Niyi: “Happiness is having no tv, no expensive jewelry, no car...” Do you have the balls to work in tv?
sex. when’s the right age to lose it?
ISSUE ONEFREEEAST LONDON
music.sex.art.film.love.writing.life.
SAY NO MORE, EVERY FRIDAY AT ON THE ROCKS, SHOREDITCH. ASHLEY VANDERPUYE TOOK OVER WHERE TRAILER TRASH (MAY THE NIGHT REST IN PEACE) LEFT OFF. THEY WERE PRETTY BIG BOOTS TO FOLLOW. BUT HE DID IT. DON’T BELIEVE ME? CHECK IT OUT FOR YOURSELVES....twenteen xX PHOTOGRAPHY BY MATTHEW BRINDLE FOR MEGAMEGAMEGA.COM Thanks Matt xX
THE TRICK IS TO FIGURE OUT WHAT’S IMPORTANT TO YOU AND CHERISH IT.
Forget everything you’ve ever been told that has made you feel stressed out. Forget your age, forget that thing that has been eating away at you, forget your worries, your short comings, your perceived inadequecies. Forget what you aren’t and just be.
CONTENTS: cover illustration by There are CHERRY REYNOLDS www.pink-syrup.blogspot.com pages of things to read, look at and enjoy. You’ll find out what they are exactly as you turn the pages...
Welcome to the Anyway, I’m not very first issue of going to get all TWENTEEN, a holier-than -thou weird and humble, because the truth colourful bundle of is I don’t have any love brought to you definitive answers from the sincerest regarding the part of the psyche meaning of life, where you’re in-be- love or sex. I do tween something… think though that not quite sure you can’t wait where…but plodaround for happiding along anyway ness to find you, or and making sure to expect a life’s pursoak up the little pose to fall into gems that make all your lap. You’ve the crappier stuff got to engage your worthwhile. brain, question To be honest, and explore. most of the time I Whilst on your just want to say travels perhaps what I mean, and stop, look and take to be free. That’s it all in because what this publicayou might just end tion is all about; up finding someexpression, enterthing amazing in tainment and, the weirdest of well, sex. places. It’s about look- Love naida xX ing around you and trying to find out what it is that makes you tick, or it’s about appreciating and Editor, Graphic designer nurturing what and all round in love you have. with twenteen. naida@twenteen.co.uk
Twenteen would like to extend our sincerest gratitude to some people, without whom this publication would not be possible. Juma and Halima Ally for their tolenrance, support and love. Juhayna and Joseph Kusaga, for the opportunity to turn it all around and appreciate the importance of realising a dream. Joseph Pierson for his companionship, inspiration and genius. Winnie Holzman, for creating ‘My so called life,’ and Angela Chase, who made it okay to live by your heart. Adele Morse for being an angel. Carla Rees, Jme Abbott, Niyi Crown, Matthew Brindle for their contribution in making the publication a reality. DD, KH, BM, BO who are in my heart in one way or another, and MDP for believing. This issue is dedicated to Amaal Ally and Natalia Kusaga because they are awesome.
FOR ADVERTISING ENQUIRIESnaida@twenteenzine.co.uk
“sometimes i get so lonely, i forget what day it is...and how to spell my name.” Lars and the real girl.
Relying on chemicals for emotional stability and happiness is probably a bad idea. You’d be better off taking deep breaths of fresh air in an open space and smiling at a stranger that looked a bit blue. twenteen xX
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. EXTRACT FROM DYLAN THOMAS’, ‘DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT’ When Michelle Pfeiffer read this to the class in ‘Dangerous minds’ it opened my world. twenteen xX
image from google
sex.
MISS ALANA LAKE. I’ll let her photography speak for itself ... twenteenxX
by Naida Ally I asked a hundred London based 16-30 year olds how old they were when they lost their virginites. It seemed like a good place to start when attempting to write about sex. i just wish I’d realised that it’s not about when you lose it that matters..it’s how. I don’t know what I was expecting. The youngest anyone admitted to being was 13. It was a random one night thing. He was my exes mate (I know, slutty roots lol) I had gotten off with him once or twice before. We sort of planned it and then it jut happened.-R Somewhere around the age of 13, I was still far away from the real thing. Instead, through films like Baz Luhrman’s Romeo and Juliet, and Cruel Intentions, I imagined a tender, softly lit loving embrace. Like most things in life, my experience fell far short of my expectations.
