http://mckenna.se/highres/vol54/TN2%20Vol%2054%20Issue%203

10

Ciaran Durkin puts Arts Block fashion in focus

4

Catriona Gray interviews Mao survivor Jung Chang

Cover Ilustration courtesy of www.shirleymoon.com

tn2

COVERNOTESP2

T

This issue of TN2 sees a particularly diverse array of articles. Jung Chang, the author of Wild Swans and Mao: The Unknown Story, talks to us about her life and work. Special thanks go to Professor Fran O'Rourke for arranging that interview.

Howard Marks, officially the world's favourite ex-drugs baron, explains to

Carolyn Power why he now wants to persue a career in stand-up comedy. Hugh McCafferty spends some time fraternizing with The Enemy, our Edibles editor tells you how to throw the perfect dinner party, while Frances Beatty reviews Marina Carr's new play: Woman and Scarecrow.

Emma Keaveney introduces a suitably Halloween-ish theme with her advice on how to survive a horror film, which is

continued in the Art section, with Anni Dai's review on the latest exhibitions at the RHA. Finally, on a completely different topic, congratulations to the Japanese society for their wonderful sushi night.

Hundreds of people showed up. The Atrium was packed. And, unbelieveably, there was enough sushi to feed everybody.

Catriona

Photo courtesy of LikeKings

Notorious

H

onesty is, in my opinion, the hardest policy where love is concerned. I’m sure many would agree that they have been forced to lie to the person they love, albeit to varying degrees, at least once in their relationship. There are so many different degrees of dishonesty, from harmless placating “No, babe, your bum looks tiny in those skinny jeans!”, to reshaping the truth “I’ve only slept with five guys…and of course you’re the best!”, and even extreme flattery “You are way better looking than Heidi Klum!”

Those little white lies are told in order to maintain a happy bond, unmarred by harsh truths and unnecessary information. Everybody gets a little silly sometimes and we don’t want to make the situation even worse by telling our bloke that size actually does matter. Nobody wants to hurt the person they care about, intentionally, at least. Unless they’re a moronic, sadistic, evil fecker, but sure, that’s another column.

Then there is the layer of slightly deeper deceit.

And this is the one that I have trouble with the most.

Stuff that (mainly men, in my experience) cover up in order to avoid rocking the boat, to maintain the status quo, or in truth to avoid screaming match with wildeyed psychotic girlfriend. Men are more likely to conceal something, even something that’s likely to be revealed in order to avoid an argument. Females, or at least those of my acquaintance only tend to do this when they are one hundred percent sure they wont get caught. Males in my experience are a) less careful and b) less crafty. I don’t know which is worse!

Take my own relationship. Himself knows what I get like when I’m mad. He also knows what is likely to make me mad. So in the past, he has stupidly (by his own admission) neglected to share some requested information with me. Now, I knew he wasn’t being totally honest because I have a nose for trouble that is better than any bloodhounds. So after a little investigation, his dishonesty was discovered by yours truly. It wasn’t a big lie, by any means. We would have had a little argument over the matter in hand, no doubt, but it would’ve blown over. But his dishonesty, and my shameless detective work, joined with his promise never EVER to lie to me before we ever even shared a kiss provoked World War Three. Which was then followed by the Cold War. And then six months of

“

Nobody wants to hurt the person they care about, intentionally at least.

Unless they’re a moronic, sadistic, evil fecker.

”

peace talks when I’d throw it in his face on drunken nights out. Women love doing that.

My trust had been broken, not irreparably, but severely fractured. I thought a million times, what else has he lied to me about? Why couldn’t he just tell me the truth? Am I that unapproachable? Is he untrustworthy, or am I paranoid? Soul destroying stuff, people! I often said to him, I wished on some level that he had gone all out and slept with somebody else so I could write him off as a total arsehole and never see him again.

Some may feel like I’m exaggerating slightly, but I’m also sure some will agree. Trust is a fragile thing, like a glass floor – its gets dangerous when a crack appears. Of course,we got through it. I wouldn’t let a little lie ruin the best thing that ever happened to me.

And I’ve learned that while some things are best kept to yourself, we shouldn’t lie to the person we love. Of course, there are things you can keep to yourself and things your partner has no right to know. But if they ever ask you something directly, I believe its best to tell the truth. If your bond is strong enough, then surely you wouldn’t have done anything too shady to begin with.

And even if you’ve made a mistake, if you hide something it could possibly come out in time like a ghost of Christmas past and destroy an established relationship. So share, people! If you must tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies only…or else!

COLLEGE BANDS: LikeKings

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies.

Words: Victoria Notaro

Support slots for acts such as the Coronas and the Flaws have risen the profile of Dublin fourpiece likeKings considerably over the last few months. I met vocalist/guitarist Brian Barry on a particularly dull Friday morning outside the Arts Building. I began by asking about the recent (amiable) departure of lead guitarist Dennis Mahon. “We’re just after playing the first few gigs without him and there’s been a lot of trial and error, but now that some of the rhythm guitar has been removed, it’s made a few of the songs a lot clearer”. With Dennis out of the fray, Brian has had to forsake rhythm for lead guitar duties. I wondered whether this has had an impact on the band’s sound. “We’ve rewritten a few songs and it’s still proving difficult at times, but we’re hoping that, as we go on, we can bridge any gaps in the music.”

Finding a distinctive sound is something that the singer is very much concerned with. “We’ve all got different influences, Brian Nolan (bass) is more dance-oriented, Brian Martin (keyboards/vocals) is very melodically driven and fond of his McCartney harmonies, whereas I’m into indie stuff like Editors and Interpol.”

Having seen the band play a few times, it’s clear they can get a crowd into a frenzy with their radio-friendly tunes and, at times, slightly insane on-stage activities. “Yeah, we went through a bit of a samba phase there earlier on, I think it left a lot of sound engineers unimpressed”. Maracas aside, the group hope to continue playing and, in Brian’s words become the Trinity band this year. Next step on the ladder is a gig in Eamon Doran’s on 1 November, followed by the EP launch on 22 November in Radio City. If good times are what you’re after, this may well be right up your street. www.bebo.com/likekings www.myspace.com/likekings

P3INTERVIEW

On your Marks Drug trafficking, imprisonment, fame and now...stand up? Howard Marks’ latest venture Words: Carolyn Power

R

eferred to by the Daily Mail as “the most sophisticated drugs baron of all time” and allegedly linked to the Mafia, MI6 and the IRA, Dennis Howard Marks was born in the small Welsh coalmining village of Kenfig Hill and studied at Oxford, scoring a degree in nuclear physics and post-graduate qualifications in philosophy. Any further thoughts of academia were banished by years travelling around the world smuggling soft drugs, and by the time he was finally busted in 1988, he had gone through a sizeable string of aliases including John McKenna, Anthony Tunnicliffe, Albert W. Jennings, Ray Fox, John Goddard, “Albi” and the soon-to-beinfamous Mr. (Donald) Nice. He came out of a seven year spell in Terre Haute, Indiana – America’s toughest federal penitentiary – and took to the books, releasing his autobiography Mr. Nice in 1996; and to the stage, with his first live performances in 1997. Still writing and touring, he is recognised as a leading campaigner for the legalisation of recreational drugs.

For an incredibly high-octane drug smuggler and a former penitentiary inmate, “Mr. Nice” might not be the first stage and publishing moniker that comes to mind.

Marks explains that he chose it from his lost

of known aliases, because “it was the most provocative…the others aren’t so nice, I suppose!” Neither would you think that a Terre Haute residency would lead you to the world of stand-up shows and book signings, but Señor Nice points out that he learned from the experience: “Looking back, it probably made me a better person.

I don’t take myself so seriously now and I also have more of a political and social outlook. I’m a better person than I was when I went in, though there are probably nicer ways to get that outlook!” Certainly Marks seems to have a much cuddlier exterior than you would expect of a man with his professional background, which is probably wise for someone still under internal surveillance. That social and political stance has been aired both through his written works and his acclaimed “An Audience with Mr. Nice” live shows (“the format basically is me talking shite for a couple of hours with audio visual input and then a Q&A at the end”) and through his directly political actions, such as the 1997 stand for election to UK Parliament on the issue of the Legalise Cannabis campaign and his online legalisation petitions on www.howardmarks.co.uk.

The official website furthers this image of Marks as the refined drugs campaigner and entertainer; if this is a taste

“

Neither would you think that a Terre Haute residency would lead you to the world of stand up shows and book signings, but Señor Nice points out that he learned from experience.

”

of his penchant for sophistication, then it’s easy to see why he was so successful in the first place. It seems he has a little seedling empire growing replete with podcasts, petitions, the opportunity to purchase a signed copy of his books and – but of course – the Mr. Nice seedbank seeds. You can also, if you are so inclined, listen to

actual recordings of his many tapped phone conversations, which are fascinating in themselves and slightly surreal.

The petitioning gets the main focus; and the response so far is huge, with signatories citing what they see as the hypocrisy of governments allowing alcohol but not soft drugs and the benefits of cannabis for MS sufferers.

So does Marks himself believe that this goal of lifting the ban on recreational drugs will be achieved in this way? His popularity and the hundreds of petition signatures on his site would seem to indicate that it will; but then, this has been going on for years, hasn’t it? Marks is rationally optimistic on the subject: “I don’t know if it’ll be successful…In many ways, maybe I should cop on about it, I’ve been confident about it for 40 years so far, but then I still am! I think it’s a generational thing really. When people my children’s age are running the country instead of people my age, maybe then it’ll work. It’s not going to happen tomorrow, but it will happen.”

Howard Marks is bringing “An Audience with Mr. Nice” to the Laughter Lounge on November 6th. As his daughter was a former Trinity student herself, he has fond memories of Dublin and is looking forward to the show.

FEATUREP4

An icon from the east Jung Chang faced oppression and censorship from the Chinese government.

Catriona Gray speaks to China’s most famous author about her life.

