Olympic Politics

After yet another media-seeking protest interrupts the lead-up to the Olympics, I am frankly appalled by the inability of people to distinguish between sports and politics.

First, there was the political pressure for China to intercede with Sudan, in which Steven Spielberg decided to drop-out of aiding the Olympic ceremony in Beijing – what a pathetic show-biz attitude to cause such a dramatic spectacle. Has the crisis in Sudan been a sudden shock, a surprise unrest? No. It has been ongoing for several years and Mr. Spielberg’s decision to drop out so close to the Olympic Games can appear as nothing more than a publicity stunt for himself.  Similarly Sarkozy, the French president, in an attempt to boost his righteous appearance, originally appeared to declare he would not attend the Olympic cermonies if certain conditions between China and Tibet were not met, a standpoint he has since seemed to back down from, realising that no one cares whether he attends or not.

On the other hand, both men should take what they perceives to be the right, albeit non-altruistic, action. It actually doesn’t irritate me as much as the waves of protest over issues that aren’t new or even recent, but have been going on for several years, if not decades, e.g. Tibet.

Now, I want to make it clear that I’m not endorsing China’s occupation of Tibet, nor am I attacking those who speak out against it. What I am strongly condemning is the manner in which many nations and groups have used the Olympic Games as a political tool, WHICH IT SHOULD NOT BE! The Olympics, surely, are about rallying the world’s nations together in a celebration of sporting achievement and ability. No one, I hope, watches the games in hope of another Munich, incidentally an extreme example of the result of politics crossing into the sporting stadium. Protesting merely turns the Olympics from a fun competition into the event from hell, where every other hurdle is wired with an explosive political bomb.

Reading the news this morning, it disgusts me to see yet another stunt in the course of the Olympic torch relay, and many gloating remarks about more on the way. There is an arena for protests and political complaints, and there is an arena for javelin and pole-vault. If you have trouble distinguishing which is which, I suggest you sign yourself up for a special needs learning annex.

A Fairy Tale: Numero Uno

At an unknown time, in a land of little importance, there lived three brothers. Roaming the roads of their native country, they were still young at heart, youthful of face, nascent in understanding, applying themselves to no profession or worthwhile endeavour.

One day, as they were wandering off the beaten track, a man appeared before them out of the very air. Before any of them could yell for surprise, let alone draw their swords, the man clapped his hands and instantly all three brothers’ skin warped and twisted, until they were no longer men, but tigers. They tried to cry out but only a terrifying roar issued forth from their jaws. The man before them laughed:

“Your vagrant ways have come to my attention. You clearly value not the precious life you have been given. Instead of outright killing you, however, I will give you three days to spill another human’s blood, thus proving that you truly desire another chance on this earth.”

With that he vanished. The three brothers were left perplexed and confused. Should they obey this strange man, who clearly had phenomenal powers. If they have been able to discuss the issue amongst themselves, perhaps they would have been saved but alas, they knew not how to communicate in their tiger bodies! Growling and snarling and mewling, each brother found his siblings’ caterwauling completely incomprehensible.

After some time, the eldest brother got up off his haunches, and began to make his way down the path, having decided to take the life of the first individual who crossed his path.

On Going Out On A Date… And Getting Stabbed

Should we all be petrified of going home with people we barely know? I think it’s easy to become complacent in a university atmosphere, which is relatively safe compared to the real world, a fact that was brought home to me just the other day.

So, out one night in London, meet some random guy, get his number blah blah blah normal story. Few days later I get a text and then a call, asking me if I want to go out for some drinks. Sure, I think to myself, the guy was hot, why not give it a go? As I’m heading into Waterloo on the train, I see a Metro paper on the rack above my head, so I reach up, take it down, and what’s the first thing I see on the opening page?:

“First date killer jailed for life”

(internet version – http://www.metro.co.uk/news/article.html?in_article_id=111235&in_page_id=34&in_a_source=)

Yikes! Pretty freaky thing to read on your way to a first date! So I put it out of my mind, thinking to myself that paranoia is not a healthy way to live. Get to the bar, chatting to the guy, ask him to tell me something random about him that he wouldn’t normally say on a first date:

“I have a criminal record for possessing a weapon.”

