Zahir vol.2 iss.1 December 2006 by The Zahir

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Friday 1st December, 2006

the zahir

Volume 2, Issue 1

the permanent virtue: defending the united nations rob perkins

ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: “every burned book enlightens the world”: literature and censorship katherine ebury cinema’s digital revolution marin hirschfeld “well shaped from the anvil”: seamus heaney’s district and circle james macdougald

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 Volume 2, Issue 1 Friday 1st December, 2006 thezahir.co.uk

contents literature 3 James Macdougald “Well shaped from the Anvil”: Seamus Heaney’s District and Circle 4 Katherine Ebury “Every burned booked enlightens the world”: Literature and Censorship in the Modern World 6 Will Clarke Slow Learner: The Paranoia of Thomas Pynchon 7 Kate Galloway The best of all possible worlds: Michel Houellebecq’s The Possibility of an Island 9 Tom Watson What Should I Read?

commentary 11 Matt Houghton The Burden of Professional Journalism 12 Sarah Roberts The Coquettes and Beaux of the 21st Century

politics 14 Toby Smith The Paradox of the 21st Century 15 Robin Jervis Land of milk and honey? 16 Peter Hagen Nice to EU 18 Rob Perkins “Uncritical lovers and unloving critics”: Defending the United Nations and the case for reform

arts 20 Marin Hirschfeld Cinema’s Digital Revolution 23 Moran Sheleg Art or Advertisement? Selling the dream, the Warhol way 25 Edward Fortes; Chris Samiullah Rhinos and Woolfs in the barn: DramaSoc’s year so far

music 28 David Mackie Prog on the barrow downs

the zahir the university of york’s literary magazine.

contributors will clarke is studying for a BA in English. katherine ebury is a third year English student who likes tea. She has “been a boggler ever”, whatever that means... edward fortes is happy to be mending bridges.

kate galloway is coy. peter hagen may well personify the phrase “pretentious pullover-wearing pillock”. He makes up for this by eating steaks and ice cream (though not simultaneously). marin hirschfeld sometimes sits for hours in front of a blank screen before writing. This sentence took four and a half days. matt houghton has the unique combination of brilliance and humility. robin jervis is a first year politics and economics student. james macdougald is an unscrupulous and heavily armed geopolitical wingnut of the kitchen sink variety. david mackie was born 500 years too late, likes Nick Cave and isn’t very good at verbal communication. rob perkins went to the UN and all he got was a lousy mug. sarah roberts is a second year English student with the wit of Oscar Wilde and a penchant for small things like sequins. chris samiullah is a first year English student. moran sheleg is a happy person, for she is a History of Art student and they are happy people. Except for those who aren’t. toby smith is terrified that he might write something which will make him look stupid ... whoops. tom watson is a student of modern literature, and loves lobsters. Editorial Team: Proofreaders: Kat Boyd, Josh Chambers, Katherine Ebury, Anna Frame, Rob Perkins, Sarah Roberts, Eleena Tan, Michelle Wheeler. Copyeditors: Kat Boyd, Helen Citron, Josh Chambers, James Field, Anna Frame, Rob Perkins, Sarah Roberts, Toby Smith, Michelle Wheeler. Deputy editors: Katherine Ebury (literature), Rob Perkins (politics), Toby Smith (arts). Section editors: Robin Seaton (literature), Kate Smith (politics), Caroline Trotman-Dickenson (arts), Kellie Mills (music) Editor: David Hopkins

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

literature

“Well shaped from the anvil” District and Circle. Seamus Heaney. 80pp. Faber. £8.99. 0-57-123097-0 (paperback).

as the handle turned the turnip-heads were let fall and fed to the juiced-up inner blades, In monstrous opposition to the snedder is the abandoned mowing machine in “In Iowa”: “snow brimmed its iron seat…and took the shine off oil in the black-toothed gears.” The mower fallen into disuse and disrepair is a dark and nihilistic image, tantamount, in Heaney’s world, to the most harrowing religious experience. Heaney admitted in “Digging”, the first poem from his debut collection Death of a Naturalist (1966), that he had “no spade to

James Macdougald follow men like them [his ancestors]”; instead, as a talented young wordsmith, he resolved to make his pen the tool of his trade. Heaney’s archetypes of rural labour have always been of vital importance, and, with the passage of time, could not have grown any more important than they were originally. Any progression might be in part marked by the presentation and setting of the farm implements. The

Seamus Heaney young Heaney of “Digging”—in which “the spade sinks into the gravelly ground” outside the window of his room—describes a spade in its rightful domestic context.

Thirty years later in “The Pitchfork” (Seeing Things 1991), Heaney’s grandfather, musing on ‘probes that reached the farthest’, imagines the shaft of a pitchfork sailing past Evenly, imperturbably through space, Its prongs starlit and absolutely soundless – In its new and unfamiliar environs, Heaney’s pitchfork loses its primary association and mutates into pure symbol. In “Poet to Blacksmith” in the new collection, the spade’s significance is further enhanced as the subject of a historical discourse in which, it is suggested, the notion of a spade was actually conceived. The poem is translated from the instructions of the eighteenth-century Irish poet Eoghan Rua O Suilleabhain to Seamus MacGearailt. It is a poem that is so entirely Heaney in every imaginable way that one can only register astonishment that he has not translated it before now. In the instructions, the poet explains to the blacksmith what he expects ofÎ