J

ung Chang, one of the most interesting and fascinating people to emerge out of modern China, strides into the lobby of the rather opulent Merrion Hotel. She tells me that the porter is bringing down her bags. She was working to such a whirlwind schedule throughout her visit to Ireland that the only time that she could be interviewed was during the taxi ride back to Dublin Airport. She leads the way out of the hotel and the porter gets a car for her. It is, quite fittingly, an elegant white Mercedes. As the car swings round the corner of Kildare Street, Jung Chang begins to tell me some stories from her unbelievably eventful life.

Chang is best-known for her biography Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China, which chronicles the life of her grandmother, her mother and herself. First published in 1991, it was an instant bestseller, a factual account of three lives which was, from a Western perspective, stranger than the average work of fiction.

Through these three women, the reader gets a panoramic view of what it was like to live in China during the turbulent years of the

“

She was made to watch people being tortured, as a warning. She was also blindfolded and made to stand with another prisoner in front of a firing squad.

The other prisoner was shot dead

”

twentieth century. Her grandmother was born in the last years of imperial China just as the practices and customs of the old order were on the decline. Her grandmother, Yu-fang, was subjected to the traditional custom of having her feet bound, a process which involved having the arches of her feet crushed with rocks at the age of two and then bound tightly in order to stunt their growth. The resulting “three-inch golden lilies” were considered highly desirable, despite the fact that they effectively prevented women from walking without experiencing extreme pain.

Yu-fang’s entire life was one of extreme hardship. Chang talks about this, saying that her grandmother “was unhappy for most of her life. First she had the agony of foot-binding, then she was given by her father to a warlord general to be his concubine at the age of fifteen, then she was married to him for six weeks before he left for six years because he had many concubines dotted around China and he only visited them when he was next in town. So for the rest of the time my grandmother lived as a virtual prisoner in

the house he had bought for her”. After General Xue’s death,Yu-fang defied Chinese conventions by marrying again, this time to an elderly Manchu doctor who already had a large family. Doctor Xia’s family opposed the match, his eldest son shooting himself in protest- he died as a result.

Chang’s mother, De-hong, was brought up in Manchukuo, which was under the control of the Japanese. The Chinese were considered to be second class citizens and suffered accordingly. While still at school, one of De-hong’s classmates won a running race that mostly consisisted of Japanese girls. She was expelled as a result. After the execution of her boyfriend by the Kuomintang, De-hong joined the Communist party, a dangerous and radical action. Under the Kuomintang, those suspected of Communist sympathies were interrogated, tortured and frequently executed. She became a student leader and was arrested as a result. While in prison, she was made to watch people being tortured, as a warning. She was also blindfolded and made to stand with another prisoner in front

P5FEATURE of a firing squad. The other prisoner was shot dead, but De-hong emerged unscathed since the whole procedure was merely an attempt to make her confess her communist leanings. Fortunately, she was released without charge and once free, continued to work for the communist underground. She married Chang’s father in 1949 at the age of eighteen. He was a guerrilla leader turned party official and a man who was utterly dedicated to Communism.

Marriage to a man who was incorruptible to a fault meant that De-hong received no preferential treatment as a result of her marriage. Chang says that “he didn’t look after his family, he always put his principles before the interests of his family” This was not a common occurrence. “It was admired by certain people, but it was not practised… it ran contrary to traditional Chinese values, which were to always look after your family, but my father put his family second.

For example, when my mother was giving birth to me, doctors said that it was going to be a dangerous birth and she ought to be transferred to another hospital, where they had better doctors and better facilities, and my father vetoed it- he was the governor of the region- and said that his wife had to be treated like everybody else. So my mother nearly died”. Later on, the Communist Party arrested both Chang’s parents and subjected them to a considerable amount of brutality to make them “confess” nonexistent crimes, which caused the mental breakdown of her father.

Chang herself briefly became a Red Guard at the age of fourteen and was later made to work as a peasant in the countryside under harsh conditions. This was another of Mao’s communist policies: he expelled all university students and middle-school students and exiled them to remote mountainous areas to do backbreaking farm labour. She later worked as a barefoot doctor, an electrician and a steelworker. She eventually was able to enter Sichuan University and in 1978, at the age of 26, she won a scholarship to study in Britain, where she has lived and worked ever since, and is also the first Chinese woman to receive a Ph.D from a British university.

She began to write Wild Swans after a decade away from China. When asked about what inspired her to start writing it, she said: “I started writing the book as a result of my mother’s visit to London in 1988 and for the first time she told me stories of her life and my grandmother’s life. She talked and talked: she stayed with me for six months and during that time she talked every day.

By the time she left, I had sixty hours of tape recordings.” The sheer volume of factual information in Wild Swans is overwhelming, the book goes into very precise detail. Chang said “at that time, my memory of my life in China was very fresh.

My mother has a wonderful memory, and also, when she was imprisoned under Mao’s regime, she had to write her life story again and again for the interrogators, so

“

In China, the regime doesn’t allow people to remember. So in China, basically the subject of twentieth century China is still taboo.

”

those experiences were etched into her memory. I travelled around China to do some research, but that was nothing compared to the amount of research I had to do for the book on Mao.” Her second book, which was written with her husband, the historian John Halliday, is called Mao: The Unknown Story and is extremely critical of Mao’s dictatorship. Chang describes the process of writing the book: “Mao seemed an obvious subject as he dominated my earlier life and he was the most important person in modern China. Very little was known about him and I also wanted to find out a lot about him”. Chang and Halliday spent twelve years researching and writing the book.

Chang says that they “went to all the archives which had information about Mao outside China and inside China we also got a lot of documents from various sources.

We interviewed hundreds of people about Mao as well. Outside China we interviewed the likes of George Bush Senior, Imelda Marcos and the Dali Lama.”

When asked whether she found it difficult to get these people to talk about it, she replied that “Wild Swans was very well-known and they had either read it or had heard about it: in the case of George Bush Senior, both he and his wife Barbara had read it and talked to me about it.” She also gave copies of the book to people within China whom she wished to interview, even though Wild Swans was, and still is, banned in China.

“We interviewed Mao’s family and friends in China: some of whom had been friends with him since 1914. Some people talked because they were warned and knew that the book was not the official line: that is that Mao had done more good than bad and was a great leader. They also talked because they knew that the book was going to be important: important enough for the regime to bother to warn them.”

Chairman Mao had a huge influence over Chang’s life. Like most Chinese schoolchildren of the time, she was taught to love Mao, a form of indoctrination practised in schools across China. “On my sixteenth birthday, I wrote my first poem, but while I was lying in bed, polishing it,

Photo: Justiina Dahl my father’s persecutors came to raid the flat and I had to quickly rush to the bathroom to tear up the poem and flush it down the toilet.” This was a turning point in her life, when she began to doubt the society that Mao had created. “I couldn’t challenge Mao in my head because the personality cult instilled by fear and brainwashing was very strong.”

Like many Chinese people, she transferred the failure of the Cultural Revolution and the Communist Party onto Madame Mao. A friend secretly gave her a copy of Newsweek in 1974 which had an article about Mao, with a caption saying, “Madame Mao is Mao’s eyes, ears and mouth”. Chang says “Up to that point I had been blaming Madame Mao for the sufferings of the Cultural Revolution but then I suddenly realised that it was Mao, Mao is responsible…. That was the moment when I began to explicitly question

Mao in my head.”

Athough Mao died in 1976, the full extents of the atrocities that occurred while he was in power is still not talked about. “.you can talk about the imperial dynasties in the nineteenth century, the eighteenth century- as far back as you can go, even though within those subjects there still is the Party line. That is why both of my books are banned. Neither of them toes the Party line.”

“I think the younger generation only has a vague idea of Mao, but the older generation has a favourable impression of him. Mao was an extremely good propagandist. He selected an American journalist, Edgar Snow, to talk to in 1936.

The resulting book Red Sky Over China established this benign image of Mao. Later on, Nixon and Kissenger, for their own political interest, made Mao look good to make themselves look good.”

Chang is adament in her opinion of Mao.“He was the most terrible tyrant in Chinese history. He is on a par with Hitler and Stalin. They are three of the biggest twentieth century totalitarian tyrants. Mao was responsible for well over seventy million deaths of the Chinese during peacetime, over his 27 year reign.”

Chang translated Mao: The Unknown Story into Chinese, and although it was banned in mainland China, it was published in Hong Kong. From there many copies got into China and there were numerous parodied editions and computer downloadsChang dryly notes that “people have enthusiastically scanned the book- and it’s a big book- but they scanned it into the computer for other people to download”and there were blogs discussing the book that were censored, but others are continually emerging. “It’s quite an exciting scene over there, to see so many people reading this banned book.”

Jung Chang has made London her home. She returns to China every year to visit her mother and her friends “I don’t think I want to go back. It is a dictatorship.

It bans my books. I don’t want to live somewhere like that. Also, I don’t like the society because of the years of brainwashing and because the regime doesn’t want people to get involved in politics and it suppresses the freedom of expression. It encourages people just to think about making money. China is the most materialistic country in the world and there is an unpleasant atmosphere there.”

The conversation stops here, alas. The car has reached Terminal 2 and Jung Chang makes her goodbyes and leaves. She is one of the most intelligent and collected people I have ever met. As she steps into the airport building the taxi driver turns to me, quite literally gibbering with excitement.

“Seventy million people? Seventy million?” he repeats, his voice at least an octave higher than before. He is dumbstruck. We both are. It was quite an interview.

With thanks to Prof. Fran O’Rourke, UCD for arranging the interview.

The Brothers Solomon Director: Bob Odendirk Starring: ?

Cert ? Running Time:91 mins In a relatively recent, if, perhaps, unwelcome series of films concerning hapless and socially inept male duos (that name checks everything from Dumb and Dumber to Dude Where’s My Car?) one could never argue that The Brothers Solomon is standing on the shoulders of giants. It might be argued, however, that it less stands there than takes a decidedly furtive leak upon them. Nevertheless, the pair concerned (although some might say responsible), Will Forte and Will Arnett, enter into the fray with an admirable joiede-vivre and foolish glee eminently encouraged by the chorus of the film’s signature soundtrack (The Flaming LipsYeah Yeah Yeah Song).