I asked my boyfriend how old he was. “16” Was it good? “Yeah. I mean, she didn’t complain.” So were you in a relationship? “Yeah. She lived in Bradford. I met her at Butlins. I used to go and visit her. We planned it for one day when her parents were out.” I say in a BBM, “I wish you’d taken my V,” and my words echo to the silence of no response. The average age statistically from my survey results was 16, which is also the national legal age. London bsaed rapper/DJ/ musician NIYI, most commonly found gracing the pages of music magazines and Dj’ing in the underbelly of east London and all over Europe lost his at 18. Kind of late I guess- N
I tell him not really, and we discuss how it appears that the younger people I’d asked seemed to have lost theirs younger. Assuming religion isn’t a factor, the loss of one’s
virginity is a rite of passage for todays teen. It’s inevitable due to curiosity, natural urges of the human body, and maybe an aspect of competition. As P explained, “I was 17. I just wanted to get it over and done with. I don’t really remember it really, just the overwhelming sense that I was missing out on something, being left behind.” Do you regret it? I asked. “Yeah I suppose i do. It’s like, at the time all you want is to just be like everyone else or something. The thing is though, the way i did it wasn’t the same as the other people I wanted to be like. Some of them were actually in love. They’d been with their boyfriends for ages...it was planned. It was special. it wasn’t some disastrous drunken fumble.” “So you wished you’d waited?” “i just wish I’d realised that it’s not about when you lose it that matters..it’s how.”
'Lemon Mould Drawing' Lemon mould was used to create this image. The arrangement is part orchestrated, part random. I see the mould as a signifier for both life and death. The acidic coloring looks toxic. The image hosts an indeterminate space, it could be lunar, it could be an explosion? hence the title 'Untitled Attack'. The above words and photography by Alana Lake www.alanalake.co.uk www.alanalake.blogspot.co m http://wearelikedisneyland.blogspot.com/ FIND HER HERE twenteen xX
Writer and stylist Victoria Aitchison (Sketchbook magazine) was one of those girls. “I was 19.He was my first 'proper' boyfriend. We split up not long after getting together but stayed friends & were engaged 4years later. Can't stand him now.” So perhaps losing it to a loved one isn’t always the picture perfect scenario it’s made out to be? His name was Arran Roberts. He’d probably have done anything for me at the time. He wasn’t my boyfriend, but may as well have been because of the amount of time we spent together. I’d planned it in my head; I don’t know why. i just wanted to get it over and done with. I guess like P, I didn’t want to get left behind and I knew Arran wanted to. I wasn’t in love, it wasn’t special and if I could go back, I’d save Arran the head fuck.
VICTORIA HAS ONE OF THOSE ENVIABLE CAREERS, THE KIND THAT GETS YOU INTO LONDON COLLEGE OF FASHION AND ALSO FLIES YOU TO PARIS FOR FASHION WEEK. BUT ANYONE THAT CAN POSE WITH A SNAKE AND STILL LOOK GORGEOUS IS DEFINATELY someone twenteen has it’s eye on
ALL PHOTO’S WERE BORROWED FROM VICTORIA’S FACEBOOK. I’M NOT A THIEF, I JUST DIDN’T KNOW WHO ELSE TO CREDIT THEM TO. Also, check out Victoria’s front row fashion week shots-> here. Do it. Trust me, you won’t regret it. twenteen xX http://agirlplayingdressup.blogspot.com/2010/02/londonfashion-week-day-1.html
AND INCASE WE FORGOT TO MENTION, SHE’S KNOWS HER FASHION AND KNOWS HOW TO WRITE ABOUT IT. ARTICLE TAKEN FROM-http://www.fashion156.com/blog.php?entry=340&issue=22
Backstage at Gareth Pugh Palais de Tokyo was Gareth Pugh’s venue of choice for his S/S10 Paris Week Fashion Show and I was lucky enough to go backstage. Within minutes of arriving rehearsals had started and a cloud of blue smoke filled the room as if a beautiful indoor sky was appearing before my eyes. Models strolled around the eerie industrial setting faces painted blue with hair tightly pulled back into messy plaits; wearing the most incredible blue wedges. Front row seats were reserved for Rihanna, Mario Testino, Grace Collington, Pam Hogg and Jeffererson Hack. The atmosphere was set for an incredible show. Gareth Pugh has always been known for his signature palette of black and white and his brilliantly outrageous creations. So the shock came when this season show was a flurry of greys and soft blues, however the strong aesthetic remained. Stylist Katy Shillingford did Gareth proud with her incredible styling. Hair, make-up, music and lighting were staged to perfection. Slashed full length gowns, loose knitwear pleats and ribbons showed Gareth’s softer side and well and truly turned the tables on the 400 hundred strong audience, who I have no doubt were expecting the usual Goth vibe. The show was a huge success – even running over half an hour late. By Victoria Aitchison
ALL PHOTOGRAPHY ON THIS PAGE IS FROM FASHION156.COM twenteen is not trying to take credit for said photo’s.