ALSO IN THIS SECTION 4—“every burned book enlightens the world”: literature and censorship in the modern world 6—slow learner: the paranoia of thomas pynchon 7—the best of all possible worlds: michel houellebecq’s the possibility of an island reviewed 9—what should i read?

literature

eamus Heaney, laureate-inexile and the unchallenged patriarch of living Englishlanguage poets, returns to us now— with a new volume of poems— almost unchanged after more than forty years in print. The archetypes of Heaney’s poetry have always been farming implements. The spades and the pitchforks course with significance—yet they signifying nothing as trite as “man’s relationship with land”, but are insteadrather symbols of all things well-wrought and fit for the purpose. This is Heaney’s poetic manifesto. It is not a manifesto that promises close attention to meaning, to issues, to politics, to history, to nature; although, surely, all of these feature incidentally. It is a manifesto of method which promises only skilled craftsmanship. For the tightest, neatest, most robust and finely-tuned poetry, language has, for some time now, bespoken Heaney. Heaney is on home turf right from the start with “The Turnip-Snedder”, a poem that stands as a sturdy testament to one of his specialist skills: close particularisation. The snedder, an ominous symbol of Hardian agricultural ruthlessness from “the age of bare hands / and cast iron”, is a machine designed to perform a specific task:

literature his “side-arm to take on the earth”: No trace of the hammer to show on the sheen of the blade, The thing to have purchase and strain and be fit for the spring, The shaft to be socketed in dead rue and dead straight, Immediately discernable are the strong, buoyant rhythms that Heaney mopped up from Hopkins sprung verse; the Anglo-Saxon alliterations and consonances that permeated Beowulf (1999); and Heaney’s characteristic fascination with the minutiae of manual crafts. The qualifications listed in the poem are, in Heaney’s eyes, applicable also to the construction of a good poem. The last line, “And best thing of all, the ring of it, sweet as a bell”,—more the relevant criterion of a poem than a spade—seems to be Heaney showing his hand. Heaney’s penchant for the particular is visible in almost every poem. More often than not, the hyphen plays a substantial role in seeking out the thingness of things: the “club-footed last”, “stropped-beak Fortune”, Bobby Breen’s “leathertrimmed, steel-ridged, handtooled, hand-sewn” helmet, the furiously-Hopkins-esque “Bogbank brown”, “locked-park Sunday Belfast” and, most beautifully perhaps, the “rain-flirt leaves”. District and Circle is, objectively, a ragbag. If it should happen to be his last collection—unlikely, I think, given Heaney’s apparently bounteous poetic reserves—it would serve very aptly. There is much ground revisited—many loose-ends are tied and crumbs swept from the old table. “The Tollund Man in Springtime”, for example, imagines the icon of Wintering Out (1972) reanimated and alive in the present day, and reexplores the idea of utter dislocation and the impossibility of passing judgement on history—an assurance that must have been running thick in Heaney’s mind when he wrote, to the “Little adulteress”, “I almost love you / but would have cast, I know, / the stones of silence.” (“Punishment” North, 1975.) Life in a different time, it suggests, is unlearnable. ‘The Blackbird of Glanmore’, with which the collection ends, is the long-

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 awaited sequel to “Mid-Term Break” (Death of a Naturalist, 1966), showing that Heaney still dwells, from time to time, on the “haunter-son, lost brother” whose death was recorded so poignantly in the earlier poem. Much of the collection reads like a series of belated letters to friends and pin-ups, with many of the poems bearing a dedication, or directly addressing famous figures—largely deceased. Most notable among these is a short poem in memory of Ted Hughes, Heaney’s contemporary for so many years, with whom he co-edited various anthologies. “Stern”, an imagistic nugget, seems to owe itself partly to Hughes and his inimitable ability with metaphor. Hughes reportedly compares T. S. Eliot’s (the title is possibly an oblique play on his name) gaze to “the prow of the Queen Mary” moving towards him “very slowly”. In response, Heaney describes Hughes, in his own terms, as, in death, trying to row away, but “Making no real headway.” The title poem gives a minutelydetailed description travelling on the London Underground, and considers the protocol of giving money to vagrants, which, Heaney admits, often retreats into the “nod”—a completely wordless exchange, but pregnant with mutual understanding. Carefully weighted, meticulously measured, tried in balance and trim, Heaney’s poetry is always an exercise in precision. His word placement is immaculate, and anyone reading his poems must often find themselves wondering how he manages to crystallize ordinary phrases and sentences and arrange the words in a form in which, it seems, they were always hoping always to find themselves. Though broad in his range, Heaney has always had one foot firmly planted in the peat bog near his childhood home in County Londonderry, and this collection is no exception. Seamus Heaney will be 68 in April; but poetry is sedentary occupation, and rarely do poets retire. Judging by the high quality of much of District and Circle, and the sustained momentum of Heaney’s career, there is life in the old bog yet.

