s g n i K d n a s e g a b Of Cab Journal of King’s English Literary Society
ISSUE 5
pr of r ’s no te
Re-reading Carroll’s marvellous poem in preparation for this piece, I was reminded of nothing more than my own experience of entering into academic life: the seductive appeal of a grand walk, grand talk (‘Of cabbages and kings’ no less), and then the growing horror that one is really there to be consumed! These days if you ask just about any academic about his/her work you’ll soon be regaled with complaints about the amount of time spent on administration and reporting on our activities at the expense of actually doing research and writing. But like many academics, too, if my life were repeated, I’d fall for the same trick all over again. That’s because there really isn’t another job like it, where every day brings new intellectual challenges, new fora in which intelligent students and learned colleagues debate the thing we all love, literature. And film. My own research and teaching trajectory has taken me unexpectedly into film studies: I found myself teaching film before I set out explicitly to publish research on it.
so
Lewis Carroll ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter’ (1872)
es
‘O Oysters, come and walk with us!’ The Walrus did beseech. ‘A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach [...]’ * But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat— And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet.
There is a natural anxiety among literary students about venturing into film studies: unwonted, because our disciplined awareness of narrative and our training in cultural history affords so much insight into feature film in particular; but also appropriate, because film studies is a discipline of its own, and it is salutary to recognise where and how one is not an expert when venturing an opinion on an Other medium. I learned the hard way, editing between 2007 and 2010 Studies in Australasian Cinema, coming up against my own limitations, but learning also from the myriad contributors about the multiple approaches to the study of film. It is a classic case of how the academic career one thinks one is heading for doesn’t quite end up that way: when I returned to undergraduate study at the University of Sydney in the mid 1990s, I majored in Italian, and was expecting to focus on European literature for a Phd. Instead I find myself as one of Britain’s (indeed Europe’s) few full-time specialists in Australian literature: a strange cabbage indeed at King’s
College London, though in the Menzies Centre for Australian Studies the College hosts one of the most substantial and active centres for the study of Australian culture, politics, and history outside the country. And ironically it is through teaching and researching film—mostly while outside Australia—that I have come to learn most about what, in the end, has turned out to be one of the most abiding and intellectually challenging trajectories of my intellectual career: the approach to understanding— again from the outside—the complexities of historic and contemporary Aboriginal Australian cultures. The entanglement of these and British/European epistemologies is what drives my own understanding of both Australian-literature-as-world-literature and mid-nineteenth- to early twentieth-century ‘English’ literature. It is a long way from the Romance languages that were originally supposed to be the focus of my interests in the humanities. But not so far that you can’t follow my oyster nonfootprints through the sand. Creative writing is, on the face of it, another remote and unexpected thing for an up-andcoming literary critic to find her or himself publishing. I for one have known from the start that I make a terrible poet! But nothing teaches the craft of writing, to which we are all attuned, so well as attempting to create literature. It also demands taking off our lit-critic hats without losing any of writing’s disciplines: no easy task. What is more, it underscores how important it is that literature departments sponsor
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new writing, and support local authors by providing them with engaged audiences. It is the specialists in Australian Literature at the University of Sydney who first inspired me with this key function of contemporary academic life. There was an urgency in their work at the time: ‘Australian’ literature still needed, and really still needs, special attention even in the country of its birth; it still needs to grow in a specific ‘nationalist’ sense. It is not least for that reason that hosting readings of new Australian writing at the Menzies Centre remains one of the most satisfying aspects of my work at the College. But what I have learned from that experience goes for any type of new writing: hence its support of creative writing makes me particularly delighted to contribute to Of Cabbages and Kings. After more than ten years of being consumed by the odd unexpected Walrus, something about the constant engagement with old and new art still makes
Dr Ian Henderson, Menzies Lecturer in Australian Studies, Department of English Language and Literature, King’s College London
Good day Literature Lovers!
Welcome to the first sparkling installment of this academic year! To loyal returning readers and new alike, may we proudly present an array of creative writing, interviews, reviews and poetry for your discerning palates. But first, I believe a few announcements are in order. Autumn has blustered and blown a few additional leaves into our journal and with them an elusive newcomer, the topical article. Indeed, Of Cabbages and Kings is the place for the worldly and unworldly to meet at the inspired fingertips of our fellow students.