God is the girl in torn stockings by Joseph Cesare Photography by Keira Cullinane Model - Nicola Wells
God is the girl in the torn stockings, with a fistful of my hair, whose ears will ring all night from the amplifier I am grinding her against. Let me introduce myself. I am Exponent, an ex and possibly future mental patient. Her nails and teeth make it clear that she doesn’t mind damaging me. The whole of my being confirms that neither do I. I am fire re-re-reincarnate. I am strychnine cocktail shaking and stirring. Concrete is cold on bare feet. Glass when laid flat can be walked upon. People charm snakes. Are revived after moments with stilled heart. Organs kept oxygenated (for harvest), by forced heartbeat after ‘death’ is declared. Anything is possible. All these frivolities whispered no screamed into her ears And are swallowed by the sound system. Pulsing, throbbing, bass vibrates, bone, flesh leather, bodies moving no raging against each other themselves- concrete crack metamorphosis bleeds. Wandering hands have meandering needs and speed will succeed in all endeavours, thrashing and charging onward forever. Indeed this speed will become your disease for in its lack you will attack each and every cell in your being. Volatile mutually assured destruction wielding- cellular detachment in osmosis gloom doom- seasonal affective skin disorders order more product from Prada to mask wrinkles- insane maniacal screams in the- nothing being true and nothing being true and nothing being true and- sometimes it comes out better that way anyway. Filth sells sex, sex sells everything. Cells, everything. I want to write with a titanium pen, filled with oil harvested in the most sadistic fashion. Blood diamond encrusted in haze of wonderful filth. Adaptation adaptation. It is human to use what is before us. Be it needle, line or..., or the combustible bile of the belly of the beast we infest. Swarm. Let the megalofeliacs bludgeon as many seals to death with their hardons as they like. More blood in the blood bath. This whole Iraq war is I... I’m sorry, highly derivate. I mean have you read the Vietnam shit? What have they not heard of post modernism? Oh my god, pull this car over. Syphon the gas and try to pass out in the back. Time to commit.
photo by KEIRA CULLINANE
Featured Artist: ADELE MORSE
http://adelemorse.blogspot.com/ ALL PHOTO’S TAKEN FROM ADELE’S BLOGSPOT xX
Artist, Taxidermist, Gamer. currentnly studying full time for my Masters at the Royal Academy schools, Picadilly, London. email: adelemorse@hotmail.co. uk. for sales/enquiries of any kind..... xxx
Adele and I did the online interview thing. We even spend face to face time together when sometimes her work comes up. The thing about Adele Morse is her humility, patience and mind-blowing creativity. Dont look her up because she looks pretty, or you’re trying to keep up-to-date with the artist of the moment. Look her up because she’s been in london loooong time and still maintains her original heart. Which I think makes her so damn good. She’s at the RA. Here’s her blog. xX
http://adelemorse.blogspot.com
Concrete tears by Naida Ally
The book within the magazine pages. The book within a magazine invites you to tear out the following pages, staple them together, and keep them on a shelf to read and read again and again, should you so choose.
It writes itself, practically by Joseph Pierson Illustrations by Elizabeth Zamira Eisen
http://elizabethcandraw.blogspot.com/
A perfectly realised fictional character- female -is celebrating her thirty-fifth birthday. She sits on a pine dining chair with a thin beige cushion on its seat. She is in her kitchen. Her feet are together, her hands in her lap. She stares intently at an elegantly simple birthday cake. Behind her, French windows glass the view of a meticulously described garden. The garden is frequently pruned and managed by tight lines of attractively simple prose. The adjectives are carefully selected; the Latin names are known. A perfectly ordinary description of a bright but cold afternoon in winter. While the perfectly realised fictional character stares at her birthday cake, a fictional sparrow, confused by the clean French windows, hits the glass behind her. Now. The fictional character starts, as do we. The bird lands on a slate-grey paving slab. Snow begins falling, thinly, as the fictional character shifts back her chair, moves to the windows and slides one side open. She crouches to examine the bird. The bird is not moving. She picks the small bird up in her small hands, the way one holds a shallow puddle of water. A perfectly realised fictional character- male -enters the kitchen. As we know, he is in a bad mood, but for the sake of his wife and the occasion of her birthday, he is trying not to be. You can therefore imagine his smile. The perfectly realised fictional character- female -faces the perfectly realised fictional character- male -and extends the hands which cup an unconscious fictional sparrow- gender: unimportant. At this point, we learn that the perfectly realised fictional character- female- is called Alison, Ally, or Laura. The perfectly realised fictional character- male -is called Steven. "Steven," says Alison, Ally, or Laura, "This sparrow ran into the glass. I think it might be dead. And on my birthday. I'm thirty-five today. Thank you for the birthday cake. It is pretty and simple and it looks so elegant on that new, white china dinner plate. But oh, Steven, the poor bird! I think it might be dead. And on my birthday."