The basic plot revolves around two maladjusted and socially isolated brothers unaware of some of the most basic boundaries or societal propriety and their attempts to revive their coma patient father by bequeathing him a grandchild. This, of course, involves a series of socially awkward dating moments where the pair are spectacularly unnerving. Fortunately fellow Saturday Night Live veteran Kristen Wiig playing love interest Janine seems to think underneath it all are they nice guys.

Certainly there are numerous moments in which a combination of honesty and ineptness give cues to regard the pair as either deviant social worms or likeable - yet appallingly worrisome - comic figures. The over-arching sentiment left is that the 91 minute running time was more than enough to experience an uncanny mix of simultaneous schadenfreude and benign wishes to see the underdogs victorious.

“PERSPECTIVE MAKES THE SINGLE EYE THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD” BOOKS P13

FILMP6

RE3: Dead on its feet Words: Jason Robinson

E

minent film critic Anthony Lane once wrote “What is the point of Demi Moore?” Much the same can be said of the new Resident Evil film, Resident Evil 3: Extinction. What is the point of Milla Jovovich? Or indeed, this entire film? Why, oh why, did the first film span two sequels and given the story's climax, potentially a third? God only knows. From beginning to end, Resident Evil: 3 succeeds in being a lesson in how

to make a truly boring film.

Plot development was never going to be a big worry for the makers of this film (Again the truly awful Paul W.S Anderson, director of Event Horizon is the writer and directing this time round is Russell Mulcahy, TV/music director).

Following on from the previous two films, most of the world has been subject to the deadly virus that has spread since the first film, leaving few survivors and most of the world a deserted desert. The concept on its own is nothing new, but still

interesting, yet Mulcahy and Anderson, besides letting the film run at a humdrum pace, also manage to suck the life out of the story and provide useless stunted action. Some emotion from the characters or, indeed, some neat action set-pieces would satisfy hard-core fans of the series, never mind casual viewers, yet all the secondary characters are just as two dimensional as Jovovich - the film slowly eats away at any enthusiasm you had for the series. Make the series extinct and avoid.

WIN 3 COPIES OF RESIDENT EVIL: APOCALYPSE BY CORRECTLY ANSWERING THE FOLLOWING QUESTION: What is the name of the evil corporation at the centre of the Resident Evil series?

Answers by email to residentevil@trinitynews.ie

In memory of Tom Murphy Ireland lost one of its finest and accomplished actors when Tom Murphy passed away on 6 October 2007. Only 39 years of age, Murphy had appeared on stage and screen in Ireland for most of his life, winning over fans and critics alike. Adam and Paul, the 2004 feature in which he starred in alongside Mark O’Halloran, brought him to international cinema audiences with his brilliant portrayal of a down at the heel Dublin junkie. In 1998 Murphy received a Tony Award for his part in Druid Company’s production of The Beauty Queen of Leenane and Murphy was also a contributor to Pure Mule - one of the finer RTÉ productions of recent years – for which he won an Irish Film & Television Network Award for Best Actor in 2005. Our sympathies go to Tom’s family and friends. Ireland’s cinematic and theatrical potential will be much diminished from this tragic loss.

P7FILM

Photo illustration: Mark Carroll

How to survive a horror film Words: Emma Keaveney

P

op quiz, hotshot. It’s an average Saturday night in middle-class suburbia.

Outside, autumn winds are whisking crunchy golden leaves from the concrete driveway. Inside, you’re all alone – bored, killing time, probably channel surfing. Suddenly, you hear a dull noise from upstairs that sounds suspiciously like…oooh I don’t know…say, a severed head dropping to the floor. What do you do next?

(A) Shout out “Who’s there?” before grabbing a kitchen knife and tiptoeing upstairs to face the intruder.

(B) Call the police immediately and wait in your neighbour’s house until they arrive.

(C) Ignore it. It’s probably just the wind.

If you should suddenly find yourself

in the midst of a horror film, choices such as these become, literally, a matter of life or death. So, I’ve put together some advice for just such an occasion. You can discount this if you wish. But you just never know when Freddy Kreuger will be waiting for you.

And even though that zombie seems to be trudging along at a glacial pace, you’d be surprised how quickly they can move when they want to.

The most basic factor that can hugely influence your chances of survival is your gender. In general, girls have a better chance of surviving until the last reel, as there will always be a “final girl” who lives to tell the tale. This is evident in Halloween, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Alien, Scream and a host of others.

However, this “final girl” is almost asexual when compared with her peers.

Very often, she is a virgin, while her friends

“

If you wear a white shirt without a bra while escaping from the monster, then your chances of a horrific death are dramatically increased.

have probably been at it like rabbits since the beginning of the film.

This is the key factor in her survival having sex is definitely not recommended.

Similarly, if you have big breasts and blonde hair, you should sleep with one eye open. If you wear a white shirt without a bra while escaping from the monster, then your chances of a horrific death are dramatically increased as a sudden freak rainstorm WILL occur that WILL cause your shirt to become see-through. Imminent death follows.

Similarly, if you strip naked and enjoy a slow steamy shower, then it’s fairly safe to assume you’re a goner. The general rule of thumb seems to be “Showing skin equals a gruesome, agonisingly painful death”.

Sorry, boys.

It’s useful to keep in mind that the greedy and selfish always die. Anyone who has revealed plans for the future is dead meat. I would even suggest that, as hard as it is to muster up any emotion other than abject terror, a little ruthlessness goes a long way in these situations.

For example, you know that person who insists that the best thing to do is for everyone to split up? Kill them. They’re going to get you killed with that sort of carry-on, so you might as well get it over with now. Also, feel free to slap the girl who gets hysterical. She is nothing more than a distraction and bound to be easily picked off by the killer as the plot progresses.

If you have managed to escape and you are driving from the scene, don’t stop…for anyone. Even if it’s a police car.

In any other film, your natural reaction would be “Police! I’m Safe!” But keep in mind that you are in a horror film. If you pull over now, you’re sure to find the corpses of three policemen strewn inside the car. The killer will be there too, gleefully rubbing his hands together and giggling menacingly because you fell for his dastardly plan.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Don’t bother trying to appeal to the killer’s mercy.

Or conscience. They don’t have any.

Similarly, don’t try to ascertain a motive.

Crazed murderers, drunk on killing, generally don’t need one. Did Norman Bates have a motive when he took a shine to Janet Leigh in the shower? Did Hannibal Lector have a motive? Nope, he just had a particularly refined taste for human liver.

The only exception to this rule is the schoolboy/girl who has been mercilessly teased and cruelly misunderstood by the “cool” kids at school. They will eventually get their revenge. So as a general rule, be nice to these people, otherwise they will gut you with a fish-hook. The end of Carrie is a particularly disturbing case in point.

If you have kept all this advice in mind and you are still snookered throughout the course of the film, try to make sure that you’re featuring in a cheap, low-budget gore-fest that pays little or no attention to plot. That way you can miraculously return to live in the sequel and kick some monster/psycho/zombie ass - no questions asked.

MUSICP8

the soft bulletin Words: Carolyn Power

I

The Enemy at BBC Radio 1's Big Weekend in Preston. Photo courtesy of the BCC.

BITE-SIZE BECKETT. PETER BROOK. THEATRE P14

s it just me, or is anyone else becoming terrified at how quickly the weeks are flying in? Maybe it’s just a Senior Sophister thing of exams heralding the inevitable shove into the real world, but even from the old reliable safety of the Pavilion Bar, the library is beginning to loom with a new and palpable level of malice.

It’s just as well, then, that we have an endless ream of gigs and emerging acts to keep us all distracted from these unnerving thoughts of academia. One recent example of how music can make it all seem okay was the blistering Lightspeed Champion gig in Whelan’s.

The soundguy on the night seemed to have been experimenting with some spontaneous dial twiddling – the levels were all going a bit three-tequila-floor – but the music itself was totally worth it.

Also known as Dev Hynes, Lightspeed Champion offers up a heady blend of lush orchestration, funky guitar work and brutally honest lyrics (“now we kiss and I’m sick in your mouth” comes to mind and refuses to leave, but is by no means the best line in this lyrical smorgasbord).

The end result is highly enjoyable, fresh and inventive. If you missed the gig, check out the record: Falling Off the Lavender Bridge is one savage EP. And it’s nice, isn’t it, in these times of nu-whatever lyrical sloth, to have someone who spends a bit of time on the words they’re singing. Of course we can always count on the old singer-songwriter for a bit of vocally embroidered shoegazing, but let’s not forget those who managed to do it with a sense of humour as well. Loudon Wainwright III, sire of Rufus, naturally (“loneliness is happiness; it takes less than two”) and then there is the devilishly demented Tom Lehrer, who gave us the “Elements Song” (which Animaniacs shamelessly ripped off for the “Geography Song”), “I Hold Your Hand In Mine” and the ultimate in martiniclinking mayhem, “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park”. “My pulse will be quickenin’ with each drop of strych’nine” rightly puts to shame any songsmith who ever rhymed “If I could” with “I would”.

As for the gigs still to come there is something of a plethora to suit all tastes.

We’ve got the excellent Dark Room Notes coming to Crawdaddy’s on 31 October for a bit of savvy musical layering, Swedish sensation Robyn in the Village, 3 November for some unabashed pop (and who does this better than Sweden) and Ute Lemper (must be seen to be believed) in the NCH on 29 October. Wayuh.

Fraternizing with The Enemy Days before scooping a coveted Best New Act gong at the Q Awards, The Enemy’s fiercely confident frontman spoke to TN2. Words: Hugh McCafferty

T

he Enemy have had an exceptionally successful year by anyone’s standards.

Tipped by the NME as a breakthrough act for 2007, the band was promptly signed to Warner Music. Support slots with the Fratellis and the Manic Street Preachers followed, along with the release of their debut album We’ll Live and Die in These Towns in July, which debuted at number one in the UK album charts. No mean feat that, considering the band had been playing together for little over a year and a half at the time.