ia or it ed
me ‘All eager for the treat’. And I know it will sustain you also: when you too are a fatter, older, and wiser oyster! ª
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We are grateful to Dr Henderson for sharing his delectable portion of professorial wisdom with us, to our artistic contributors and of course, to everyone who wrote in, we cannot wait to read more. If you don’t see your name in print this time, don’t be disheartened. Whether it’s current commentary, streams of consciousness, or a small trip down a rabbit hole for tea parties and mad hatter discussions, we want to hear from you. The very best and enjoy, Louise, Sophie and Geri ª
The Globe’s production of Twelfth Night was a triumph in front of a stoic crowd in the September rains… As the love-sick Duke Orsino strode onto the stage to a torrent of rain, his glassy-eyed first monologue was rendered greater than in many productions due to the decision of Tim Carroll, the director, to choose a mature actor for the part. This maturity, contrasted with his pitiful longing for Olivia, granted a more sincere performance than those who would have been better suited to the role of Romeo than of comic hero. It is evident from first glance that this is an all-male cast. However, the actors playing the roles of Viola, Olivia and the Nurse maintain overemphasised feminine attributes, which makes it evident the audience isn’t meant to believe they’re women. Rather, to accept that this Comedy is being performed in its truest and most traditional form. The double and triple-crossing of gender roles—one of the most enduring jokes throughout—is made even
ated many laughs amongst the drenched groundlings. An utter delight upon a soaking Sunday night which had the audience laughing even up until Feste’s final song—well, the groundlings would have endured that weather in Shakespeare’s London. The beauty of the Globe is that we can experience his plays in the setting for which they were written, with the all-male to boot! ª Aggi Cantrill, 1st year English Language & Literature
Photo: Simon Annand
The Tempest at Twelfth Night
more entertaining with the extra confusion of having an all-male cast, as Shakespeare first intended. Olivia, played by Mark Rylance, engages in some of the play’s most entertaining scenes alongside Stephen Fry’s triumphant Malvolio. The pair develops superb chemistry through Fry’s dogged and embarrassingly devoted portrayal, coupled with Rylance’s hilariously feminine turn as a paragon of womanhood. Even in the scenes of bawdy humour, often in which Olivia is
involved, Rylance’s Olivia balances between being the guide of Renaissance etiquette itself and a powerful, yet fascinating force within the play. No production of Twelfth Night, however, can be complete without its delicious subplot, egged along by the raucous characters of Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, Feste and Maria. With the aid of a conservative and yet effective art department, they gener-
Twelfth Night will be transferring to the Apollo Theatre in the West End, opening 2 November 2012.
v e r
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5 Minutes King
with
I enjoy converting Sports theory into practical activities and hopefully inspiring readers, providing a catalyst for change!
James
And your least favourite? My least favourite part of writing articles is having to describe exercises or movements. Sometimes it can be difficult to do so and it seems unnecessary... A picture is sometimes worth a thousand words!
After earning a first class degree in Applied Sport Science at the University of Edinburgh, James King went on to obtain an MSc in Performance Psychology. He currently runs his own personal training studio and is a guest lecturer at several London Universities. Alongside his sports career, King has been pursuing his interests in Journalism, writing for large publications such as Men’s Health, GQ and Marie Claire. I caught up with him to find out about what it is like to be actively working in British Journalism today.
What advice would you give to someone who wanted to write for a large publication such as GQ or Mens Health? Be an expert in your subject area and build meaningful, sincere relationships with everyone you work with. The tea boy may end up as the Editor ten years from now. And also, always get out and ask for opportunities—no one will ask you. ª
What restrictions are you given when writing an article? The only restriction is usually a word count—200 words for a shorter article and 1000 words for a longer one. What is your favourite part of writing articles?
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I’d always been interested in the field so I pestered Men’s Health for a very long time. Finally I got an opportunity through a contact! It’s my favourite publication to write for.
w
Describe how you first got into working in Journalism.