Tear-like tears well in her clear blue or brown eyes. "Happy birthday, my love," says Steven, "I made the cake myself [we all know who actually made that cake] and I'm glad that you like the look of it on that new, white china dinner plate. As for the bird, well, I think it is certainly dead. It happens a lot: the clean glass confuses them. First thing tomorrow I shall buy some black stickers in the shape of tiny seagulls in flight. We shall stick them to the glass, thereby indicating its solidity and, hopefully, there shall be no more incidents such as this one." He indicates the fictional sparrow with a nod of his head. He moves closer to Laura or Ally or Alison and, extending his hands, bids her tip the tiny bird into his cupped palms. He places it beside a briefly described pot-plant by the French windows, closes the windows to and embraces his wife. They kiss, lingeringly. Snow sticks to the glass. It is clear that these two fictional characters are bound by love for one another, but a subtle hint of discord is slid carefully into the prose, now, suggesting the narrative will incline towards an intensifying dysfunction between them, which will induce a satisfying yet anxious sense of tension in the reader, culminating in a short series of climactic scenes both wrenching and cathartic before pivoting once more, either to a re-establishment of their love and union, an absolute break between them or, perhaps more fashionably, an ambivalent final scene which unsettles the reader by not concluding the story in a neat or resolute way. We are, however, getting ahead of ourselves. Alison, Laura or Ally and her husband, Steven, have made love seven hundred and eleven times, seven hundred and twelve when we enter their bedroom. Heavy red or dull pink curtains are pulled across the bedroom window, obscuring all but a narrow portion of the glass. This portion of the glass is yellowed gorgeously by a sun setting early in the fictional sky.
PHOTOS BY ALI SARGENT, STORY BY NAIDA Mad Love. Twice. (I’ve been in love twice. Mad love, anyway. All consuming, body changing, mad, mad love. Both times with the same person. Once as a girl. Once as a woman four years later.) … Ahead of me crystal blue water turned to foam as it crashed against the cliff side. The air is heavy, salt-laden and humid but still moving sturdily with the wind. Far off the coast is a wooden fishing boat, two figures; one seated either side. I drag my bike to a small patch of thirsty grass and sit cross-legged on some rocky sand. Peering over the edge I drop a palm sized rock and watch it plop into the sea below. To my left is the ocean, to my right a cove and a small cluster of rock pools at the mouth. Small brown crabs tap their way amongst them- too tiny to make out pincers. The warmth of the air blows into my nostrils and I taste salt hit the back of my throat. It’s late afternoon, the sun is firmly placed in the sky and smothers my skin. It’s not unpleasant, this heat. Not by the sea. The area of beach is secluded, abandoned and dry plants and rubbish spread across the path to the main road leaving this particular spot invisible to passers by. Deemed unsuitable for a bar or hotel or some other tourist attraction, a mile long stretch is untouched and private. This is where I went to think and get high. It was the kind of beautiful that reveals to your unsuspecting conscience where your heart really lies; with whomever you’re thinking of, right then. The person you want to show it to the most. The person you want to share the most beautiful things in life with. Suddenly things become clearer. I fell in love again on the east coast of Africa, a thousand miles away from someone I’d once shared a mad love with and who had probably long forgotten my existence. I was trapped in paradise, alone with the beauty and loveless, with no way out.
www.tot-ali.blogspot.com All photography by Ali sargent
dear twenteen,
greetings from brazil xxx
Jackee Word is my name, writing my mind is my game. Well it’s not really a game, more of a career choice. The issue one is on reality so that is what I shall write about. If you don’t fall in love with me instantly, put me back in the oven for 15-20 minutes and see how you feel. LOVE. made for two, for sharing I have only been in love together in bed, waking up twice, once was with myself and not wanting to get up when I was a teenager and but wanting to get him “up”. thought I was amazing, that I observe people, far too relationship ended badly much, I think that is where when I realized I was just I get a lot of my inspiration rude. My second love expefrom. It sucks when all you rience was with a guy are observing is people called Matt, our relationkeeping warm in the ship was fun, fruitful, we streets holding hands. Winhad sex every day without ter sucks. Love sucks. I fail, once, twice, three times want to find someone just [a lady?] a day. He was the like me, but the complete complete opposite of me, He opposite. I hate my peer was brunette [yes I am a group, they are immature, natural blonde, jealous?], always broke and shit in he was hairy and he drove bed, they wouldn’t know a a car. He was also amazing g-spot if it crawled out of in bed, and was until rewhere it lives and set itself cently the best sex I had on fire screaming “I’M ever had, We broke up beHERE! I’M HERE!”. I am cause we found that it was also far too busy for this sex that was keeping us tolove business, they say that gether, and maybe I was the first 3 weeks you are in turning into a nasty person love you are a experiencing too at the time. I haven’t a form of insanity. I am indated anybody since, at sane enough, raging ADHD first my heart was free, I and bipolar send me in mad could screw any man I spirals, I don’t need a man wanted… but when it came to do it for me. So this winto it, I didn’t want to screw, ter, Intead of a man, I will I wanted to be in a relationget myself a hot water botship. After three years of tle and an extremely good hopeless shitty dates, bad vibrator, with more than 20 sex, amazing sex too, I have settings on it. a plethora of things to write Jackeeword.blogspot.com about [and do at jackeeword.blogspot.com] In the winter my heart goes through a depression, the coldness is not made for one, these cold nights are
NIYI CROWN (STYLIST AND ALL ROUND WONDERFUL) RECOMMENDS...