In a world where anthemic indie rock bands are two-a-penny though, what is it that sets this act apart?

Fifteen minutes with the rather amiable vocalist/guitarist Tom Clarke suggests that dogged selfbelief and uncompromising ambition may have something to do with it, “I’ve always said there’s no point in starting a band if it’s not going to be the best band in the world”. Indeed Clarke sees his band as very separate from the current crop of distinctively Britishsounding indie outfits. “Our sound will develop as we go on”, he says, already considering what album number two might sound like.

Of course, the band’s ascent to success has not been entirely smooth. In September, XFM DJ Alex Zane played current single “You’re Not Alone” for a total of seven seconds before pulling it and declaring

that the band’s music would not be played on the show again. According to Clarke, “what happened there was what happens when a sound lad meets a prick”. It would seem, then, that there was a serious clash of personalities at some point along the line. Ultimately though, Zane forgot that, for a rock band, any publicity is good publicity and, as Clarke is only too happy to point out, the album sold 10,000 copies in the same week.

Celebrity cat-fights aside, Clarke is serious about his music. “‘You’re Not Alone’ is about the demise, the disappearance of grand industry in Britain. It was only when we went on tour with The Paddingtons, playing in all of these ex-industry towns around Britain, that we realised the real scale of the effect of what happened”. Clarke dedicates the song to the memory of his deceased uncle, Mick, a miner and vocal figure during the British miners’ strikes of the 1980’s.

Working class heroes, then? Well, The Enemy are certainly not the “best band in the world”, but they do have admirable conviction and the ability to craft earcatching indie rock. After finishing their current set of dates in the UK and Ireland (they play the Ambassador on 23 October), the band will tour with the Stereophonics in November. After that, Clarke’s only definite plans are to “make another class album”. I wish him well.

P9MUSIC

Camille O’Sullivan in performance in Galway in October 2007. Photo illustration: Christopher Tierney

Look who’s talking The capital is brimming with music of all styles: here are a few who have been nice enough to drop us a line and tell us what they’re up to. Words: Carolyn Power

P

robably essential kit for every Mod on the planet, The Jam took their cue from The Who and went a long way to shape the definitive style of the genre. Fronted by Paul Weller, who then went on to the Style Council, their catchy hits, markedly prominent basslines and lightning-fast drumming have earned them a place in music history that is being revisited by bassist Bruce Foxton and drummer Rick Buckler in their current project, From the Jam. Foxton’s dexterous bass comes as a logical follow up to his original role in the band as rhythm guitarist: “the lead guitarist left, Paul was on bass and I was on guitar and then we swapped around so I was on bass. It worked better that way, and I suppose the basslines come from my working with lead and rhythm guitar at home. Plus as a three-piece it’s harder to make a big sound, you have to work harder for it.”

Weller split the band when they were still very successful and went in a different direction for his next incarnation in the Style Council. This musical direction was not to Foxton’s personal taste, “the Style Council was not where I would have wanted to go, put it that way”, and perhaps as a band that had progressed in such a natural way, as the bassist himself pointed out, they had reached the end of this progression. The current part-reform is a welcome development and he’s clearly having fun with it: “It’s pretty full on with the From the Jam project at the moment and I’m really enjoying it, I’ve got my hands full”. But it’s still not the be all and end all for the Entwistle and Macca (“but not the Frog Chorus!”) inspired bassist: ‘I didn’t

think I’d still be here 30 years on – you never know what’s around the corner though!”

From the Jam play the Village on 18 November and Foxton is looking forward to the Dublin gig: “It’s always a good laugh.

I just enjoy playing, being on stage again.

It’s really exciting, and still as fresh as it was at the start.”

From Mod rock to smoky continental cabaret, Camille O’Sullivan is another one to watch: her Olympia gig on 7 December is sure to impress newly converted and old reliable fans of the Franco-Corkonian interpreter of song through genres as diverse as Bruel, Waits and Radiohead.

Professionally she moved from architecture to performing, needing to find her niche before she could find the confidence to make a stab at a musical career: “I was a performer through school and college, but I didn’t have the balls to really go for it: I always got nervous and suffered from stage fright. Architecture was more stable and I really settled into it, it was tough to leave.

But I wanted to give singing a go before it was too late. I was working in a club in Berlin and I saw this amazing Bruel and Kurt Well singer, Agnes Bernelle, and she was in her seventies when she performed.

Cabaret allows you to tell stories and capture it; it helped me get over my fear of not being trained.”

The final push was a bit more forceful: after being involved in a car accident and “having to learn to walk and use my hands again”, she realised it was now or never.

Besides her acclaimed performances, she is also noted for her choice of material.

“As I went on, I thought, why is all the dark stuff like Waits, Cave and Bruel always

male? I like a laugh, but I’m more drawn to the melancholy stuff and especially the cathartic songs. You have to make it personal so that the audience believes you, you have to find a song you love and then find a way of making it your own, singing it to yourself until it makes sense for you to perform it. I do a bit more Radiohead and Bowie stuff in the new show – I think the band also likes getting to play some new stuff! – because there is theatre there; and Cave and Waits really are the modern storytellers. I could be obsessed with them and Bruel for the rest of my life.”

Costume is also key: she may be groomed and glam in the press shots, but it’s not just used for show. “I might start out looking groomed, then let my hair down, maybe get wine stains on my dress…different songs can call for a femme fatale or a drunkard.”

She may look back in time for some of her songs and style, but she is happy exactly where she is right now: “I love the clothes and the beauty of the 1940’s, but now you can be whatever you want as a woman, which you couldn’t back then. And I feel very lucky where I am now. It’s nice, as well, that we can so easily cross countries; we can relate to each other a little better now, I think.”

And there’s still room for some soul searching in our gig venues and CD collections: Following the release of his new album Man on the Roof, Stephen Fretwell played the Sugar Club on 28 October and the new album is garnering excellent reviews. After the success of Magpie, his first record, he went to New York and ended up staying longer than he had planned: “I had done a tour of the West Coast with Feist and initially went to New

York just for two weeks to hang out. It’s a great place and it kind of swallows you whole; I liked it so I stayed around!”

Fans of his music include Cameron Crowe, who sent him a vinyl pressing of the Easy Riders soundtrack. Fretwell admits he is a vinyl lover: “I’ve always collected vinyl, I’m a bit of a vinyl freak actually!” and holds to his belief that even with the rise of digital music monoliths, the faithful record will stay around. “If anything, I think it makes vinyl more important”.

Dominic Savage, another filmmaker fan of the artist, featured his music in his film Love+Hate; given the choice of any other film to be featured on, Fretwell keeps it interesting with Saturday Night, Sunday Morning.

The current album was produced by Eli Janney, who brought a refreshingly frank opinion buffer to Fretwell’s work in an industry that is usually filled with yes men: “A lot of the time people will tell you nice things about your music when they really think differently, you especially need your producer to be honest with you. Eli is great: he’ll rip up your music and make you do new things with it that you never would have thought of. He’s a really brilliant producer and a lovely man as well.”

Fretwell himself is also refreshingly frank about the title of his new and acclaimed album. “A lot of people have said it sounds like this sort of perverse suicidal thing, but it’s not that at all! A friend’s father had the phrase ‘Man on the Roof’ on a bracelet around his wrist, and when I asked him about it he said it was to do with Westerns – there’s always a man on the roof who either gets shot or shoots loads of people.

But he’s always there, in every film.”

FASHIONP10

The Arts Block in focus Structured Coat

ears: Tara Masterson w Jacket - Oasis NY Bag - Century 21, Jeans - All-Saints Store whore of?

All-Saints, Topshop Winter Wish list: s from Brown leather boot Office Skinny jeans

r

Casual Glamou

ears: Sheila Corballis w Jacket - H&M gle Jeans - American Ea Boots - Oasis Store whore of?

Oasis Topshop nts!) (for student discou Winter Wish list: Chunky cardigan Wool-mix coat.

Belted Knitware

Aisling Crowe wears: Cardigan - H&M Wool Top - Topshop Jeans - Sam and Lili Belt - A-Wear Store whore of?

Topshop H&M TK Maxx Winter Wish list: Round toe leather boots

Pop Punk

Mieke Van Embden wears: Jacket - Wrangler T-shirt - Topshop Belt - A-Wear Mini-skirt - Topshop Store whore of?

A-wear Winter Wish list: Stack heels Black leather bomber jacket Oversized knit.

Words & photos: Ciarán Durkin Trendy Trenc h

Fionnula Mc G eogh wears: Purple Trench - Penneys Jeans - Topsho p Boots - Topsty le Dundalk (last year) Bag - A-Wear Store Whore of ?

Penney’s all th e way!

Winter Wish li st: Pencil skirt Structured bodi ce pencil dress.

Red patent leat her peep-toe shoes.

P11FASHION

The new Irish male

P

aul Costello, in an interview in the late 1990’s, is reported to have said that the Irish woman was not fashion forward. There was no mention of men, perhaps because in the 1990’s Irish men were merely large vertical objects usually relied upon to earn cash and generally good with spider-from-bath removal, the rubbish, and some light lawn-mowing. There was certainly no mention of bags, shoes and accessories when it came to the Irish male.

Surely I am not the only one who has noticed the new wave of cute, trend conscious, well-groomed men in Dublin? It seems that since I have come back to the city after a summer away that things have changed dramatically. There is an abundance of men walking around who have obviously put in some gym time, discovered the fascinating world of Boots products and have, at the very least, a passing knowledge of what’s hot (and what’s not!).

Perhaps with the added colourful diversity brought on by the influx of non-nationals, new-nationals, foreign-nationals or any other current buzz word used to de-

scribe those who do not have pale Irish skin, less than smouldering looks and a slightly red tint to their beard. The cultural melting pot has certainly started to simmer and the Irish male is being shamed or shunted into taking action in the style stakes.

Although men have never been au fait when it comes to shopping, it’s surprisingly easy for them to do so. Sizes are much easier to sort through and a huge variety of cheap and chic gear is available on the high street these days. The new Topman store on Grafton Street is testament to the new market that has developed and the obvious interest in men’s fashion in Dublin. River Island, H&M, Burton, Urban Outfitters, BT2, Zara all provide top-notch high-street adaptations of the seasonal trends.