“Every burned book enlightens the world.” Literature and Censorship in the Modern World Katherine Ebury

oday, in Britain at least, people are often complacent about literature. They assume that it is “art” in the most ornamental sense, without real purpose or wider significance. As an English student I experience these attitudes with depressing regularity. For example, if I say to friends who study politics, “we were talking about the relationship between the state and the individual” then it’s pretty likely that they’ll respond, “shouldn’t you be talking about themes or something?” It is rare that it occurs to people that politics and literature can have any direct relationship. Of course this has not always been the case, and is still not in many countries, where literature is seen, depending on which side of the fence you are on, as either a threat to repressive governments or a dangerous fight for free expression Historically speaking, literature has always been a dangerous pursuit. From Classical poets such as Ovid, whose Ars Amatoria seems to have caused his expulsion from Rome, to great Renaissance figures, such as Shakespeare or Marlowe, writers often had to struggle against an absolutist political climate that examined their works for subversive ideology. Although we have, to some extent, outgrown this in modern Britain and seem to have greater scope for literary expression than ever before, this sense of security has caused literature to become almost depoliticised, at least in the minds of the readers. It is only through extreme examples such as Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses (1988) and, most importantly, through a consideration of the rest of the modern world, that we realise that what we take for granted is a vitally important means of free expression, and it is under threat all over the world. In Cuba, for example, literature is

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

Orhan Pamuk, Nobel prize winner 2006 limited to what the government think is appropriate for the dissemination of revolutionary ideals. The book one encounters most often is the poetry of Jose Martí (1853-1895), the leader of the Cuban independence movement, and whose ideas are felt to be essential to the revolution. However, in terms of modern literature there is a conspicuous lack of variety and, whatever one thinks about Castro or Communism, it is undeniable that the development of Cuban literature has been hampered by government scrutiny. For example, to publish abroad requires the permission of the government; publishing without this consent is something that you can still be imprisoned for, like Reinaldo Arenas in the 1970s. When in Cuba this Summer, I spoke to a young poet who felt that there was no safe ground for a Cuban writer, since literature was so intimately connected with political realities—if you must write you must write, he told me, but he would not advise attempting to publish your efforts. Furthermore, he said, if you wanted to be a serious writer and convey the realities of life in Cuba, it was necessary find a way to leave la patria (the homeland) and then not count on coming back. In South America itself the issue of censorship is not as prominent as it once was, but understandably, fear still remains, particularly in countries like Chile among those who are old enough to remember the Pinochet era; anything that might be read as direct criticism of the government is generally avoided. Thus,

important topics like corruption are seldom written about. Chinese literature, however, is at the forefront of the fight for free expression, even more potent as the country grows as a world power. Everyone is aware of internet censorship in China but literary censorship is often less well publicised. Not only the censorship of websites featuring references to the Tiananmen Square Protests and Massacre (1989) is practiced, but the use of the word “Tiananmen” in novels and poetry is actively discouraged. Other subjects are equally sensitive; any literary work that refers to the Independence of Tibet or Taiwan, democracy, police brutality or that in any way criticises government activity is considered subversive. Writers are often banned or persecuted. Gao Xingjian, author of the magnificent Soul Mountain (1990), now living in France, is regarded by the Chinese government as an exiled dissident, all of whose works, regardless of content, are banned. Equally, although Yan Lianke, another of China’s greatest living writers, has not been exiled, his novels have also been repeatedly banned and only last month it was announced that his latest book, The Dream of Ding Village (2006), about a village in Henan where most inhabitants are infected with HIV/Aids due to unregulated blood-selling in the 1990s, has also fallen foul of the censors. And these are only the most obvious forms of censorship: Chinese publishers that accept too many “controversial” works are often quietly forced out of

literature their jobs, discouraging any such risk-taking. It is shocking to think of the many manuscripts which remain unpublished because of this policy, or what effect they might have had upon China’s political landscape. In the West censorship still occurs: the high incidence of book burning in the Bible-belt of the United States, such as of Harry Potter books, suggests the threat that hard-line religion continues to pose to free expression even in more supposedly “liberal” cultures. The fatwa still in force against Salman Rushdie is an obvious example of this. Even closer to home, the Turkish government, despite its campaign for membership of the EU, has a rather less than perfect record in terms of the tolerance of free expression. In 1995 it brought charges against Orhan Pamuk, who recently won the 2006 Nobel Prize in literature, for writing essays that criticised Turkey’s treatment of the Kurds, and only last year it attempted to prosecute him for remarks he made about the Armenian Genocide in an interview. Much of his fiction, as well as his non-fiction writings, raise brave questions about Turkey, both historically and today, and the Nobel is a just reward for this. These few examples ought to reveal that literature has a greater place in world culture, and a more important purpose than mere theme-spotting. In some respects it should be even more powerful than journalism in terms of the fight for civil liberties. This is because the human imagination, even more so than the human ability to communicate reality, is limitless—free expression in the literary sense is, or ought to be, “free” in the fullest sense: unconfined by limits of possibility. Writing can thus potentially become a means of liberation in which the most apparently innocent device may carry the weight of “secret history”. Ultimately, great literature does not ignore the world out of which it is created and should neither be oppressed nor overlooked as useless. Perhaps even the burning of books can make a difference if it forces us to re-examine our conception of literature and makes us fight for the right to free expression. As Emerson wrote, “Every burned book enlightens the world”.