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Danielle Jawando turned a potentially suicide inducing situation into a blog that speaks the gritty reality of love, or “ lack of. She’s lent us her thoughts and attempts to answer the burning question...
But why are we still single? I don’t understand why we’re STILL single?” Adem says a string of Mozzarella cheese hanging from his nose. It’s Friday night and we’re indoors with a bottle of Sangriana (which in case you don’t know is the poor man’s sangria), an Iceland Pizza and a Jonathan creek box set. We’d spent most of the afternoon planning Adem's civil partnership, pretending we were in High School Musical (which meant only communicating through verse and choreographed dance moves) and debating whether or not we’d have sex with Alain Davies if we ended up stuck in a lift with him. Which probably explains how we ended up playing “would you rather”? “Binladen, Boris Johnson OR Adolf Hitler?” I say attempting to both change the subject and get him back for the fact I just had to admit I’d rather share a lesbian kiss with Pat Butcher than wipe Danny Devito’s Ass.
NIYI CROWN (STYLIST AND ALL ROUND WONDERFUL) RECOMMENDS..... “I don’t understand why no one wants to go out with us” he continues cramming a slice of pizza in his mouth. I raise my eyebrows. “It’s probably got something to do with the fact we’re sat at home on a Friday night drinking alcohol from Aldi and playing lame games.” Well okay maybe that wasn’t the MAIN reason but I’m sure it doesn’t help. I used to think that generally people were single because they hadn’t met Mr Right yet. That the Universe was just holding out so that it could manifest him when we least expected it. That it was all just this great thing we had to be patient for so that when it came we’d really appreciate it. But the thing is I now realize that actually the real reason why anyone is single is because no one wants to go out with you. – It’s as simple as that. I mean if you were such a catch, someone would have caught you by now. Not that I can blame anyone because if I had a choice I wouldn’t pick the “she would be hot if she wasn’t disabled chic” or the ‘naked superman gay boy’. ”We won’t be single forever “ I say which we both know is a blatant lie.
NIYI CROWN IS TWENTEEN’S HAND PICKED STYLIST. WHEN HE DREAMS, HE DREAMS BIG, AND THAT’S WHY TWENTEEN ARE GLAD TO HAVE HIM ON OUR SIDE www.niyicrown.com twitter.com/MrCrownUK www.modelmayhem.com/superstyle
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FILM; a closer look at ‘Taxi Driver.’ Whether you’re 16 or 30, there comes a time when 100word summeries of films just isn’t enough. Twenteen encourages you to look closer...
The taxi cab is the symbol of Travis Bickle’s lost and roving aimlessness and alienation. The film opens with the image of the cab looming ominously, in slow-motion, through a thick cloud of smoke. The film constantly emphasis the repetitious, purposeless nature of Travis’ life and, by extension, the lives of many young men of his gender and generation. ‘Days go on and on, each indistinguishable from the next.’ There is a sequence in the film of seemingly endless traffic lights, cut to suggest a constant stop-andstart, reinforcing frustration, impotence. The first image of Travis himself is an extreme close-up of his eyes slowly scanning left to right. Herrmann’s score plays a jazzy saxophone over the image, and perhaps at first the voyeuristic intimation is not sinister: Travis is a cabbie after all; perhaps he is simply an onlooker, as we might imagine most cab driver’s would be, of his social milieu.
However, the saxophone is replaced with a foreboding roll of drums. The repetition, the voyeurism, is not numbingly benign: it is building towards an explosion. Travis is contained, for now, but his restraint is temporary, and the film prepares us for an explosion, an outlet for his cauterised masculinity.