Interview by Rachael Martin, 2nd year English Language & Literature
creati
ve writ ing
Symphony Man The strings of the piano grow louder, strum, strumming the tune of the masked man. A candle flickers in the distance, tombstones rising from the upturned earth. Wriggling worms draw nearer. Voices of the damned rising above a silent reverie. This is the silence of the children, the flailing limbs of resting corpses. Rot. Oozing pestilence of unkempt flesh. Your deathbed, your soil ridden divan. Tip of the hat, your demise will not be commiserated. Condolences. Grievances. They usher you forward with offers of remembrance and fulfilling gratification. But these words are not for you, not your own to consider or accept. Poor student of reality. Have you entered a world in which you cannot escape? The coffin awakens near your side. Eyes like dusty marbles. Something you had expected? Considered? No, no she had swayed to and fro with the rest. A flower in the breeze, her twirling color of
life slowly subsiding around her. You too have begun to fade. Fingers sleepily caress the piano keys as the crowd awaits your answer. The finale! Begin slowly, arise, crescendo. Sharp, sharp notes, high and low. A wave of trumpets filling your ears. Pounce on the ivory squares. Demand the attention. Push them higher, the twirling flowers dancing across the stage. The coffin closes, worms drawing back into dark holes. Children’s laughter erupts around you. B flat, E minor. Strum, strumming the keys! There will be no earthbound settee for you on this day, no pity. The notes linger in the air, rebounding between the seated ruby cushions. A woman holds her breath; the note cannot escape. She reaches, her arms open wide, a plumage of hair resting atop her powdered forehead. You watch the tension rise beneath her chest as the last upsurge builds beneath your fingertips. Her lips draw a breath, and then a magical bravado. The trill, the flowing F. Three octaves above middle C and your fingers grow persistent. Swaying
harmony between pianist and libretto. Joy in this moment! Resting corpses be damned, this is not a day of demise. Never a day of failure. Tip of the hat, you have mastered the keys. Choral symphony of brilliance, Ode to joyous jealousy. Vienna’s jubilant applauding audience wishing you well. Ovation, yield to concentration. Your ended fortissimo, avoidant of musical limbo. Success, the crowd awaits your reception. ª Michelle Salyga, post-graduate English: 1850 to Present
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British F ilm and T he Rediscovery of a Cultural Voice Dead Man’s Shoes
Tyrannosaur
Red Riding
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There is a problem in Britain of misidentifying the characteristics of what it is that makes our cultural output so particular, and so valuable. Much great British Film is shaped by the literary influences of the great writers who constitute the heart of our cultural history and identity. However, often what is seen as representative of British film, and our cultural identity, is work that whilst indebted to this cultural precedence, is unable to appreciate, or at least manipulate, what makes this identity really unique. Often it seems to me that the predominate tone of British literary and cinematic culture has been set by a combination of the humour, imagination and energy of Dickens and Evelyn Waugh, and the tradition of the provincial, elegant social commentary of Eliot and Hardy. This is of course a tiny selection of the excellence that current writers and filmmakers draw from, but feels to me to be the quintessence of British storytelling.
article
What often happens is that popular British filmmaking divides itself into camps that draw on only one of these styles, and from them only on a superficial level. They seem to translate this tradition as being characterised by either a vague sense of the comic and quirky, derived supposedly from Dickens and Waugh, as replicated in such films as Notting Hill, and The Boat that Rocked, or an unconvincing devolution of something resembling Eliot’s brand of realism, with films like Layer Cake and Harry Brown seemingly convinced that cockney accents, a little grittiness and a supposed engagement with ‘real issues’ is enough to constitute a piece of satisfying British culture. What both these camps fail to acknowledge is that all these writers perfect their genius by balancing the comic with the poignant, exploring specific ways of life to reveal contemporary and universal truths. The problem is that our cultural output has somehow ended up characterised by films that seem like pantomimes of a tokenised ‘British’ style. The strange thing is that there is a significant body of British work that manages to innovate and modernise
whilst appreciating and taking advantage of its cultural inheritance. And significantly, it is genuinely emblematic of a British style, quite distinct from its American contemporaries. Films like Paddy Considine’s Tyrannosaur, Shane Meadow’s Dead Man’s Shoes and Channel Four’s trilogy of films for television, Red Riding, for instance, manage to achieve that balance, perfected by Dickens, of humility and profundity. They are serious and often emotive works that make space for warmth, empathy and humour. When compared with recent American films like Drive or A Single Man, or even HBO’s Mad Men we see how cultural, and especially literary precedence, have shaped our nation’s cultural output. These two beautiful and startling films, and one almost absurdly chic programme, demonstrate the influence of such writers as Fitzgerald, Henry James and to a lesser extent Hemingway, on American culture. They are works heavily reliant—over reliant, we might argue—on stylism. Fitzgerald in particular shows in his work a wonderful ability to craft only the most elegant and urbane prose. His presence is felt in A Single Man, wherein every shot and costume has been placed as carefully and with
as much precision as has the choice lines of Hemingway. What they perhaps lack, is what makes British film so great. In Tyrannosaur the cinematography has the elegance of one of George Shaw’s Coventry paintings, whilst its characters display a realism and warmth reminiscent of the inhabitants of Hardy’s Casterbridge, or Great Expectations’ wonderful ‘Aged P’, they are awkward and vulnerable like the portraits of Lucien Freud, and we feel their pain as acutely as we do that of Michael Henchard, Tess, Sydney Carton, and Maggie Tulliver. We do not tend to produce films with the icecold style of Drive, or of Man Men, but it is this very tendency to minimise aesthetics, and embrace humility, the absurd and the poignant, that perhaps best represents the true identity of British filmmaking and culture. ª Frank Polatch, 2nd year English Language & Literature
F ilm Noir Waves break, crash, fall.
Been here, seen all—
In the reflective dingy sidewalk
written the story of abandoned moments,
passing by into history’s shadowy sleepless reel; All were here once and none alone. ª
Margaret Kavaras, 3rd year International Affairs
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Muh-Ther
Mind-Brain Concepts-Coma
Mother my bones and my blood, Mother my heat.