What kind of weapon and why did you have it?

“Bit of lead pipe. Me and my mates beat up some lads from another football team.”

At this point I’m thinking ‘Do I have enough time to make a dash for the door before he pulls out some other form of blunt instrument and bludgeons me?’ But I’m slightly intoxicated, and really can’t be bothered to catch a train home. So after still more drinks, I stumble home with him to some awful suburb, the kind of place you feel that someone is waiting around every corner to kill you, though at the same time you know you’re with someone who viciously attacked someone else with a weapon so how bad can it be? On top of this, the guy is living in a flat with several other football hooligans… After some awkward and painful sex, I can’t sleep for fear of, well, him, his housemates, the unknown people living in this area who are probably equally violent. In the cruel sober light of dawn, I was all too happy to make a quick escape back to my safe, comforting university life, away from my rather foolish rendez-vouz.

Which brings me, in a very roundabout manner, to the point. Dating is dangerous, and most of us are lucky we’re still alive.

Oscar Night

Okay so quick confession – sadly my life has been too full of late to allow me to see ALL the Academy Award nominated films. I have not managed to see There Will Be Blood, which is a shame because it looks to be one of the better offerings this year. However, I will proceed with the other films:

Juno – Fun and thoughtful.

A very original take on teenage pregnancy, this film is more practical than judgemental, advocating specific contemplation rather than resorting to unthinking moral reprehension. The style of this Indie flick makes it easy to warm to, especially because Ellen Page’s quirky performance is so well-judged.

Weird and amusing it is deservedly the only comedy to be nominated for Best Picture this year, but is perhaps too light in content to seriously challenge the more heavyweight contenders.

No Country For Old Men – Brilliant.

Both a satire and a tragedy on the violent culture of modern America that looks at a specific part of the United States, while at the same time commenting on the random aggression and brutality of today’s world in general, as well as the money-fuelling greed that pervades all. There are many levels to this film and many routes through which to approach it, making it something to be watched several times over.

It contains both superb direction and, generally, very good acting, though Tommy Lee Jones mumbles too many of his lines – a shame, because his performance is otherwise remarkable.

Atonement – An artistic achievement rather than a filmic one.

Having just finished the book when I saw this film, it could but disappoint. Though it is mostly very true to the novel, it lacks much of the book’s subtlety and is forced to hurry through the plot. However, these criticisms could be applied to most novels adapted for the screen.

Focussing on Atonement as a film, it is clever, pretty, but rather confusingly put together. Its aesthetic nature is what makes it worth seeing, playing confidently with creativity and attempting interesting ways of portraying the splintered story.

None of the acting is outstanding, and Keira Knightly in particular seems to have trouble connecting with the role. Overall, its lack of competence in a few vital areas relegates it to good, rather than great.

Michael Clayton – Viciously real.

The concept for this offering is one that is constantly revisited and revised in the film industry: the corruption and the intrigue within large companies and firms. Michael Clayton is original in that it focuses more on its characters and their individual emotions and drives, rather than fuelling the story with clever plot twists and adrenaline-pumped action sequences.

Thrust into a world where the economical and legal are everything, the viewer is completely unsure what line the film will take. However, this makes it all the more satisfying when the plot elements begin to emerge and unify into a story that attempts to deal with the true rather than the sensational.

With its slow pace and intricate web, this film can be hard to follow. This is more than made up for by the main actors, who all deliver great performances, particularly Tilda Swinton: she brings her character so fantastically to life, showing both the brutal ambition, as well as the pressure and fear, of a woman in a man’s world, who is forced to condone what she knows, and more importantly feels, to be morally reprehensible.

My Pick: No Country For Old Men. Without a doubt the best of those nominated (except of course There Will Be Blood). It is intelligent, intriguing and interesting, posing questions, making the audience think, and all within a well-crafted narrative.