literature

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

Slow Learner

The Paranoia of Thomas Pynchon

homas Pynchon is not, despite popular rumour, the Unabomber. He is not a Branch Davidian, he is not a bag-lady called Wanda Tinasky and he claims not to be J. D. Salinger either. He is probably the author of a book of short stories and five novels, and on the 21st November 2006 he published a sixth: Against the Day (£20.00, Jonathan Cape). Pynchon once remarked to a friend that “every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength”. It is certainly true that the mythology of this author exists apart from, and sometimes not even in parallel with, his literary reputation. What we know of Pynchon’s life is limited. He was born in 1937. He studied engineering physics at Cornell University, leaving after two years to go into the navy. He returned to Cornell to study English, and published his first short story, “The Small Rain”, in 1959. After a stint working for Boeing, he began to work as a writer full time. It was Pynchon’s third novel, Gravity’s Rainbow, which catapulted him to the status of Great American Novelist. It was also about this time that Pynchon began to be famed for his reclusiveness. Pynchon has avoided all cameras since his early twenties and aside from a couple of paparazzi shots, there are no public photos of him. Rumours started to spread that Pynchon was the pseudonym of another writer. One theory emerged that his novels were written by J. D. Salinger, a writer whose style bears absolutely no relation to Pynchon’s. Darker rumours spread as well. It was suggested, on no evidence whatsoever, that he was the Unabomber, or involved with the Waco Branch Davidians. More recently, he was linked with a series of letters which appeared in the Anderson Valley Advertiser under the name of Wanda Tinasky. Pynchon’s novels are notorious for their Byzantine and often obscure plots. Despite his obvious wide reading, Pynchon’s sources can often be popular music or urban legend; in V. a main character finds himself hunting alligators through the sewers of New York. Although he is deeply concerned with subjects such as racism, politics and human relationships, he returns

Will Clarke throughout his career to themes of conspiracy and concealment, from the secret postal services in The Crying of Lot 49 to the Ninja training camps in Vineland. In Gravity’s Rainbow we are given Proverbs for Paranoids: 1. You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures. 2. The innocence of the creatures is in inverse proportion to the immorality of the Master. 3. If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers. 4. You hide, they seek. 5. Paranoids are not paranoid because they’re paranoid, but because they keep putting themselves, fucking idiots, deliberately into paranoid situations.

Pynchon’s “appearance” on The Simpsons

Some well known pictures from a period when Pynchon was less camera-shy.

The reality of Pynchon’s absence is (probably) unremarkable. He does not live in a fortified ranch in Waco, Texas, or on the coastline of Big Sur. He lives with his wife and agent, Melanie Jackson, and children in New York City. As he is said to have remarked himself, all “reclusive” really means, when applied to a public figure, is that he “doesn’t like to give interviews.” However, the actual facts of his life, which are no doubt as mundane as the facts of anyone else’s, are not necessarily significant. By exercising control over his own visual image he has, at least, to a society which seems to equate visibility with continued existence, reduced his own name, Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, Jr., to a floating signifier. Like Schrödinger’s cat, he lives in the eyes of the media at least, in an unconfirmed state encompassing a multitude of possibilities. He can be simultaneously a terrorist, vagrant, cultist and author. Like the mechanical duck in Mason and Dixon, his significance is not dependant on visibility. Pynchon’s status as an American archetype has lead to him appearing in some unusual places. Most notably, he has featured twice in The Simpsons. In both appearances his face is covered by a paper bag, and in one he is seen shouting to passing cars “come and have your photo taken with a reclusive author”. These appearances are the only time his voice has been broadcast. In one episode of The O.C., Paris Hilton makes a cameo appearance to mention her love of Pynchon, commenting “Gravity’s Rainbow is his masterpiece.” Ironically, Arthur Salm commented that Pynchon “simply chooses not to be a public figure, an attitude that resonates on a frequency so out of phase with that of the prevailing culture that if Pynchon and Paris Hilton were ever to meet—the circumstances, I admit, are beyond imagining—the resulting matter/antimatter explosion would vaporize everything from here to Tau Ceti IV.” Like Tyrone Slothrop in Gravity’s Rainbow, Pynchon appears to fade into his own myth. Slothrop was last seen on an obscure album-cover. Pynchon surfaces in unexpected book reviews, fragmentary quotes and most recently, in an animated television show, veiled but audible. Tyrone remained visible but silent. Pynchon, on the other hand, seems determined to reduce himself to an unseen voice.

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

literature

The best of all possible worlds The Possibility of an Island. Michel Houellebecq (trans. Gavin Bowd). 432pp. Phoenix Press. £7.99. 0-75-382118-4 (paperback).

ichel Houellebecq’s latest novel, The Possibility of an Island (2006), is very much evidence of a maturation of themes introduced and explored in previous work, most notably Atomised. The conceit of Atomised was that the text was produced by a future race of neohumans as a eulogy to Michel, the father of their race. In The Possibility of an Island, Houellebecq has extracted and adapted this notion of a race of neohumans, which has its birth in the Western society of the twenty-first century, but has supplanted the Michel story with that of a semi-religious cult which provides the chemistry and the ideology for the destruction of the human race and the ascendancy of neohumans. Set simultaneously in a slightly projected contemporary society and one a thousand years in the future, the novel is composed of the narratives of two inhabitants of these worlds, Daniel1 and his descended clone, Daniel24 (later to be replaced by Daniel25). Daniel1 and Daniel24/25 alternate chapters: Daniel1 narrates his life story; Daniel24/25 narrates his life story channelled through the history of Daniel from 1-25. This is Houellebecq’s most ambitious novel yet and though his ideas are always interesting and sometimes profound, this novel suffers from an unnecessarily complex plot and the burden of too many ideas. In this novel, Houellebecq’s characterisation is thin. Where Atomised provided a number of peculiar yet rich individual characters, The Possibility of an Island settles for brief stereotypical portraits mediated through the subjective narrative of Daniel1. You get the impression that Houellebecq would almost like to dispense with character altogether and simply rant for four hundred pages. However, this one-dimensionality in characterisation may have a purpose that is entirely intentional. For half of the book’s narrative (those passages from Daniel24