The scouring of menswear shops in Dublin has been done for decades, however, by well-meaning mammies and mortified girlfriends on behalf of the Irish male and sometimes this can lead to a monotonous and dull wardrobe. Just like with their female counterpart, the only way to make high-street retail look backstage- at- Paris-

fashion- week is to accessorise; this is one of the main things which strikes me to have changed in Dublin. I remember a time not so long ago when wearing a scarf was a dangerous thing to do unless you were safely in the confines of Trinity College or Grafton street shopping district. Men have started going all out when it comes to accessories, which, of course, shows a definite interest in what they “throw” on in the morning and even some personal style and flair, which, let’s face it, has been sadly lacking about the Irish male compared to some of our European neighbours.

It’s amazing to think that in the space of a year, men in Dublin have started having their hair styled in a salon, not just cut in a barber’s, and you would have to be really blind not to have noticed that massive increase in bleach, highlights, colours and styles which are being donned by men from all walks of life and social backgrounds.

Fashion may be class, or at least incomebased, but style is not. This concept rings true for students also. You don’t need to have the disposable income of the princess of Monaco to look good. You don’t need to

sell your soul to a Fashionista a la Ugly Betty to keep cutting edge. Accessories and personal detail can make an outfit from Topman worthy of the after-show parties in the Soho Grande (and I have personal proof of that). Bags, shoes, rings, watches, bracelets, necklaces, scarves, belts, cuff links, shades, gloves, hair and even makeup, dare I say it, can all add to a man’s personal charm, style and most importantly, confidence. In short there is absolutely no excuse anymore for ugly shoes, sports jerseys and ill-fitting jeans.

Good luck to a man who has taken at least some of these wonderfully exciting details to heart, many already have which is a many splendid thing for the rest of the country. For those of you who haven’t, stop letting you ma buy your clothes, grow a pair, cut your hair, explore the brave new world of male grooming products, invest in a manbag, a scarf, or, at the very least, a cool belt this winter. Baby steps, I realise, are what is needed here, but, for God’s sake, get your finger out, you’re letting the side down!

Ciaran Durkin

Words: Ciaran Durkin

Belt Up! The saving grace of the student wardrobe has always been accessories, and we all love accessories: sure, who doesn’t?

As one of the hottest trends this autumn/winter is the emphasised waistline, belts are the number one accessory of the moment.

Belts are also a wonderful way of adding instant glamour to a plain shift dress, a large t-shirt, an oversized knit or even a tired old fitted blazer. As students we always have to think budget and accessories, be they old or new, are a cheerful way of adding a little personal pizzazz to a outfit that cost you less than nothing at your favourite bargain high-street haunt.

The best thing about the current trend is that virtually anything goes. All shapes, sizes, colours and textures are viable options. Leather with buckles looks great with a simple and otherwise plain knit cardigan or jumper. Try mixing textures, such as patent leather with a black wool coat. Or to brighten you

up on a drab winter’s morning, add a splash of pure colour in the form of a waistband. Moving from day to night has never been easier, with the large cinched belt adding super feminine glamour to any silhouette.

Jazz it up a little with some sparkles, jewels or metallics, which gives a shockingly simple catwalk chic look to your old LBD. Also for the budget-conscious student, the trend of accessories such as belts, bags, shoes, jewellery, scarves, etc can be made even more accessible if a little ingenuity is used. Dig through your mother’s wardrobe and steal her belts from the 70’s and 80’s, many of which will look amazing with the current trends, or peruse the second hand stores for other such items which can be used to make something cheap and boring into something so personal and stylish, it’s almost haute couture.

BOOKSP12 Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway

The Conquest of Happiness

How Proust Can Change Your Life

Author: Susan Jeffers

Author: Bertrand Russell

Author: Alain De Botton

Price: €9.80

Price: €15.18

Price: €12.14

Publisher: Arrow Books

Publisher: Routledge

Publisher: Pan Macmillan

“What is stopping you being the person you want to be and living your life the way you want to live it?” Susan Jeffers thinks she has the answer. With the stated aim of enabling even the mousiest of readers to turn their fear and indecision into “confidence and action”, Dr Jeffers, armed with a PhD in psychology and one too many personal anecdotes, takes you step by step through the difficult process of conquering not fear but FEAR, that thing which runs riot with our relationships and stops us landing the corner office. This isn’t life-changing stuff by any means, but if you’re prone to selfdoubt (or self-analysis) there’s much to chew on here.

The Conquest of Happiness seems, at first glance, like an embarrassingly sensible book. In the role of a wizened old gardener of the soul, Russell weeds out the chief causes of man’s unhappiness (envy, mostly) and recommends heat and light for all those things which bring peace and harmony into our lives (work, hobbies, and something he bizarrely calls “zest”). Though admittedly this is Russell’s philosophical potboiler, written with the sole aim of financial gain, he’s here in top Russellian form: stating the downright obvious, because it really does need to be stated.

Ironically, the appeal of De Botton’s surprisingly readable third book lies in its time-saving potential: read it and recover the months and months you would have spent ploughing through Proust’s 3000-page shelve-filler, In Search of Lost Time. Having carefully thumbed his way through the Search, extracting only the most rarified and radiant truths of human existence, De Botton provides us with answers to those age old questions such as “How to Suffer Successfully” and “How to Be Happy In Love”. A very useful reference guide indeed.

Gay literotica

E

Pádraic Lamb reviews Edmund White’s Hotel de Dream.

dmund White has always been categorised as a gay writer, and with good reason: from his autobiographical troika of novels beginning with A Boy’s Own Story, through his foray into biography (Genet) to this new work Hotel de Dream, homosexuality, in particular his own, has been his “myth and theme”. The intelligence and fluency of his work has ensured him a place in the neat box marked “Gay/Literary”, but his Freudinspired obsession with sex and telling-all provokes passages of erotica found nowhere outside of the “Gay Literotica” box, a decidedly messy place. Unlike Clive James in his recent Cultural Amnesia, I am not one to primly sniff at certain homosexual libidos, but reading more than one White book a year –another pseudopsychological analysis of a promiscuous boy/man - would be a tiresome task.

Perhaps conscious of this view of mine, White’s latest novel, Hotel de Dream, is at first glance far from White’s well-worn path of the “gay novel”. Instead he is following the recent trail of writerrecreations, such as Colm Toibín’s The Master and David Lodge’s Author, Author (Bizarrely, Henry James seems to dominate this genre). It tells the story of an American novelist previously unknown to me, Stephen Crane, resident in England and at

death’s door. His friends and visitors are distinguished literary folk and these cameos provide some humour: Joseph Conrad, a latecomer to English, pronounced the final “e” in “those” and “these”; and the man himself, Henry James, is much-maligned as “closeted” with his “eunuch’s sly attitudinizing” and for his “egotistical exercise[s]” in eloquence. Acclaimed but penniless, Crane is dictating his last work, The O’Ruddy, a sure bestseller, before he dies so as to provide for his “wife” Cora, former madam of the Hotel de Dream. So far, so unhomosexual (except the belittled James).

The novel is set in 1898, three years after the Oscar Wilde trial, as we are told.

“Inversion” is the medical term applied to modern-day “homosexuality” and White successfully shows the extent to which “inverts” were social outcasts, even with the artistic set, with “abomination” a buzzword. Writing about inverts would certainly end a writer’s career, but as a dying man, Crane can safely disregard this.

Instead of finishing his safe, sure-fire success adventure-story, The O’Ruddy, Crane chooses to dictate a controversial, even – given the fate of Wilde - dangerous new novel, The Painted Boy. The young child who arrives in the metropolis, innocent (“pure body”) but scarred, quickly falling into a sexual

underworld, is not a new plot; that the child is a boy named Elliot and the underworld a homosexual one provides the vehicle for White, through Crane, to do what he has always done: tickle the homosexual underbelly for a story.

He sets about it, sowing doubt about Crane’s past in interweaving the main narrative with the dictated novel-within-anovel, with Crane and Elliott characters in both.

We wonder about the true relationship between Crane – for the age peculiarly interested in the homosexual world - and Elliott, the ever-ready boyprostitute, especially when Elliott of The Painted Boy is taken up by an older married man, Theodore. Was the real Crane’s decision to turn his back on the conventional adventure novel in favour of the risqué boy-whore novel symbolic?

How meaningful are the constant references to Wilde, a married man? What precisely do Theodore and Elliott do together?

Prurience, then, is what keeps the reader interested.

As if acknowledging his own weaknesses, White, ironically, has one character say to Crane “You were never much good in catching women; I suppose an invert story was inevitable.” White, after a lifetime of men, captures the detail of the male body in the youthful beauty of Elliott, “the falling drops of vertebrae that

descended from his nape to his coccyx, his pores chamois-small (except around the nose, where they were inflamed around the nostrils)”. That women never incite such loving description is forgivable, but tokenism such as “her legs looked round and tidily formed” in a very talented writer of the physical, looks careless and ridiculous in the context of such close descriptions of men.

Ultimately the salacious curiosity of the reader withers and fades; we realise that rather than one novel of two parts, White has constructed two half-novels, neither of which is fully satisfying. His seeming compulsion to write “gay novels” has blighted the book he wanted to write about Stephen Crane; his latest gay novel has been blighted by his wish to write a “Stephen Crane novel”.

As Crane draws towards death, Theodore and Elliott’s happiness is threatened. In The Painted Boy section, an overwrought case for tragedy is made, but with the ineffably mundane and mediocre Theodore as Great Man, the reader is neither relieved nor disappointed with the dénouement.

The ending of the novel proper, though clever, fails to happily marry the two half-novels – whether they are gay or not. And “sly attitudinizing” is what makes Henry James The Master.

P13BOOKS

An Israeli soldier watches Palestinian children playing.Hold Everything Dear is described as an often-indulgent paean to the impoverished and powerless Palestinians. Photo: Robert Croma

Hold Everything Dear: Dispatches on survival and resistance Kevin Breathnach reviews the eye-opening book by John Berger.