COMING SOON

Oscar night lies ahead, and while I know many of you out there don’t care, I like to keep up with what’s going on in the film world, as well as in the literary world.

In the next few days I will be delievering my opinion on the matter simply because I often disagree with the Best Picture winner and this year am determined to have my say, even if it is in a small arena!

BRING ON THE OSCARS! AND SO HELP YOU VOTING PEOPLE IF MY CHOICES AREN’T YOURS!!!

Also on a sidenote, it is so weird how many people have posted something about Valentine’s day – it is a testament to what may be the biggest marketing achievement ever.

Humanity – Necessarily a Good Thing?

I can’t help but get the feeling I’m not breaking any new ground here, but I was just listening to ‘The Animal Song’ by Savage Garden (I never seem to get inspiration from anything that could be called literary or intelligent) and this line struck a chord within me:

‘Animals and children tell the truth they never lie; which one is more human, there’s a thought, now you decide.’

So is telling the truth a particularly human characteristic? What exactly constitutes being human?

I’m going to go down the cynic’s route and say that the primitive forces that make us compete against others, fight for power, and lust after our desires are what constitute humans. We are innately selfish – a trait that many claim to be bad but realistically drives most of our actions. No matter how much we try to act without benefiting ourselves, we can in fact never consciously do so, for as soon as we become aware that we are doing something selflessly, part of the action becomes the pride that we are thinking of others, and turns it into something we are partly doing for ourselves. I DIGRESS!

The point is, being human doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with charity, hope and truth – these are all merely religion-originated terms that encourage community feeling for the general benefit of a civilisation and the specific benefit of those who run different churches/mosques/temples etc. Being human could merely mean that we are advanced enough in intelligence to manipulate others through pseudo-beneficent sects and organisations.

How very ramble-filled this post is…

The Victorian Greats

I have decided, considering that so much of my degree over these few years has been based upon the 19th Century, to put down what I consider to be the crème de la crème of novels in this period. I have tried to choose literature that reflects a variety of styles, tones and environments, allowing only one novel per author to appear on the list. Here goes!

1) Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell – while slightly embarrassed to admit it, this book did bring me to tears because it is written with such feeling and such heart that the reader cannot help but be affected. In parts, it does become overly sentimental but overall, one warms rather than cools towards its tenderly crafted characters.

2) Middlemarch by George Eliot – a difficult decision between this and Mill on the Floss. While the latter is empathetic and enjoyable, the former is on such a grand scale, with such diversity of character, that it truly is George Eliot’s masterpiece. Many criticise her writing as too invasive, but I believe she shows us the minds of her characters in a more complex way than many who try to say everything with a word or two.

3) Great Expectations by Charles Dickens – perhaps the hardest choice because Dickens is so absolutely fabulous. His style builds an alternate universe that reflects our own, but in a warped mirror, painting the most genius grotesquery combined with the most terrible emotional depth. While David Copperfield is broad in scope, it lacks the flare that makes Dickens ‘inimitable’; Out Mutual Friend would have been my choice if it were not for the terribly unbelievable ending that wrecks that titanic novel. As it is, Great Expectations creates some of the most memorable characters in literature with a harshness that rings all too true.

4) Villette by Charlotte Bronte – many critics cite Jane Eyre as the eldest Bronte’s greatest achievement, but I personally choose Villette over it whole-heartedly. The lonely woman is in her perfection in this last novel, with a narrative style that is intelligent and original, assimilating the best of the Gothic and the Romance.

5) Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray – my personal favourite, not just of this period but of all time. At times it is fantastic satire, at others brutal honesty. This novel addresses issues of life and love like no other has. While many may turn away because it is long or seems old-fashioned, they will miss out on one of the most poignant novels ever written.

So, does everyone agree with my choices? Have I selected fairly or am I missing a key figure off my list? Perhaps I have chosen the right author but not the right book?