Kate Galloway and Daniel25) the characters of Daniel1’s world are already long dead. Their concerns and their characteristics are no longer relevant. They belonged to a race which, obsessed with individualism, greed, sex and consumerism, was, in the twenty-first century, already committing suicide. Indeed, readers may ask themselves if, in one thousand years, we will resemble more the cruel savages of the remaining human race or more the breed of neohumans with their technologies and their emotionless existence. As ever, Houellebecq has successfully held up a mirror to our contemporary society and the image we are faced with should make us feel very uncomfortable. Houellebecq has persistently attracted and almost certainly court-

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aware of his power to ignite controversy in the media and the literary world and his willingness to indulge in this seems, unfortunately, more like self-promotion than promotion of his art. Houellebecq seems to have done more than any other novelist of recent years to push the boundaries of taste with the proliferation of pornographic scenes in his books. This seemed to reach saturation point with Platform, a book which, if opened at random, offers virtually a one in ten chance of alighting upon an explicit sex scene, often involving more than two players. However, in The Possibility of an Island, although containing its fair share, the sex scenes seem to be of an altogether different register. I would challenge anyone to find the sex in The Possibility of an Island remotely erotic. There is a suggestion that the sex in the novel is illustrative of

I would challenge anyone to find the sex in The Possibility of an Island remotely erotic.

ed a great deal of controversy with his work and his vociferously expressed opinions on religion, women and sex. In 2002, he was taken to court on the charge of inciting racism with a remark he made about Islam in an interview for a French literary magazine. He did not retract his comment; he was acquitted. Needless to say, Houellebecq has been publicly denounced by the Muslim press and Muslim spokesmen worldwide as an enemy of Islam. Houellebecq throughout has maintained his anathema to organised religion and it remains a strong idea in his latest novel. On the one hand, Houellebecq is perfectly entitled to his opinion and, indeed, one can seriously doubt the influence of this middle-aged French literary novelist in inciting religious hatred. On the other hand, Houellebecq is perfectly

the ecstatic crisis akin to the death throes of the human race. Indeed there is a scene in which Daniel1 describes a plot for a porn film, which he vaguely plans to direct, in which a young couple are discovered having sex in a field before being graphically butchered by two blacksuited men who fulfil the act as a “moral duty”. In Daniel1’s world, sex is always pornographic and is inextricably linked to death. This is significant in terms of Houellebecq’s fiction where distinct lines between sex and violence have always been drawn and thickly underscored. In previous novels, sex with a beautiful, generous, loving woman has always acted as salvation and comfort to the damaged, depressed Houellebecq hero. Admittedly, in the end this brief bounty is always terminated by tragedy, however, this has neverÎ

literature been portrayed as inevitable. In The Possibility of an Island, however, Daniel1 is tragically aware that love and sex are delimited by age and consequently his joy is not only finite but is virtually negated by this knowledge. As for the charges of sexism routinely levelled at Houellebecq, the sexist portrayal of women in his novels is so obvious and ubiquitous that it almost seems pointless to mention. Personally, I refuse to believe that Houellebecq himself is some mindless, brutal misogynist who truly believes that women are inferior beings who are only good for one thing. Certainly, it is true that the women in Houellebecq’s novels are divided into those who are extremely good at that one thing and those who are not good at that one thing and few feature from the latter category. However, I find it far more interesting to analyse Houellebecq’s female characters, be they onedimensional or otherwise, against the current portrayal of women in Western popular culture. Are not young women, regardless of education, intelligence and wit, relentlessly portrayed in the media as bodyobsessed sex kittens who are perpetually “up for it”? Considering this I would suggest that the object of the Houellebecq hero’s desire is also the object of our culture’s consumerist desire and, in this way, his female characters are taken from “life”. Overall, The Possibility of an Island is an ambitious and appealing novel. However, as a novel that follows through ideas established

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 brilliantly in Atomised, The Possibility of an Island disappoints. Despite its length (over 400 pages), this novel has a sense of being rushed. The narrative is necessarily disjointed by the organisation of alternate chapters from the perspectives of Daniel1 and his descen-

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of absolute human isolation and desolation seems a fitting end to Houellebecq’s search for The Possibility of an Island. The title of the book refers to Aldous Huxley’s utopian novel, Island, a work which alongside Brave New World is much discussed

So scathing and unrelenting is Houellebecq upon the tragedy and absurdity of humankind and so ready is he to imagine the solution to the human condition as the annihilation of the human race altogether, that it is easy to forget that he is, above all, a humanist.