'The slaughter is the moment Travis has been heading for all his life, and where this screenplay has been heading for more than eighty-five pages. It is the release of all the cumulative pressure; it is a reality unto itself. It is the psychopath’s second-coming.' (Schrader, 1974: 85). There is something theatrically stylised about these opening images. Travis’ roaming gaze is focalised, intent, to such a point that it seems strikingly exaggerated, and the following shots, showing the blurred, indistinct reds and greens of the gaudily-lit city, are the first stages of
our entry into a hallucinogenic psychology: Travis’ repression has warped his interpretation of the world around him. All he sees is as a result of his maligned status, and so the film recreates this for the viewer, binding us exclusively to the outlook of a madman. In fact, the only scene in the film which is not expressly seen from Travis’ point of view is the scene in which Sport (Harvey Keitel) dances in the seedy hotel room with Iris (Jodie Foster). This scene is smothered in cloying red light, the dancing uncomfortably sexualised by Sport’s protective yet amorous, father/lover attitude.
In short, it may be the only break from scenes dictated by Travis’ viewpoint, but it offers no release from the claustrophobia, the tightly bound frustration which typifies the film.
I met Joe at 16. He was interesting, he liked to read and he could write the pants off anyone else I knew. The thing about him is, he doesn’t give two shits about money. He just writes for the sake of writing. It took a long time for him to be appreciated for that. But since he started UEL and found Tessa, Tim and Helena, I know they can see it too. So he’s in safe hands.. happy reading... twenteen xX
The photo above was taken by Keira Cullinane.
Travis' is an enclosed world, a world turned in on itself and souring. The parallels to Notes From Underground (Dostoyevsky, 1864) are striking. Like that unnamed narrator, Travis is sick, mentally and, perhaps, physically. ‘My liver is diseased’ (Dostoyevsky, 1864: 2) says the Underground Man; ‘I think got stomach cancer,’ says Travis, with a likewise casualness that screens the inherent narcissism of the comment. The frustration is physicalised. Travis focuses his frustration, his bound masculinity, on the process of literally sharpening his masculine prowess: ‘Every muscle must be tight.’ Whatever it is that this film and this dangerously restrained, aimless man are heading for, we can be certain that it will be an extension, a powerful and dangerous extension, of this honed masculine physicality. The exaggeration and theatricality of the opening shots become an important and signifying device throughout Taxi Driver. The purpose of this theatrical nature to Travis’ representation slowly becomes obvious: everything in Travis’ life is a rehearsal, the last act painfully inevitable. It cannot not happen. This reaches its apex during Travis’ central speech, his defining soliloquy. Listen, you fuckers, you screwheads. Here is a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit. Here is a man who stood up. (Schrader, 1974: 68).
The speech then peters out and cuts to a diary with Travis’ childish scrawl repeating, ‘Here is’, followed by an ellipses. Here is what? This is a vital point in the film’s comment on gender. Travis is a man, but that is all that is obvious. He has no role, his gender no function. The moment mimics Leopold Bloom’s similarly defunct assertion in Ulysses as he scrawls ‘I am’ in the sandand then pees on it (Joyce, 1922: 546). Unfortunately, Travis Bickle’s loneliness and isolated masculinity has driven him too far to dismiss his own dismissal so lightly. Something must be done. The speech scene also contains perhaps the most explicit demonstration of how inexorably we are bound to this personality. The speech begins, but then falters. There is a double-take; Travis resetting himself, back to position, to begin the speech again, without faltering. Just like the famous mirror scene (‘You talkin’ to me’), the way the film is told to us is as an expression of Travis’ internalised, perverted view of the world and of his own place in it. The way he plays with his guns is deeply infantile, yet his way pulling of them, re-holstering them, confronting himself in the mirror, is impressively stylised and we cannot help but share Travis’ fascination, share in the excitement of the rehearsal.
Another striking sequence occurs in the cafe. In a bold stroke, the dominance of Travis’ psychology over the way the film is presented is emphasised by him dropping an Asprin into a glass of water. The camera zooms, very slowly, towards the effervescence. The shot lasts twelve seconds, zooming in the whole time. The symbolism of this prolonged shot is utterly impossible to ignore: this maligned young man is going crazy. The whole film is an exaggerated, nightmare extension of a strain of American society completely and suddenly void of function. Bickle's antiheroic character is more directly related to a failure of a capitalist system that pits his workingclass position as a cab driver against those who have already been disenfranchised according to socioeconomic class, gender, and/or race. (Ianucci, 2005)
Travis takes solace in the refinement of his masculinity. He works out, he hovers his clenched fist above a naked flame, and he finds a direction, a singularly powerful demonstration of his virility, potency and purpose. It could be said that this occurs only after he fails to ingratiate himself into society through accepted means (getting a girlfriend), but I would argue that his loneliness is self-imposed. It is as if Travis understands loneliness, understands his misplacement in society, and perpetuates it because he does not understand how to behave otherwise. On his first date, Travis takes Betsy to a porno theatre. Surely even Travis understands that this is unacceptable, yet he doesn’t admit to himself that he has purposefully driven her away. As Amy Taubin remarks, ‘Taxi Driver... is a film steeped in failure... to at least 49 per cent of the population, the failure of masculinity as a set of behavioural codes on which to mould a life’ (Taubin, 2000: 9).