Let me know what you think, I’m dying to hear!

Review: Atonement – The Novel

With so much hype around the film, including its seven Oscar nominations, fourteen BAFTA nominations, and Best Film win at the Golden Globes, I thought it might be interesting to return to the original book from which this movie comes. It has been on my reading list for absolutely ages, but studying English Literature at University does divert time away from perusing anything that isn’t on the course syllabus. However, I have finally got round to it and am very glad I did.
What an amazing book! It’s style, while at times rather prosaic, is incredibly fluid. The various characters’ thoughts, movements, and habits are all written so well that the world which McEwan writes about comes vividly and effortlessly to life. Not only this, but his control over the tone and mood is superb: I laughed at the childish Briony’s wild imaginings, smiled knowingly at the burgeoning romance of Robbie and Cecilia, and cried in pity at the awfully visceral descriptions of the wounded soldiers. The sexuality of the novel, arguably one of the most interesting parts, oscillates between the subtle and the blatant, succeeding in creating a balance between romance and reality – implied horror and explicit shock – giving the novel a sophistication that many modern authors fail to achieve.

Finally, this would not be an adequate review of Atonement if one did not praise the clever narrative form and the varying manner in which the novel is presented. Throughout, Ian McEwan continuously questions the role of narrator, of author, and most importantly discusses not just the composition of writing, but its purpose.

Indefinite Trilogy: The Final Chapter

*And thus we come to the final chapter in this scintillating narrative of seduction, betrayal, and deceit. Indeed, it has evolved out of a trilogy, but in deference to its origins, the title shall be kept.*

The day of the coronation arrived. Rejoicing vassals clamoured for their beloved prince outside the cloud cathedral. It was a beautiful day, with the sun smiling serenely down upon the people, warming their hearts and giving some sunstroke.

Inside the cathedral, the machinations of the several parties were about to reach their climax. The oligarchs, oblivious to what exactly Lord Tartarus’ plan involved, looked about anxiously for some visible sign of a plot, but were unable to discern anything unnatural. A wave washed over them, drenching them in relief, when they saw Lord Tartarus enter with his consort. He nodded briefly to his peers, before moving towards the front of the congregation.

“What a very peculiar woman his consort is”, remarked a rather florid, mincing individual in the act of fanning himself ineffectually with one fat hand. The other oligarchs murmured their concurrence, and indeed peculiar was an apt description. She was much taller than the dreaded nobleman and seemed unsteady on her feet, oscillating forwards and backwards spasmodically. A blood-red veil and dress enveloped the contours of her form, giving her the appearance of a giant pincushion that had bled with each stab of a pin. “At least she’s colour co-coordinated”, the camp lord perorated, and returned to his vigorous fanning.

A fanfare began to play. As the trumpets blared and the drums beat, the prince rode down the aisle. A gasp went up from the crowd. Some of the frailer individuals vomited. How absolutely hideous he was.

Reaching the front of the cathedral, the prince sat upon the throne. At that exact moment everything went to shit.

The ogress ran out of the crowd, clutching between her fingers a vial. Not equipped with the same mental faculties as the prince or Lord Tartarus, her plan was far simpler, and would probably have been the most effective had it not been for…

…The tiger juggling grenades, which burst out of the blood-red dress, like a stripper out of a cake. With a ferocious roar, its claws ripped out the pin from the first explosive and threw it directly at the prince with an aim quite remarkable in a feline. It would have blown the prince into several moist fragments if …

…The angry horse that the prince had ridden in on had not burst forward and, with a dexterous flick of the hoof, spun the grenade straight into the hands of the florid, effeminate lord at the centre of the oligarchs. Quite by reflex, this nobleman managed to catch the grenade, but years of conditioning now took there toll. With an extraordinary display of effeminacy, he dropped the explosive and raised his hands to his cheeks with a cry of “oh it’s horrible, get it away”.

The explosion created a sound like that of a cheese knife cutting through a prawn cracker.