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dant(s). However, this disjointedness is further enhanced by the time span covered by both narratives which, alluded to though not specified, one can only deduce is several years. It seems that, as ever, Houellebecq just has too many ideas to be adequately bound within the pages of a novel. Although this worked well in Atomised, creating the sense of a rich text, in his latest work it translates into a certain thinness and lack of depth. However, there are passages of excellence. Towards the end of the novel is a description of the post-apocalyptic wilderness of Europe one thousand years from now. The image of the fault-line riddled desert, and the receded ocean reduced to pools, is amazing. Moreover, the description

in Houellebecq’s earlier novel, Atomised. Clearly, Houellebecq is self-consciously contributing, to whatever degree, to the genre of utopian writing. Indeed, Houellebecq’s novels seem to have been gradually ascending towards the formation of definite ideas about the contingencies arising out of the decline and decadence of Western society. Like Huxley, Houellebecq is horrified by and yet half in love with the technologies that he sees as ensuring the destruction of the human race as we know it. So scathing and unrelenting is Houellebecq upon the tragedy and absurdity of humankind and so ready is he to imagine the solution to the human condition as the annihilation of the human race altogether, that it is easy to forget that he is, above all, a humanist. However, a humanist he is and this is evinced in his concern with humanity and the individual above the shifting sands of negligent society. Houellebecq’s particular utopian vision differs from, specifically, Huxley’s, but also from many other visionaries, in that he never harks back to a golden age of mankind. His utopia is resolutely unlike anything that has gone before. Essentially this is so because his futuristic vision is one in which society does not exist except as a concept. His technology-driven, society-less post-apocalyptic world is one in which the individual is entirely isolated but it is also one in which he or she is entirely free, at last.

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

literature

What Should I Read?

depressing and dangerous document has recently come into my possession. Calling itself 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die (£20.00, Cassell Illustrated), the briefest glance at this list is guaranteed to leave any self-styled literatus feeling profoundly inadequate. Perusing the inventory drew to attention how narrow reading habits can inevitably become: of the books cited, I had read barely a tenth. Worse still, the existence of at least half had passed me by entirely, and many of the featured authors were completely unfamiliar to me; any pretensions to eruditeness were swiftly shattered. But however stung my pride, initial crushing gloom swiftly gave way to a spirit of rebellion. Why must I read this particular collection of books, I fumed. On whose authority are these claims to canonicity based? It may have only been intended as a bit of fun, but examining the list had led me, in a manner strangely reminiscent of Carrie Bradshaw, to ask a vital question of myself, “If the time I have available for reading is ultimately limited by my lifespan, what books should I most profitably be reading?” For hard-line purists like literary critic Harold Bloom, the only books worth reading are those that form an indispensable part of the Western Canon (defined and listed in his book of the same title). Bloom’s stance is compelling in its simplicity. His criteria for inclusion in the Canon are stringent, summarised best in his pronouncement, “Unless it demands rereading, the work does not qualify.” For Bloom, it is the exclusivity of the Canon that makes it a valuable institution. To include books with lesser literary value would be to dilute the Canon, rendering its function as guide to the books worth preserving obsolete. Bloom’s voice is authoritative, yet his defence of the Western Canon provides a rather sterile and unsatisfactory answer to the question, “What should I read?” A lifetime spent reading and rereading those texts most venerated in the Western tradition would doubtless be instructive, but choosing to read only those texts prescribed by an academic authority is

Tom Watson really no choice at all. One should also keep in mind the view of Terry Eagleton, who, in his book Literary Theory, argues, “Many films and works of philosophy are considerably more valuable than much that is included in the literary ‘canon’.” The most vital criticism of Bloom’s position however, is that he seems to leave no room for experimentation— the simple joy of picking up an unknown book (with all of the risks and delights inherent) is to be denied the reader. The work can only be read

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Almost every book published in 2006 is destined to be forgotten; condemned to the scrapheap of cultural artefacts that will doubtless serve as outmoded reminders of the postmodern age.

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once sufficient time has passed and it has entered the hallowed province of the Canon; “contemporary” writing is only to be appreciated retrospectively, and is certainly not to be lauded

while new to the shelves. This strategy inevitably means that the reader will always approach a work with inherited opinions about its greatness, for only the truly ‘great’ books can be considered by Bloom’s ideal reader. A reading life without the occasional trashy novel seems a poor and unfulfilling prospect. After all, is not much of the joy that comes from reading Carry on, Jeeves the guilty pleasure that one should be reading Finnegans Wake instead? A retreat to Bloom’s position, however, seems more attractive when one is confronted with the growing mountain of new books available for consumption. These days, it seems that pretty much anyone can get a book published. The shelves of every high-street bookstore teem with autobiographical offerings from the latest soon-to-be-forgotten celebrities. It is easy to dismiss such publications, and perhaps best to: who, when all is said and done, is going to remember the name of any Big Brother contestant in 50 years time, let alone want to read their outdated life story? But these are only the worst excesses of a publishing industry increasingly geared around profit and the quick sell. Almost every book published in 2006 is destined to be forgotten; condemned to the scrapheap of cultural artefacts that will doubtless serve as outmoded reminders of the postmodern age. From an environmental perspective, the vast majority of books published today are not worth the paper they are printed on. Most of them, theÎ

literature argument goes, would be more useful to us if they were to remain as trees. In 2005, over 200,000 new titles were published in the United Kingdom alone, placing us top of this particular global league table. The British consumer is confronted with choice as never before, but for readers attempting to be discerning the situation can quickly become overwhelming. Literary prizes can provide readers with a useful starting point, but their limitations soon become apparent. For an author, winning a literary prize is no guarantee of longevity: the Nobel Prize in Literature has been awarded to 103 individuals since its inauguration in 1901, yet many of the names on the list will fail to ring any bells for even the most well read of individuals. Given the relentless production of contemporary fiction, it is hardly surprising that the life-span of all but the most fortunate of books is now mercifully short. How then, to predict which books will survive the cull and achieve some form of posterity? Critical success appears to be a double-edged sword, confirming only that your book conforms to the popular literary standards of the time. In actual fact, the texts most likely to achieve the status of a masterpiece are those so ground-breaking that they are liable to be critically reviled at first. In Bloom’s words, they exhibit “a mode of originality that either cannot be assimilated, or that so assimilates us that we cease to see it as strange.” The free indirect style of Modernist writers like Joyce and Woolf, so experimental in its day, has now become a common trope of popular fiction. As readers, we tend to

