representative of society’s inability to tame and accommodate its primal urges? What can we learn about the socially transcendent nature of genius by watching Mozart’s fall away from the decadent opulence of Viennese high society in ‘Amadeus’?

While the social implications of excessive behaviour seem real and uncomfortable, then, the extent to which films tend to deal with these is, we surely have to admit, limited. Just look at the work of the most vividly, luridly over-the-top mainstream director of the past twenty-five years. Quentin Tarantino has pumped his cinematic oeuvre so full of drug-taking, foul-mouthing and ultraviolence that it has occasionally risked rupturing out into an unengaging orgy of excess. You’d be hard pressed to find much in the way of socio-cultural analysis in-between the swear-y quips and gunshots.  

This is not a criticism, but rather a path into what I’d consider the fundamental tension in our relationship with cinematic excess. Experience of film is characterised by the dual tenets of ‘fear’ and ‘desire’. These work not in dichotomy, however, but in tandem. We find excessive behaviour alluring because we both fear its consequences, in individual narratives and in ‘real-world’ society, and are drawn to its potential pleasures, chiefly the opportunity to enter a world most of us feel ordinarily excluded from. There’s something beguiling about the opportunity to experience the heights of decadence in the safety of the cinema and the finiteness of a film.

This dual interpretation is essentially an answer to the question A. O. Scott asks at the start of his review of The Wolf of Wall Street, if it were applied to all films that depict over-the-top behaviour:  “Do they offer a sustained and compelling diagnosis of the terminal pathology that afflicts us, or are they especially florid symptoms of the disease?” The answer, surely, is both.

In Defence of Excess

Ellie Czyzowska
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In Defence of Excess

When describing the plot of films such as Funny Games (1997), Requiem for a Dream (2000), and Salò, or, 120 Days of Sodom (1975), the response from my mum is typically: “Not my sort of thing”. But why? I get that people can be put off by gore, by sex, or by the title for the second chapter of Salò, ‘Circle of Shit’ – but I am here to write about why these excessive portrayals are not only the best of content, but why they are worthwhile content at that. 

Cinema, though it can provide solace to an individual, is certainly a group event in culture today – and what screams ‘group’ more than cult films? The cult following of films like Wiseau’s The Room create a dedicated audience to an often extreme, or excessive, artform. But they have this cult for a reason – they provide entertainment, excitement, or simply a space of like-minded people to share an interest in. When watching Salò, there are moments of disgust, but when watching it with a friend, we laughed at the uncomfortable moments, and spent up to an hour afterwards reading reviews and talking about the merit in the film. Yes, there is a lot to be concerned about (the young age of many of the actors being a huge issue, of course), but as a film, the sex does say something, and it is wrong to discredit the film purely because its ‘too much’. 

Both Requiem for a Dream and Funny Games have something to say about the excesses that they show: for the former, it is about the dangers of drugs, and for the latter, the danger of violence on screen. Haneke’s 1997 film (which he remade in English shot-for-shot in 2007) in particular suits this question of why excess can be a good thing, because its message is a sort of paradox: the film pushes violence, murder and sexual abuse to an extreme in a family setting, but at the same time, is asking why we want to see such extremes, and judging us for enjoying it. The fourth wall break from the intruders are in my opinion, amazing – the best one being halfway through an especially violent scene, when the intruder turns to the camera and asks “is this violent enough for you?”. You feel attacked, but you also feel seen – and really, is that not one of the most important things people look for when watching a film – to feel seen? 

But now, let’s think, rather than feel, and look at the excess of Requiem for a Dream. Darren Aronofsky is not a man known for his subtlety – having a baby-murder scene in his 2017 flick Mother! made that pretty clear. Requiem for a Dream is a film which objectively works because of its excess – it is whole-heartedly devoted to excessiveness, from its extended scenes with Jared Leto’s mother being chased by her fridge, to the parallels of each character turning onto their side in the final shots, made particularly extreme by Leto’s amputation. This is an antidrugs film, and it serves this aim well – the excess is what allows this film to work, so I have to ask how anyone could criticise it for being ‘too much’. 

Excess can feel as though the creator is just throwing everything even slightly ‘horrible’ in to get a reaction, but that’s the joy. When Von Trier ends his film The House that Jack Built (2018) with a house made of mutilated, murdered dead bodies, strung up and screwed together after being frozen for years, you may be disgusted and (wrongly) discredit Von Trier’s work forever, but one thing is for sure, you don’t forget the ending. 

‘Carry-On’ Excess-ing?

Kristian Hallett and Matthew Jones
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‘Carry-On’ Excess-ing?

The Carry-On films are an odd bundle of affairs – 31 films (the largest number of any British series) of homophobia, misogyny, and casual racism, to name a few. They’re horrible in how outdated and casually offensive they are, and yet, ironically, hilarious. When I laugh at a joke in a CarryOn film, I’m not laughing with them, not at all – I’m laughing at how bad they are. Much like how I may laugh at a Christian mum’s minion meme page or simply a horse, the humour comes in the subversion of intention. The excessive nature of the films in their original context simply becomes more fodder to laugh at. The outrageously camp characters ogling Barbara Windsor’s exposed breasts is comedic for how over-the-top it is in its poor portrayal of women and gays, to name just a few casual victims of the show. 