Amidst the ensuing cries of terror, fear, and “sausages!” (for the sausage seller was in the building), Lord Tartarus and the prince faced one another. An icy glare emanated from the cold blue eyes of Lord Tartarus, staring straight into the burning orbs of fire glowing within the prince’s head.

Unnoticed by either, the horse and tiger were locked together. They rolled across the floor in bitter battle, hoof and claw, tooth and nail, happening to come to rest in a pool of pink liquid – the contents of the vial that the ogress had dropped when flung forward by the explosion. Some of its droplets oozed into the mouths of the fighting beasts. All of a sudden they were no longer rolling across the floor in bitter battle, but in excessive ecstasy, mouth and mouth, crotch and…

Meanwhile, Lord Tartarus had leaped on top of the prince, who had responded by pushing his fingers deep into the lord’s eyes, and, laughing madly, removing both orbs in a swift flick of the wrist. With a scream that would have awoken Sleeping Beauty from her dreams, the nobleman drew back his fist and thrust it with all the force of insanity through the young prince’s chest. Drawing back his fingers, there could be seen within them a still-beating heart, which spat blood across Lord Tartarus’ face and into his eyeless sockets.

A bloodbath it was, and so it was ever known down the ages. The confusion and tragedy of that day will never be fully known. Only its aftermath remains.

Lord Tartarus and the young prince both died, unsurprisingly, from their wounds.

The horse and the tiger settled down together, discovering in their shared experience of lunatic masters a love that lasted beyond the effects of the love potion .They eventually had deformed offspring who, like their parents, were never truly accepted in society.

The oligarchs, in the moments before the explosion, just had time to realize they were going to die but not enough time to repent. As a result, when the grenade exploded, they all went directly to Hell, a town where they were eternally plagued by demonic people of the commonest variety, who insisted on dressing, acting and speaking in a manner that was quite unbearable to their refined tastes.

As for the ogress, she stood on the battlements of the castle in the clouds and was about to throw herself off when a hand grasped her shoulder. Turning, she saw a cloaked individual who, on removing his hood, turned out to be the old king, who had deceived the entire kingdom about his death in order to be rid not only of his hideous son but his harridan wife, who actually had jumped to her death after a helping push. The ogress and the king married, the former finding solace in the riches and status, the latter in a comforting shoulder to cry on.

They ruled the kingdom for many years, ineffectually and with much suffering for the people, but their army was effective and efficient in keeping down uprisings, and they lived happily ever after.

******** Thank you everybody who made a contribution. If I have not in some way included your suggestions you may slap me! Next week an entirely new story – HAVE YOUR SAY IN ITS SUBJECT MATTER! *******

All these things should make me happy…

… To be alone again. 

Why is it that being alone is so hard? Once you’ve started dating – and I mean properly dating, not like ‘well I had sex with the same girl for a week’ kind of dating, but dating that actually involves an emotional connection between two people – it seems like you are doomed to forever need someone in your life. I’m not just talking about long-term relationship after long-term relationship; I’m talking about serial monogamy. If you fall into the relationship trap, it’s bloody hard to get out.

And it really shouldn’t be! People are so difficult and demanding. Trying to make yourself happy is hard enough but trying to do it for someone else as well is bloody tiring and a lot of work! Not only that, but even in the most casual relationships there are always things you have to give up, like time, effort, and time. Sure you get something out of it, but in the process you lose part of your individuality as a sacrifice to the other person. When you’re single, you’re not constrained to one person, you don’t have to share the bed (major bonus), and you only have to listen to your friends whine about their lives (which somehow is less annoying than when someone you’re dating does it).

Yet, once you’ve been with someone, once you’ve shared something more than just a fling, it’s hard to be alone. You can fill in the time with random sex for only so long before you realise that it’s hard to find this continuously satisfying. There are times when friends aren’t quite right for the occasion, where you need something else, something I can’t seem to define.

Whatever it is, it’s a bugger, and I am going to lodge a complaint to whatever omniscient power next pops into my mind.