Champion of the canon, and (alleged) fondler of feminists, Harold Bloom

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 resist stylistic innovation in favour of those narrative techniques with which we are most comfortable. New narrative forms do not necessarily make for relaxing reading, it is true, but perhaps it is to books like Martin Amis’s Time’s Arrow (a novel in which events are narrated in reverse chronological order) that we should turn if we are to pinpoint those works destined to survive into the next century. The English literary canon is an ever-growing mountain of books. At its peak are our very oldest texts—so few of these survive that they are useful as much as historical artefacts as works capable of inspiring great aesthetic pleasure. As one descends the slope, the mountain gets wider: in other words, each passing century produces more and more books that survive and are read to this present day. Despite this decidedly bottomheavy catalogue, it is nigh-on impossible to predict which contemporary works will take their place on the lower slopes of this textual mountain. There is, however, one sure-fire way for an otherwise unremarkable book to prolong its life-span: become a GCSE or A-Level set text. Witness Louis de Bernieres’ Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, a novel of little merit still selling well, and that continues to be inflicted on thousands of unfortunate A-Level students. For many others like me, the scars inflicted by Captain Corelli will still be visible when we are in our dotage. To my mind, this is the cruellest, yet perhaps the most effective method of stretching out one’s literary mortality. Although I have suggested a number of factors that might influence a book’s chance of survival, this approach assumes that only those works with the potential for future adulation deserve to be read. Limiting one’s reading to the perusal of a “canon-in-waiting” seems almost as stultifying as the restrictions imposed by Bloom’s advocacy of the Western canon. Adhering solely to any reading list, be it prescribed by an academic institution or by popular opinion, is the quickest route to narrowing your reading horizons. Until anyone convinces this reader otherwise, the works of the remarkable and decidedly unliterary P. G. Wodehouse are going to occupy their rightful and prominent place at the very centre of the bookcase.

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

commentary

The Burden of Professional Journalism

Matt Houghton and progressing deftly past the standard foreboding warnings, our discourse turned to the issue of journalistic integrity. And it raised a question that appeared to me, to be one that should be answered comprehensively before diving headlong into the fiery pit of competitive, professional journalism. To what degree, if at all, would I be willing to sacrifice integrity or personal beliefs in order to progress in a field that I love? Certainly the initial reaction is one of contempt. Such a question may well be considered insulting because it suggests that a compromise of personal beliefs or integrity in the name of occupational, and even fiscal, advantage is a viable option. Indeed, most would like to believe that it is not. Yet, how many Nestlé employees did not resign following the child exploitation allegations, and of those that remain, how many support it? Equally, how many Coca Cola employees agreed with the mis-

Disgraced ex-New York Times journalist, Jayson Blair. Blair has since written an account of his time there, Burning Down My Masters' House (Phoenix Books) representation of Dasani water as particularly pure—despite the reality that it was treated tap water—and how many refused to be involved with the company? Moreover, how many writers for heat magazine consider the personal impact on aÎ

ALSO IN THIS SECTION 12—the coquettes and beaux of the 21st century

commentary

ournalism as a feasible career option seems likely to feature, if only fleetingly, in the mindset of the majority of arts students. Like the coveted law conversion course, the consideration of journalism has become a customary hurdle over which to bound, both in terms of personal vocational exploration and to placate one’s parents following the inevitable post-first year career discussion. Certainly, it is to many an exciting prospect, not least because the breadth of the journalistic arena is virtually limitless. If travel is your penchant you can be a news correspondent for a TV station or travel writer; if it is music that floats your proverbial boat you can write for Rolling Stone or interview bands for a local radio station. When the prospect of writing, broadcasting or reporting rouses the ambition lying dormant beyond the oppressive cloak of student-hood, it is simply a matter of finding something about which it is appropriate to write, broadcast or report. Journalism has the unique characteristic of accommodating one’s interests and hobbies and, moreover, the best journalists are those that work with topics that they love—Ian Hislop, Bill Bryson and Jeremy Clarkson to name but a few. Importantly, journalism necessitates enthusiasm; not only because, aside from those in the discrete upper echelons of the field, the wages are notoriously meagre, but because it is one of the most competitive careers around. Competition within a profession however, is not something that should be reeled away from; there is after all a reason for such widespread interest. It is all too often that, upon revealing my desired career path, this aspiring journalist has been met with a look of concern and an all too familiar warning regarding the difficulties faced in the writing profession. That is until at a recent cocktail party when confronted by a hypothetical predicament which has plagued both my mind and conscience since. Engaging in a conversation with a family friend regarding intentions for the future,

commentary celebrity upon whom they base a story? To some extent morality is a malleable phenomenon, in that our personal perception of what may be considered ethical or not changes continually and more importantly can change from underneath us. The notion of journalistic integrity is one that can appear at once admirable and foolish, necessary and naïve. In order to be a respected journalist, one must maintain integrity in the field, and yet ironically an ethical reassessment is often necessary in order to progress. This is a concept easily misinterpreted, and if imbued with professional ambition has the potential to blur the boundaries between reality and

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Photographers need constantly to ask themselves whether or not a picture is appropriate and, more importantly, morally acceptable; and herein lies the crux of the question. How far, if at all, would I be willing to sacrifice a degree of personal integrity in order to present a moral injustice?