I can’t tell what you think
Mother the earth of my clay,
Hooked up to wires
Mother my feet.
Measure your brain waves
My
Lapping at the shores of science.
Mother to me, Her
You tease like a doll
Mother to her,
Fin—there you go!
Her
Strike the surface
Mother to we,
A face
Three.
A gainst A pane
Stone soldiers, silent pack.
In the darkness, stretching back.
Why
I move
When a sea is still
Crack
Does it churn below?
While embers glow? And then you go …
Your mind a lost twin To this mortal vessel. I know you are there. Crawl Swim
y
Hurt and burn
We move
poetr
Why do flames
Clap
Boom Slack
My howl now Echoes, Ours.
I can feel the threads that pull me back, Attached, Crack.
I can plant my legs among the rocks, Arms locked.
Fly
Thunder chokes:
And oh, do not go
Beat but
Back to me
When weather
Where I cannot follow. ª
Never broke. ª
Sadie Hale, 2nd year English Language & Literature
Sophie Develyn, 2nd year Classics with English
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creati
ve writ ing Untitled It was the day of the parade. For around two months people had been running round the country carrying a torch to celebrate something more than the passage of time. Today the torch was going to pass through my town. I made my way to a junction along the route. I stood on a patch of grass by the side of the road. Above I could see varicoloured flags hanging from the houses. Crowds had begun to form each side of the road. To my left a young man was climbing a tree. He perched on a capable branch and held his hand above his eyebrows. To my right was a father holding a little girl, dressed in white, upon his shoulders. Music floated above the growing crowds and the late afternoon sun. Coming from close distance we could see vehicles driving along the road towards us. A convoy of policemen on motorbikes rode past. The crowds cheered, whooped, and laughed. Afterwards came three tall buses —red, green, and blue. On the top deck of each bus drummers beat their drums, each hit jarring with the music floating above us. A few minutes after the buses, a lone runner, dressed in gold, came past, her right arm outstretched, holding the torch. It was not much—a thin, simple, metal rod, with a flamelet
glowing on the tip. The flamelet seemed to grow larger and redder as the runner travelled away. The crowd cheered, whooped and laughed, took pictures and waved their flags. When the runner had gone out of sight I looked around where I was standing. Everything was now at quarter speed. The sky, the brickwork, and the flags, were grey. There was no longer any colour. Everyone began looking at their hands— hands, including my own, which were newly wrinkled. I, turning, could see the young man in the tree, falling slowly to the ground, falling apart into pixels of black and white. I could not see anything behind him for a bright white light. The little girl was no longer a feather but now deadweight of white skin upon her aged father’s back. Beneath, his knees were giving way. I brought my own hands to cover my face as I, weak, began to fall forward to the ground. With my mind ticking away, the last few seconds of film making its final revolution around the cassette spool, I hoped someone, anyone but no-one, would knock that runner to the ground to spill the flame over so that everything would ª Douglas Lafferty, 3rd year Law
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Back you come now
slowfast as faded memory reliving its ceremony
through the torn mouth that you made
bare legs first, then fingers feel cold fluid,
poetr y
Untitled
you that it laid it was there
ignoring dark dreams, bed bred
Unrequited Love
that warm reward regrouping
Two clenched fists.
it was there,
no more now, the egg
Inside yours is a key
Back you come now
Empty ÂŞ
feel the cracked shell recall the smell
Through the rasping fists of light
and even the pink-blue deathly evensong before the night it was there
ebbing its blood to spring moss it was there
disregarded, unfostered
to love you, what loss! ÂŞ Frank Pinsent
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I open mine;
Jenny Morrison, 1st year English Language & Literature
English Literary Society Play Proposals This year’s English Literary Society play proposals are taking place on Thursday 1st November. Please come along to vote for your favourite play and help select our upcoming productions! This is an excellent opportunity for creative students to try their hand at directing, producing, acting or behind the scenes roles! If you’re interested in pitching to direct please email kclenglishsociety@hotmail.com before Wednesday 31st October. ª
Every Tuesday evening, the Arcola Theatre in Dalston sells sixty tickets for as much (or little) as you can afford for their current productions. Our advice: come early, tickets will be sold on a first come first serve basis. For more info go to www.arcolatheatre.com. ª
National Theatre Entry Pass If you’re aged 16-25, sign up for the National Theatre Entry Pass and buy tickets for theatre performances for just £5. You can also bring along a mate for £7.50. For more info go to www.nationaltheatre.org.uk. ª
Of Cabbages and Kings Journal of King’s English Literary Society
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Editors Louise Wang Sophie Merrison-Thieme Geri Ross
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Pay W hat You Can at Arcola Theatre
Design Geri Ross Artworks Sam Cleal, Flora Neville Contact & submissions: cabbages.submissions@gmail.com