I

t is testament to the conservatism of the modern university’s studentbody that, should a student happen to have come across the softspoken, yet radical voice of one John Berger, it is more than likely that this student is a student of art history while, à la fois, it is less than likely that this student will have read much more than 100 of his soporifically composed pages. Mr Berger has been teaching students how to read images with the smug, paranoid eye of a leftist for as long as Noam Chomsky has been teaching them to read the mainstream newspapers with that same eye.

Nevertheless, he remains an important figure, regardless of one’s outlook. Though there is a school of thought (of which I consider myself a tentative member) that criticises Ways of Seeing for its often clichéd take on art as well as advertising, it nonetheless remains a seminal modern text.

It’s an important book because it condenses

(and thereby disseminates) years of radical artistic theory into a very readable, very reasonable hundred pages or so. It is not perfect, but it is read.

Since Ways of Seeing’s publication in 1967, Mr. Berger has collected the Booker Prize for his quixotic G and, more laboriously, one would suspect, he has maintained his Marxism to, at the very least, the date of his latest publication’s composition. “I would like – simply as a story-teller – to add a few short remarks to the current debate”. Billed as a reaction to the iconic disasters of this young century, Hold Everything Dear is more accurately described as an often-indulgent paean to the impoverished, the powerless, the Palestinian. Mr Berger writes beautifully.

Of that there is no doubt. But he writes out of fashion, form and age. These are not essays like any I’m familiar with.

“Happiness is not something to be pursued”, propounds the author, “it is

“

Beautiful, really, but poets are granted an artistic license we would not want within our historian’s grasp. Hold Everything Dear brims with sweeping statements and anecdotal evidence. If this is discourse, I cry, give us footnotes

something met, an encounter. Most encounters, however, have a sequel; this is their promise”. At their worst, indeed, these essays resemble the writings of a classconscious mind-body-spirit author; at their extended best, though, they are the work of what Mr Berger himself, referring to Giorgio Bassani, names the half-poet, halfhistorian. “Sometimes”, for instance, “it seems to me that many of the greatest poems of the twentieth century - written by women as well as men - may be the most fraternal ever written. If so, this has nothing to do with political slogans. It applies to Rilke, who was apolitical; to Borges, who was reactionary; and to Hikmet, who was a life-long communist. Our century was one of unprecedented massacre, yet the future it imagined (and sometimes fought for) proposed fraternity. Very few earlier centuries made such a proposal.”

Beautiful, really, but poets are granted an artistic license we would not want within our historian’s grasp. Hold Everything Dear brims with sweeping statements and anecdotal evidence. If this is discourse, I cry, give us footnotes.

Early on, for instance, Mr Berger notes that, “since [Israel’s Wall] began to be built three years ago, there has been no significant reduction in the number of kamikaze attacks”. If not ignorant, Berger’s statement is disingenuous. Since the completion of the fence in the area Tulkarem and Qalqilyah in June 2003, there have been no successful attacks from those areas. In 2006, the number of Israeli civilians killed by Palestinians hit a low: only two Palestinian suicide bombers managed to sneak into Israel for attacks that killed eleven people. Even opponents of the wall grudgingly acknowledge that it has been effective in stopping bombers. Not John Berger.

It’s a shame, really, that this author – so concerned with the distortion of truth in the arts and the media – should avoid what are essentially inconvenient truths. For this is an eye-opening book which could be listed next to Steven Poole’s Unspeak as a valiant effort to reclaim the English language from the powers that be. “We have to reject the new tyranny’s discourse.

Its terms are crap. In the interminably repetitive speeches, announcements, press conferences and threats, the recurrent themes are: Democracy, Justice, Human Rights, Terrorism”. That these words have been rendered meaningless through overuse is exactly right. But, at the same time, Mr. Berger might do well to realise that, with his help, the word “tyranny” is becoming meaningless as fast as his catalogued terms.

Even to the most conservative reader, Hold Everything Dear is, if nothing else, aesthetically gratifying. But, though often overly romantic and overtly disingenuous, Hold Everything Dear is not without political or philosophical value.

“Perspective makes the single eye the centre of the visible world”, says Mr Berger in Ways of Seeing. Forty years on, his is perspective offering an enviable, if not always equitable, view of the world.

THEATREP14

Olwen Fouéré and Barbara Brennan in the Abbey’s production of Marina Carr’s Woman and Scarecrow, directed by Selina Cartmell at the Peacock .

Photo: Ros Kavanagh

A Murder of Crows Frances Beatty reviews Marina Carr's new play Woman and Scarecrow, which was played at The Peacock as part of the Dublin Theatre Festival.

M

arina Carr’s most recent offering, Woman and Scarecrow, boasts a premise that makes one wince. Reaching through the millennia Carr reexamines a central teaching of tragic drama – that “the point of living is preparing to die”. There are certainly no false pretences here; Carr’s Woman is pinned to her deathbed as ‘“Prometheus pinioned to the rock”.

Fear not, if you were about to be moved by the terminal struggle of the individual in the face of death, Carr reassures us that woman has moulded her own premature extinction by committing “the greatest sin of all”, refusing to be happy.

The trouble is that Carr, famed for her re-workings of classical Greek tragedies in

her earlier plays such as By the Bog of Cats and Ariel, has lost sight of the guiding principle of Greek civilisation: moderation.

Having alienated our sympathy from the plight of Woman, Carr seeks to regain our emotional interest with an excess of ‘big speech’ moments.

Occasionally these speeches do grapple with profundities of the human condition, questioning the motivation of a woman who is dying from “spite” and bitterness in the belief that happiness is a debt the world owes her. Disappointingly these moments are often buried in adolescent dialogue between woman and her alter-ego Scarecrow.

The interchange between these two is relied upon to provide the exposition, but, since each is privy to the other’s innermost thoughts, there is no hiding the fact that explanations are solely for the benefit of the

audience.

Consequently these conversations can sound rather awkward.

Admittedly this is a fantasy scenario, enabled by Carr’s combination of myth and magical realism, but one can’t help wishing that the fantasy extended to an absence of late nineteenth century Russian novelists.

A character cannot be described as looking like a “Siberian convict”, but must be a “Siberian convict from a Dostovesky novel”.

In a less smugly literate play, Selina Cartmell’s direction might seem rather heavy-handed, but it is something of a relief that, for the majority of the performance, the visual symbolism was reduced to the crudities of colour: yellow representing happiness, white for a woman who reaches the end of her life with “nothing to confess” and black representing death. This is not to underestimate the impact of a simplistic

visual style. The heralding of death by a deluge of black crow feathers was a terrifying moment and the use of cinematic effect to realise woman’s one instance of self-worth, as a child dressed in her mother’s last gift to her of a red hat and coat, was genuinely moving. Cartmell’s sensory approach made the couple of occasions when the direction referenced the literary allusions of the script all the more striking; this achieved greatest poignancy in the play’s final tableau echoing Michelangelo’s Pieta.

The most impressive aspect of this production was the acting. Though the script regularly descends into a postfeminist, menstrual rant about the feckless ways of men, the acting does not follow suit by slipping into melodrama, but instead errs on the side of moderation. Perhaps the cast know their classics better than Carr herself?

P15THEATRE

Fragments on fragments Peter Brook directed six short plays in this year’s Dublin Theatre Festival. Our writers evaluate the effect.

As part of the theatre festival, Peter Brook and his company from the Théatre des Bouffes du Nord brought Dublin six short plays – five late dramatic texts by Beckett Fragments and The Grand Inquisitor, a transposition from page to stage of a scene from The Brothers Karamazov. Talking in the Samuel Beckett theatre, Brook described his vision of theatre as a celebration of light and darkness. He emphasised the embedded radiance to be found in Beckett’s writing, and stressed the paradigmatic movement from darkness to mysterious light in the austere Irish playwright’s work as a fundamental influence for him as a director. Below, four students bear witness to Brook’s shards of Jacques Testard: The Grand Inquisitor is a Ivan as an absent narrator and the austere monologue adapted by Marie-Hélène figure of the Inquisitor, Myers embarks on mystic light: Estienne from a scene in Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Originally it was a parable told by Ivan, a convinced atheist, Tara Robinson: Beckett can be a puzzle to read and difficult to watch. However, Peter to his brother Alyosha, a novice in the local Brook’s group of Beckett’s short plays removed all the anxieties that can surround some monastery and favourite of mystical elder of Beckett’s later works and triumphed as a piece of theatre divided, but working as a Zosima. In this most important of passages whole to bring to life the language, humour, visual impact and subtlety of Beckett so often within the novel, Ivan exposes his lost in dreary productions. The first fragment was Rough for Theatre I but the ensemble rationalist and nihilistic views through an of the two male actors, their movement, haracterisation and delivery, showed that the piece imagined poem portraying the return of was anything but roughly dramatised. Then Rockaby, the script of which plays with scraps Christ on earth in fifteenth century Seville of a story but which Kathryn Hunter held together – as they should be – with a simplicity during the Inquisition. Through his and vocal acuteness rarely so perfectly balanced. Act Without Words II made penny- parable’s conceit of Jesus face to face with dropping sense of Beckett’s “point” which pokes the characters from the flies and finally the Grand Inquisitor, Ivan demonstrates Come and Go rounded off the set with the three cast members astutely combining Beckett’s why he has rejected the world of God; a dark and despairing world with understated comedy and warmth. Many have asked of world built on suffering, where men are Brook “why Beckett?” but I hardly think it’s necessary. When an outstanding playwright only redeemed by freely choosing the good and a theatrical genius combine, the effect is a joy to watch and such questions are futile: path. This choice, he claims, has excluded the majority of humanity from redemption.

Beckett should be enjoyed, not puzzled over, and Brook evidently understands this.