Betsy’s (Cybil Shepherd) introduction to the film is curiously displayed. It is clear we are seeing her through Travis’ point of view, though he is not present in the frame. Instead we have his disembodied narration (a technique often liberating in film in terms of its accepted, nondiegetic nature, but in Taxi Driver the device serves only to hermetically seal the film: the narration is Travis reading his diary). However, Scorsese is present in the frame, watching Betsy as she passes in slowmotion. It is the only time in the film when the shot itself (the slow-motion romanticism of it) and the music (an idolatry swoon) are coincidentally adoring. Immediately after the brief relationship with Betsy sours Travis remarks, ‘I realise now that she is just like the rest of them: cold and distant. There are many people like that. Women for sure.’ Enter Scorsese for the second time, this time with a 44. Magnum.
ESSAY BY JOE PIERSON IMAGES FROM GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH
We could perhaps suggest that the unification of the film’s aesthetic- the actual way it is shot- and its relationship to Travis’ imperilled masculinity and psychology, is taken even further with these oblique intimations that the film-maker himself is just as disenchanted by Betsy’s rejection as Travis is, thus adding yet another layer of coiled frustration to the film’s discourse. The character Scorsese plays is plainly alluring to Travis- he does, after all, offer a means of obliterating a woman’s face. The attraction to do so after a break-up might be figuratively alluring, but to Travis’ demented psychology literal and figurative no longer offer much distinction. It is immediately after this scene that Travis buys some guns. Taxi Driver's conclusion is deeply unsettling. Travis courteously drops off Betsy and drives away, though nothing in his life has changed. The score plays a note backwards
and Travis nervously flinches and intently checks his mirror. Again, nothing has been resolved. The assertion of masculine will, of a gender reliant on the base demonstration of physical dominance, has done nothing to ease this man into society. The story could very well repeat itself. Bibliography Dostoyevsky, F (1864) Notes From Underground: Penguin Joyce, J (1922) Ulysses: Penguin Schrader, P (1974) Taxi Driver: Faber and Faber Faludi, S (2000) Stiffed: The Betrayal of the Modern Man: Chatto and Windus Ianucci, M (2005) Postmodern Antihero [Online].
ESSAY BY JOE PIERSON
PHOTO SERIES ‘LOVE’ BY NAIDA ALLY
so you want to be a....... TV RESEARCHER
Erin is a TV resercher , which basically means she’s running around behind the scenes on tv programmes making sure that things are going to plan. She’s basically Jaime Winstone on that programme ‘Dead Set.’ Infact, jaime Winstone is HER.
YES, IT’S EFFING BRODY. SHE MAY BE A MUM, BUT SHE’S STILL MY TEENAGE WET DREAM.
She works long, long hours, constantly having to stay alert and on her toes. She sometimes has to travel really far away, and stay overnight when programmes like ‘Big Brither’ are shooting. This means she has a pretty limited social life whilst working. BUT, she gets to do things that most people don’t, like meet and work with celebrities and just generally have a job that isn’t repetitively stagnant. To be a TV researcher, you have to; a) be energetic and love what you do. Lazy people need not apply b) be prepared to not always be working. You work according to when shows are being filmed, so if a show’s not on air, there’s no work. You need to know how to budget if you want to be financially stable. c) have balls. Like most things in life, it’s not an easy ride. You’ve got to take shit sometimes and have the patience and discipline to work your way up. Anyone interested in a career in television should look into getting work experience as a runner. Erin started her career at endemol, although there are hundreds of places to get a foot it. For more information email info@twenteenzine.co.uk with ‘tv researcher’ in the subject line. twenteen xX
FIND THEM ON FACEBOOK... http://www.facebook.com/searc h/?q=opp&init=quick#!/group.ph p?gid=100033740089&ref=ts OR IF YOU’RE LAZY LIKE ME, JUST SEARCH FOR OTHER PEOPLE’S PROPERTY
NIYI talks music, culture & life PHOTO BY JAMES PEARSON-HOWES
What drew you to music?
BEFORE WE WERE TWENTEEN, WE WERE IN AFRICA, WORKING AT CLOUDS MEDIA HOUSE. THE FOLLOWING IS AN INTERVIEW FOR AN AFRICAN PUBLICATION THAT NEVER GOT USED, RECENTLY DUG UP FROM THE DEPTHS OF A WELL TRAVELLED MAC BOOK PRO....
the two definitely don't have to go hand in hand.
Who did you look up to/ aspire to be as you were growing up (musician or otherwise)?
Growing up in Essex, what was your relationship like with your African identity?
How important do you think music is as a form of expression?