Carry On Girls is an example of the film series’ incredible excess, both in terms of plot and politics. Mocking feminism and objectifying women all in one – it’s almost impressive in how poor it is. A group of protesting feminists speak of “squatting on this erection” (for clarity, the premises of the building – mind out of the gutter!) until their goals are met. What follows is a smorgasbord of nudity, women fighting over stolen bikinis and a pesky feminist plot to ruin everyone’s good old-fashioned fun. That’s possibly the most obviously excessive thing about these films – the passing off of ‘old-fashioned fun’. You know the type: private school showers, randy old men, big breasts, gays being gay and just gay-ing out everywhere. 

Yet Carry-On raises a lot of interesting cultural questions. How has our society changed since they were made? Could they have been made today? And how should we interpret films made in ‘the good old days’ of excessive, woeful prejudice? Kenneth Williams, a staple of the Carry-On franchise, struggled immensely with his homosexuality: yet in every film he’s part of the same joke. He’s gay. That was unacceptable at the time. That’s the punchline. Yet his presentation is persistently one of camp characterization and, arguably, excess. He’s also one of the funniest characters. There’s a reason he was in so many of the films. 

When we laugh at him, are we indulging societal homophobia? It’s a strange situation that I, as a gay man, find myself in. I’m not sure we’re being homophobic. His presentation is one of stereotypical homosexuality, yet it’s left unmentioned in the films. This makes the Carry-On films strangely metatextual. What did the scriptwriters think? How did he get along with his fellow actors? From this angle, the Carry-On films are an exercise in self-aware excess. The women and gays are willing solicitors in their own mockery. 

And it’s something that comedy ran with. From the Carry-On films, writers gained a springboard where they could turn the tables and make characters so excessive that we’re laughing at them, not with them. Absolutely Fabulous’ Eddie and Patsy, for example, are fun, excessive stereotypes of the rich, vapid, and conceited in the fashion world. We’re not supposed to relate to them. Yet I love them. After all, they got to meet 90s-era Naomi Campbell. God, I wish that were me. 

The nature of excessiveness is a peculiar one. We assume excess to be a bad thing, and sometimes it can be, but need it always be? I’m an advocate of comedic excessiveness as much as I am comedic restraint. Some films work best by restraining the over the top comedy that they could include within them; others work best by going all out. I think the most interesting things in comedy are the excessive restraints and restrained excesses of films such as Napoleon Dynamite or The Greasy Strangler. I love both of these films. They’re both incredibly odd, idiosyncratic approaches to comedy which will either be loved or hated. Napoleon Dynamite is excessive in its restraint of basic human emotion whilst The Greasy Strangler is excessive in its excess of grease. These sentences may not make sense if you haven’t seen the films – I recommend them immensely.

 Comedy, as an art form, is always centered around this balance between restraint and excess. Too much excess and the audience gets bored, too much restraint and the audience get bored. Where do the Carry-On films lie? Very clearly within the overly excessive bracket – but that’s why they’re funny now, in an ironic way. Because of the excess of offensive jargon and bawdy comedy, I can find them funnier than they have the right to be. 

It’s confusing, but comedy is confusing. Some people will love the unbounded excess of shows like Family Guy, and some will find the restraint of things like Napoleon Dynamite to be frustrating. But I think that a midway point is the safest place to be. That’s where the Carry-On films reside. In the middle.

Troy Story Revisited

Serena Millen
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Troy Story Revisited

In Pat Barker’s latest novel (out this month in paperback), the story of the Iliad is reanalysed from the point of view of one of the original works’ most seemingly minor characters, Briseïs. The great Greek general Achilles, encamped by the besieged city of Troy, is forced to return the Trojan woman he has captured as a prize; angered, he takes instead the captive Briseïs from his comrade Agamemnon.

What is interesting about her character in the Iliad is the disparity between such a brief appearance and her narrative importance, as the unwitting cause of Agamemnon and Achilles’ fateful feud. Barker’s text uses this paradox by giving Briseïs an active voice, while still maintaining the passivity of Homer’s original character.

The exploration of alternative narratives of ancient texts is hardly new. In the same year as Barker’s book, Madeleine Miller returned with Circe, a tale similarly torn from its original context in Homer’s other epic, the Odyssey, and given to a minor female character. Intertextuality played an important role in ancient literature; long before Miller or Barker, writers such as Ovid were already giving voice to ancient heroines.

However, what elevates the modern novelists’ works above mere fan- fiction is their stature as impressive texts in their own right. The Silence of the Girls is a novel which, though enhanced by prior knowledge of the Iliad, could very well stand without it. Such books are important transitions for those unfamiliar with, but interested in, the Classical world, and we owe it to writers such as Barker who rejuvenate ancient texts without stripping them of their original greatness.

Something I didn’t particularly enjoy when I first started reading was the mixture of colloquial dialogue with more formal speech, which seemed jarring considering the high verse of Homer. However, this did not detract from the work, and it developed nicely in the text alongside the normal and commonplace stories which the tale explored. This isn’t supposed to be elevated verse, but sharp and acces- sible prose.

The stories which are explored are not those of the god-like warriors, but of the people who fade into the background in the original texts. A particularly noteworthy moment is the list of Achilles’ victims as one finds in Homer, but here they are supplemented not just with the causes of the deaths, but also personal stories from the women connected to the dead men. Such elements create an appreciable poignancy for modern readers which Bronze-Age battles can never provide.

The best thing about Barker’s novel is its realism; she does not try to pretend that, because Briseïs has a narrative, she has any control over it.

The book maintains all of the brutality of the original, whilst expanding on the stories of the marginalised characters. Despite the antiquity of the original text, The Silence of the Girls manages to be fresh, exciting, and moving. It is versatile enough to be read by those with knowledge of the Iliad, as well as by those unacquainted with the ancient source – and read it should be.

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