Thus the Inquisitor explains why the Church has succumbed to temptation and Rahul Bery: At some point during Rough for Theatre, the first “dramaticule” of the wants to lead humankind away from the evening, a cripple asks a blind man why he doesn’t just kill himself, to which he replies, dilemma of free choice and into ignorance almost passionately “Because I’m not unhappy enough”. Negative affirmations like this and bliss, for few can stand the burden of one are not uncommon in Beckett’s work; Molloy admits to knowing little about death, free will.

Estienne’s adaptation, skilfully except that it is, apparently, a state of being even more horrendous than life. There is directed by legendary British director Peter something heroic about such statements, brutally honest, arrived at only by considering the Brook, is a faithful rendition of profundities of the void, even in spite of the void. If art is anything, it is the opposite of Dostoyevsky’s work, highlighting the nothingness. On stage this is confirmed by Beckett’s love of movement and his eversignificance of The Grand Inquisitor as a present humour, which combine to bring out what I can only see as Sam’s cautious but philosophical and religious treatise in its undeniable faith in life. own right, and its relevance to modern society. Brook stages Ivan’s parable, by Paddy Langley:…at the end, close of a long day, the unbearable light of evening, suffice placing the Grand Inquisitor (Bruce Myers) to see by, put forth a figure – so – close of a long…far – eyes clamped to impenetrable opposite the solemnly mute figure of Christ (Joachim Zuber). Playing both the unnamed other…close of a long day, suffice to…a fifth…a good…play!...

a long monologue, replete with anxious moments of fervour and abrupt changes of tone. In contrast, Christ sits absolutely still, staring calmly at the troubled speaker philosophising in his midst. Through his simple production, Brook succeeds in constructing tension which erupts abruptly when Christ gently places a kiss on the Inquisitor’s lips. This last scene mirrors the ambiguity Dostoyevsky sought in his novel.

The kiss does not absolve the Inquisitor, but its effect on him is unexplained as he leaves the stage doubtful of his own views.

Theatrically, The Grand Inquisitor is powerful. Brook’s mise-en-scène faithfully renders Dostoyevsky’s exploration of truth and leaves the audience to decide for them selves. Bruce Myers gives a thoughtful performance, carefully constructed while Zuber’s intensity in the final moments adds a mystical quality to the whole affair. A worthwhile moment spent in the theatre, although the entrance fee (€25) may have deterred amateurs in search of an introduction to Brook’s work. Isn’t the point of a festival to promote such events to the wider public and raise interest in theatre by making it accessible to all? It seems that only those in the know and in the money were able to witness the existential dilemmas expounded at the Tivoli Theatre and that is a shame. Brook once again demonstrated the pre-eminent importance of content over form, and no doubt the lucky few appreciated this.

ARTP16 Alice Maher’s exhibition The Night Garden at the Royal Hibernian Academy. Photo: Donal Murphy of Barry Mason Photography

A scare for Halloween Words: Anni Dai

T

his was the first “modern” art exhibition that this writer had been to, so I was a little unsure as to what to expect. The Royal Hibernian’s three concurrently running exhibitions are a mixture of medias, intentions and effects, enough to intimidate even the most involved of art viewers. Before even setting foot into the first gallery, the audience is welcomed by a chorus of jumbled female voices. The antechamber that ushered me towards the gallery contained photographic images of disrobing female bodies, which would have normally brought a smirk to this writer’s face, but for the voices which were eerily enticing.

What first struck me, visually, about the room was the number of screens. There were five in total, all with head-shot videos of who appeared to be the same woman.

They all conveyed different emotions ranging from two T.V.s facing each other both uttering “I love you” repeatedly to a slightly disturbing video of a woman who appeared to be, mentally, in pain, biting her own hand. This was particularly effective as she did not speak a word, merely grunted. The fact that she didn’t use any words to convey her emotions made her the most haunt-

ing character of all, although the one incessantly repeating “Byegood” gave her a good run for her money.

The centrepiece was a particular favourite of this writer, a grand table with a rich, white, cascading tablecloth and an assortment of what appeared to be delicious treats. They resembled the tempting, plastic cupcakes in the window of “Pink” on Dawson Street; however, upon closer inspection, there was something not quite right about them. The glistening jellies had fossilised insects within them and the burntout candlesticks hid the fact that mice had invaded this table. A butterfly was helping itself to some ice cream and, by this stage, I’d lost my appetite. The surrealist nature of the table, contrasting beauty and perfection with such oddity somehow made the piece seem more appealing and accessible.

The concept of the exhibit was simple, but it was poignant enough to send chills down this writer’s spine. It cleverly portrays the extremes of female beauty and emotion. The longer I stayed, the creepier the room became, especially when the “Byegood” woman had begun to sob. Call it soppy, weird, feminist, crap, call it what you will, but I’d call it evocative.

Moving on upstairs, the next gallery

contained a collection of charcoal paintings.

Each had an Aztec feel with a modern twist and symmetrical resemblances to Escher paintings. They gave the audience a break from the sinister feeling from the exhibition downstairs. The decorative motifs are depictions of sin and are striking and easy on the eye, a contrast to their subject matter, although the smudges within the motifs give the viewer a hint as to the nature of the artworks. There are sketches that accompany the motifs, which are certainly much more graphic their charcoal counterparts.

While they are mythical in nature, due to their sexual and violent content are definitely not something to recommend to a five year old.

The final exhibition contained two film pieces by the Finnish artist, Tykka.

Like the “…nothing without a woman.” exhibition, the audience are eased into these audio-visual pieces by a series of photographic images. These contain a jumble of body parts underwater playing a “violent underwater rugby game.”

Upon entering the screening room, you automatically feel a sense of unease, mainly due to classic horror-movie music.

You realise the significance of the underwater images, as they are supposed to rep-

resent the struggle of the act of survival in unnatural surrounds.

I came out feeling slightly on edge.

That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

A friend of mine mentioned that the worst piece of art leaves you feeling nothing towards it. One extreme feeling or another, at least – job done. This exhibition is recommendable to all, even those art cynics out there, if just to be unsettled out by it.

To get the best “horror movie” experience out of the exhibition, go alone on a dark and cold day, spend at least ten minutes in the Ashford Gallery, watch both films upstairs and go to your next destination via all the dodgiest alleyways.

Complain to the art editor if you don’t feel completely petrified after that!

ASHFORD GALLERY : ‘…nothing without a woman.’

Curated by Mark St. John Ellis.

By a collective group of art students.

Until 1 November 2007 Alice Maher, The Night Garden Until 28 October 2007 Zoo and the Cave Trilogy, By Salla Tykka Until 28th October 2007

P17ART

A glamourous critique of capitalist culture and the undisputed King of Pop Art. Words: Katarzyna Murphy

P

op Art is a restless, nervous and utterly complex movement in the history of art and, frankly, far more multifaceted than we give it credit for. Historical distance is a natural advantage when one investigates any work of art, as time unfolds, we develop and appreciate a deeper anthropological awareness of the conditions in which a work was produced and, in effect, conditioned. It is fair enough to state that “art” assumes a particular role depending on the culture that produces it. If we look to Andy Warhol, and what Pop Art is, his work illustrates an avant-garde of his epoch that repudiated a previous tradition, it rebelled and changed the face of art history once again, giving birth to the “modern era”. Andy Warhol is placed staunchly in this elusive art bracket. People would have you believe that Warhol is the figurehead of the modernist movement. This in turn begs the question, what indeed is modernism?

The reverberations of such a question, however, are beyond the confines of this review.

After seeing his exhibition in Edinburgh “Andy Warhol: A Celebration of Life and Death” over the summer, a glaring fact of Warhol’s work is how he transcends the classical boundaries of what constitutes “good/bad” art, and what constitutes “art” itself and, in doing so, becomes a “modern” artist. His work eliminates the traditional and established distinction between “high” and “low” art by elevating the depiction of mere Brillo-pad boxes and Campbell Soup cans to the same stature and status that would once have been attributed to the portrait of a king. He simply supersizes them and sticks them in an art gallery and proclaims it as art of the time. We present day people declare it genius, visionary, bold.

Which indeed it was, but it skips the actuality that he was, in fact, holding a mirror to the society he lived in. The bitter grip of soulless consumerism as the people’s religion of the latter twentieth century is conveyed to the viewer through the dedication of a whole room to an arrangement of giant Brillo-boxes on the floor and by the mammoth silk-screen print portraits of popular culture icons. We all know who they are, visualise the varieties of Marilyns, Jackies, Debbies and Elvises in their luminous, ostentatious and

“

During the 1960’s, I think, people forgot what emotions were supposed to be.

And I don’t think they’ve ever remembered.

”

brash colours. Deliberate or not, these images have been embedded into our collective consciousness and are claimed to epitomize what Pop Art is and are universally accepted as such.

His adaptation of comic-strip techniques and billboard painting practices serves to highlight the gaudy, self-confident capabilities of commercial and consumer advertising. He undertakes the aesthetic project of publicizing both the effect and role played by mass media on society consciousness in a rapidly changing industrial culture. Within this mode of superficial representation, he deliberately experiments with the socially explicit theme of human tragedy in a money-ridden world. As two sides of the same coin, life and death are illustrated equally, side by side. The Marilyn Monroe series is the most extravagant and popular of them all. Warhol toys with the volatile endeavour of illustrating Monroe’s face in the flat, fake,

sham commercial way she would have been conveyed around the world on magazine cover after magazine cover, but deep within the Marilyn Diptych composed of 25 coloured Marilyns on the left are paired with 25 in black and white on the right, a dark and sinister tone emerges. The realisation sets in that, in fact, though colourfully presented with the traditional, glamorous, enchanting portrayal of an icon, her manipulated public image is juxtaposed alongside sad monochrome mirror images that push us to look beneath the slightly distorted, blurred and smeared print surface to a tragic and true world below.

The overriding feeling of alienation lingers poignantly beneath the guise of the flamboyant, constantly enticing the viewer closer and closer to the core of the subject. It also reflects Warhol’s personal detachment from his subjects, subjects he chose to represent as the manifestation of an emotionally disconnected twentieth century culture.

Their composition as blatant two dimensional images and the role of repetition is integral to the power and intensity these w o r k s carry.