Really uncool people like Craig David I suppose. But then when I realised I as kinda weird and more rebellious it was definitely Skunk Anansie. I went to my exams wearing ripped black jeans. it as a really big deal at the time.
I suppose it is easier to express yourself in how you look, but I think music is more important. It takes more thought
Where do you fit in (in the music industry, in society, however you choose to interpret the question) ?
Does commercialisation or the mainstream equate a lack in quality?
Erm I think somewhere on the edge. On the edge of the edge. I LIKE TO LIVE ON THE EDGE MOFO!!!!
It was a weird one. When you are a teenager all you want to do is fit in.. and i did to a certain extent because I was born in the UK. But I was pretty Nigerian I think in my thinking, and even though I am quite avant garde I am also very traditional too. I do remember my mum every Sunday when we went to church always going to the petrol station on the way to London, and catwalking out wearing her full native wear with her headress and everything. Looking back i was always very proud
Music is universal. Like no matter what crew you are part of, or what kind of music you like, even no matter what decade you are born....... the right melody or chord progression can transcend all of these.
Yes and no. That is partly the case at the moment, but
Has it made a difference to how you've turned out? (ie do you think you'd be the same if you'd either grown up in africa, or if you didn't originate from an african country?) I think the end product would probably look completely different. But i still think the core concepts would be the same and II would still be 'different'. How has your identity shaped/ influenced you musically? (if at all) I think my music is a continual evolutionary process. When I started off I was making music which wasnt really me, just to sound like stuff which was already out there and get that illusive 'deal'. Once i realised that isnt actually what people want anymore, I started putting more 'me' into my music.. I am a very long way froom where i started off, but I still don't actually think i am there yet. It is a scary road to tread down, but Im progressing. What is happiness? Happiness is having no television, no expensive jewelry, no car. You can have a bike though.
What is freedom?
gone around 24 times.
I know it sounds lame but I really mean it.. I dont own much.. like I haven't had a television for 8 years and that's the way I like it. When I feel like moving, I do, and I take nothing with me.
Why music? Why not Law, or Dentistry. or.. football?
What's the most important thing you've learnt about life so far? It's all about baby steps. Like those tiny increments of movement which in isolation look like nothing at all. Like those second hands on clocks which sweep so slowly. So slow you cant even see it. But in a day its
If I was good at remembering things then I would have done law. I really would have. Or become a doctor maybe. But I have a royally bad memory. I used to cry every 2 weeks when i forgot my library book for English and get a detention. I just couldnt remember to bring it, even with notes all around my room. If I was a doctor id probably forget to connect something back up inside someone. I do music because I be-
lieve I have a duty to do so. God gave me this gift of being creative and I believe I have to create for as long as I can create.
“ I dont own much.. like I haven't had a television for 8 years and that's the way I like it.�
What were you like at school? Did you always know that you'd be doing this? I was one of the loveable rascals at school. hahahhaha. I did chat a lot, and mess about I suppose, but I was lucky because I always got the highest marks in the tests and didnt really have to try to pass the important exams. This however wasnt really a good thing, i didnt learn how to work really. And when I got to university I dropped out because I had absolutely no self-discipline. In fact, I dropped out twice Why DJ? Wouldn't it just be eas-
GRACEFUL IN MOTION photo by twenteen xX
ier to stick on ITunes and sit at the bar...why bother doing thngs manually if you can get a machine to do it for you? I think when I DJ the visual is important as well. People look in the DJ booth and see me having a party.. it makes them want to party too Does it scare you that you usually stand out in a crowd? No way! If I didnt stand out that wouldnt scare me either. i just want to dress exactly how I want to dress
You're the King of Africa. Have you seen 'Coming to America'? Well you're James Earl Jones' character in that. What would you do for your people to make their lives better? Show how unregulated economic 'growth' is killing the West and the Earth. Implement some sort of mass wealth redistrubution program. And also explain that although education is important, creativity can do a lot too. X
PHOTO BY MEGAMEGAMEGA.COM TAKEN AT SAY NO MORE, EVERY FRIDAY @ ON THE ROCKS, SHOREDITCH
Twenteen is the product of a lonely childhood, making up stories and trying my best to please my parents. I’m not sure I’ve fully met their expectations, but creating something that started as a mere dream has had it’s ups, downs, and inbetweens. Everyone who reads, enjoys and maybe even gets where I’m coming from should get in touch with ideas. naida@twenteenzine.co.uk ‘it’s new. it’s real, and it’s inspired by winnie holzman writer and creator of ‘MY SO CALLED LIFE’ and Woody Allen movies.
all photography, unless otherwise stated, were taken on a canon HD 5 mark 2 by naida ally (except the one below, taken by Lisa Price
STAY SAFE, STAY WARM AND STAY HAPPY. UNTIL NEXT TIME, LOVE TWENTEEN xX