EDIBLESP18

Dinner, anyone?

Our guide to creating the perfect dinner party.

Words: Beth Armstrong The life of a student can hardly be described as sophisticated. To go to the pub? To go out? - These decisions normally fulfill our social life. However, a new trend is in town - the dinner party. No longer just an option for the young professionals out there, the dinner party is an opportunity to have craic, food and a few drinks without leaving the comfort of your own home. Swanky as it sounds, the height of so-phis-ti-cation is available on a student budget, as long as you play your cards right!

To be a charming hostess (or host) a few guidelines are necessary...

1) The Guests: The vital ingredient for a dinner party, without them you’re scuppered. The most important rule when it comes to guests is don’t invite too many - set your limit, be it a table for four, six or eight and don’t invite every last person you see in the Arts Building. A dinner party is exclusive, mainly because you’re paying for everyone to eat and, let’s be honest, most of us aren’t that loaded! The main role for a guest is to be in awe of your dinner.

Even if you do hate the food, be grateful and oooh and ahh. And bring wine, dessert or - if you want to splash out - both.

2) The Menu: Nigella or Jamie need not apply - all that is necessary is a simple recipe you’ve doubtlessly cooked for yourself a good few many times. Be it spagetti bolognese, a stirfry or even a good oldfashioned roast - multiply your ingredients by however many guests you’re having and voila! If you want to go all out and have a starter, the cheats way out is a caesar salad a la Marks & Spencers. Bread is also swanky. Some rolls and butter should make the table look nice and full. Hopefully your guests will be kind enough to bring dessert, though if your dinner party is in honour of someone’s birthday, cake is the way to go, but make sure you’re got candles and matches to hand! A menu to be proud of.

3) The Drinks: Although a polite guest will bring a bottle, it makes sense to have something up your sleeve to start the night. Pre-dinner is traditionally cocktail hour, so get a-mixing and a-shaking to impress your friends. Alternatively if this is too much effort, stick to the old rule - red wine for red meat, white wine for chicken, fish and pasta. Mix it up a little with a bottle of rose, or else go to Spar and buy whatever costs five euros. The hostess with the mostest makes sure everyone is topped up - especially if you’re worried about the food. If everyone is sufficiently tipsy, they won’t really notice your culinary efforts, but you will definately get lots of compliments on your endeavours!

The perfect dinner party also needs the perfect refreshments Photo: Diego Sevilla Ruiz

4) The Table: This should be the least of your worries. Make sure you have a table big enough for everyone to eat around and you’re set. You should also have enough plates for everyone to eat from, enough cutlery and glasses. No fear, however, if this isn’t the case.

Mismatch bowls and plates, use mugs to drink from and get your guests to bring a few extra knives and forks. It may not be classy, but let’s not get away with ourselves - we still are students.

Appropriate mood-lighting (candles stuck in wine bottles are a romantic Italian touch) and you’re all set to go.

Follow these easy guidelines and a dinner party is bound to impress. Change it around a bit, even – who says you actually have to cook? Takeaway is another option – have everyone bring menus and make a massive order. Or theme your dinner party – Mexican say, with fajitas and tequila or Spanish, with tapas and sangria. Be warned, however, that it is imperative to follow the golden rule – shotgun immediately that you’re not doing the washing up!!

A Coup for the Co-op The theory “you are what you eat” has never been so prevalent as in today’s society. As a result of Jamie Oliver’s assault on school dinners and the mass removal of additives and artificial flavourings from items on supermarket shelves, being organic has never been so in vogue. As such, it is the perfect time for the Dublin Food Co-operative to launch itself in new premises in Newmarket, D8.

Set up in 1983 with environmental issues at its core, the Co-Op aims to provide fresh, locally grown organic food at competitive prices.

Selling a range of products market-style, such as fruit and veg, cheese and eggs and even organic wine, the co-op is based on the principle that it is better to shop locally than through a commercial, profit-oriented business. To that end, unlike a market, it is run through a system of members who, in turn for carrying out various jobs such as stocking up to administrative work, decorating and maintenance (which only take a few hours every couple of weeks), receive discounts on their shopping bills. For penny-counting students, it is ideal! However, non-members can still access the culinary delights by paying a two euros entrance fee. The Co-op has been providing high quality whole and organic foods and related products to its members for over twenty years – so it’s not just following the current trend of health consciousness! Pop in and have a look on market days Thursday afternoon 14.00 to 20.00 or Saturdays 9.30 to 16.30, you can sign up as a member there.

Beth Armstrong Dublin Food Co-op: No 12 Newmarket, Cork Street. www.dublinfoodcoop.com

P19EDIBLES

Photo: Martin McKenna

REVIEW: Avoca Words: Bairbre O’Brien There are days when the arts block or Hamilton cafés just won’t cut it, and the trek across the cobbles to the Buttery seems too treacherous for those new shoes. The café downstairs in Avoca on Suffolk Street has long been viewed as a bastion of baked goods by Trinity students and the nattering classes. A preliminary word of warning: go at off-peak hours as these ladies-who-lunch take no prisoners when it comes to nabbing the best (and by best I mean only) seats in the house.

On my last visit I enjoyed the spicy pumpkin soup served with a chunky slice of homemade brown bread. This seasonal treat cost €4.25 and was of generous proportions. It was washed down with some San Pellegrino lemonade. This mouth watering drink is difficult to source in Dublin and so €1.40 seemed reasonable in the circumstances.

My partner in gossip chose to sample the delights of the salad bar. It seems that the Avoca potato salad is worth its weight in gold … quite literally. A miniscule serving weighed in at a hefty €5.86, so unless you are being treated by a yummy mummy this is not advised for those on a budget.

We split a slice of carrot cake and later admitted to lusting after a second helping.

This delicious dessert is hailed by many as the best carrot cake in town. At €2.75 for a sizeable slice, this provides the ideal reward for handing in an essay or simply making it to a nine o’clock lecture.

It is perhaps tea and scones that are the most celebrated of all the Avoca pleasures.

A wide selection of teas cost €2.00 and cappuccino comes in at €2.50. The take away cups are not strictly reserved for taking away and hold more liquid than many nearby competitors. The mixed berry scone and the Rice Crispie square are the stand-out stars of the bakery counter. Look out for the box of six of the latter if you’re expecting guests for tea, or are feeling very kind to yourself.

There are a few downsides, the cramped seating being the most notable.

The lack of windows resulting from the underground location can be disconcerting.

Lastly, there is of course the unexpected danger that you go in for a scone and emerge later with fairy lights, a polka dot teapot and patterned wellies.

11-13 Suffolk Street, Dublin 2 Tel: 677 4215 www.avoca.ie

Mrs Fixit Going bust

“Smirting”

Dear Mrs Fixit, er apSince giving up smoking, I can no long ext of pret the er und proach attractive females e som est sugg you asking for a light. Can ga nicotine-free alternatives for ensnarin young hottie?

Un-illuminatedly yours, Adam Dear Adam, speakAs you clearly have no qualms about list the s, ence pret e ing to women under fals . ense imm is you r of options that I can offe a are you that end pret For example, why not n atio tific iden r thei garda and demand to see age, e, nam r thei to ss thus allowing you acce still; and possibly their address? Or, better s, club ide outs t wai pose as a taxi driver and er eith ehom ight stra then you can take them of her neit that it adm I to your house or theirs! and long a you ee rant these strategies will gua , I can lasting relationship, but apart from that the in them with s see no inherent problem short- term.

Gangst

a

Dear Mrs Fixit, I am a busty femal e working in a conf ined workplace with man y other males. Whi le I don’t go out of my way to flaunt my bo soms, sometimes they just, well, get themselves noticed. However, my workplace is predom inantly male and I can’t help but grow annoyed when my co-workers stare (o r grab) inappropria tely. Don’t get me wrong, I am friends with m y co-workers and am sure that their advances are well-intentione d, but all the same, I’d lik e to be able to wear a low-cut top and no t anticipate pre-pu bescent groping/comments.

Yours Heavingly, Belladonna Tuesda y.

Dear Belladonna, I sense that you’re conflicted. On one hand, you enjoy the attent ion from your colleagues, yet on the other hand you feel that this is compromisi ng you position in the workplace. Actually , hang on; it isn’t co mpromising your po sition in the workp lace.

You haven’t said th at you’re in danger of losing your job an d the comments ha ven’t impeded your capa city for work. All that’s wrong is that the pe ople that you work with can’t concentrate pr operly because of your massive jugs. You’ re stopping people from working properly.

You’re a hazard to the workplace! Either invest in some polo -necks and get on with yo ur job, or leave an d let everyone else get on with theirs.

Dear Mr s Fixit, Would p eople fin dm where is my histo e wittier if I spo ry le ke in rap becomes -speak?

“Holla D cture”, i.e. - “E awg, wh Yours, xcuse me ere my H miss, izzle cla Gangsta s s at, fo’ s No.1. ho’ no d oubt!”

Dear Ga ngsta No .1 I’m not even goin , g to dign cap in yo ify that w ur ass. ith a resp onse. No w, be go ne befor e I pop a

Have you got problems of your own that need fixing?

Email Mrs Fixit at mrs.fixit@trinitynews.ie

xkcd.com

no.332

“DURING THE 1960’S, I THINK, PEOPLE FORGOT WHAT EMOTIONS WERE SUPPOSED TO BE” ANDY WARHOL. ART P17

ENDNOTESP20

H T The Bagel Bar in Lincoln Place: It sells decent fruit at decent prices. 60c passionfruit anybody?

Wispas return! Rejoice one and all! On sale in the Student Union shop as of Freshers’ Week.

Credible Irish Films: Kings, Garage. Finally we can legitimately call the I.F.I. the ‘Irish Film Institute’ without turning our heads in shame.

Mini-Breaks: I know it’s only October, but let’s go away somewhere...

Tofu: Is there a more disappointing substance known to man?

Britney’s new album: Oh dear.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Chocolate Santas in Harvey Nichols. It’s not even coat weather- never mind Christmas- yet!

N T