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fiction. One notorious example is that of Jayson Blair, the New York Times reporter who was sacked for plagiarising large sections of another reporter’s article, but also had a history of fabricating evidence and punctuating stories with embellished fact. He was driven by ambition and a determination to progress in the journalistic profession, and yet in doing so he missed the point of it. Journalism does involve complex moral decisions, but Blair denied them the time to reach a conclusion that was ethical, logical and truthful. However, his example is

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 one tainted with social and financial aspiration and is so extreme as to shroud the concept of journalistic integrity in a dramatic polarity; but in reality this is not the struggle between good and evil, between truth and lies. Journalists are, on a daily basis, faced with the moral dilemma of whether or not something should be published, or even written about—so much so in fact that I suspect a degree of desensitisation occurs. Photographers for example need constantly to ask themselves whether or not a picture is appropriate and, more importantly, morally acceptable; and herein lies the crux of the question. How far, if at all, would I be willing to sacrifice a degree of personal integrity in order to present a moral injustice? Founded in the innate duality of morality itself this question is the effectively the same as the last, but depolarised and instilled with the realities of life. Like the lawyer who defends a guilty man—not because he believes him to be innocent, but believes in the right to legal representation—journalists suffer the burden of a continual weighing up between personal ethics and a wider social message. The chilling photographs of the victims of the 9/11 terrorist attacks jumping to their deaths made the front page on many national newspapers because a choice was made both by the photographer and the editor. Admittedly, the choice may well have been fuelled by financial motives; the sad truth is that the media is a business from the bottom up, but hopefully an active moral decision was also made. The wider message of the photographs said something to the world that had to be weighed up against the feelings of the families of those committing suicide. Whether one agrees with the eventual decision is another issue altogether, but the point is that it is necessary to the integrity of the profession and oneself that a conscious decision is made. The profession can be cynical, financially-driven, and even questionably immoral and yet the only way to inject a sense of personal truth into it is to allow one’s mind to be consistently plagued with questions of morality. That is the burden of professional journalism.

The Coquettes and Beaux of the 21st Century Sarah Roberts

n Tuesday 15th and 22nd of January 1712, Joseph Addison produced two articles in The Spectator magazine on the “Dissection of a Beau’s Brain” and the “Dissection of a Coquette’s Heart”. He took a satirical look at the inner workings of two eighteenth-century stereotypes, and caricatured their natures in terms of how their brain and heart worked. The Oxford English Dictionary defines “Beau” as “a man who gives particular, or excessive, attention to dress, mien, and social etiquette; an exquisite, a fop, a dandy”, and “Coquette” as “a woman (more or less young), who uses arts to gain the admiration and affection of men, merely for the gratification of vanity or from a desire of conquest, and without any intention of responding to the feelings aroused; a woman who habitually trifles with the affections of men; a flirt”. Such figures presented a fascinating caricature of individuals in Addison’s society, but do these typical flirts exist in our society today? If we disassembled two young persons we happened to borrow from a club one night, what would we find inside? A heart beating to the incessant pulse of dance music? A blood supply coursing with what appears to be a strange mix of plasma, beer, blood cells and vodka? As I’m sure we all know, the clubbing scene is prime hunting ground for our modern day flirts. We have substituted the Balls and Assemblies of Addison’s era for the Bars and Clubs of the twentyfirst century, and this is where the investigation shall begin. Now just how different are we these days from the Coquettes and Beaux of the past? We can accept that Addison has presented us with raging stereotypes here, so I shall take the same liberty and shamelessly typify our subjects in a similar manner. Much of Addison’s description of the Beau crosses over into what we would now consider to be a stereotypically feminine mindset, as of course effeminacy was the major trait of a “dandy”. The 18th century saw major challenges to

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

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commentary

It was also revealed that, despite 300 years of evolution, the “Ogling Muscles” were in the exact same state: “very much worn and decayed with use”, for both sexes.

traditional conceptions of gender roles, which helps to explain why many of the descriptions in Addison’s articles can apply to either sex; in fact, many of the described feminine traits come across as equally valid for men. In view of this, I shall explore each description as pertaining to either sex, since both pieces correspond to the concept of the Social Flirt. The beginning of Addison’s piece takes us to one specific cavity in the dissected brain that is “filled with Ribbons, Lace and Embroidery, wrought together in a curious piece of network”; and oddly enough, a similarly material construct can be found in the brains of young people today. The basic structure appears to be the same, yet the fabrics have altered somewhat, and taken on a more transparent and revealing quality in the brain of the young lady, whilst in the brain of the male, many of the networked sections resemble miniature gold chains and emit a small “blinging” noise (though we have later discovered that this appears to be specific to a certain type of male). In his description, Addison then moves on to another cavity which “was stuffed with invisible […] Love-Letters”. The corresponding section in the brains of today’s youth, however, appeared to be much altered, to the extent that most of the text we found there was illegible and did not seem to express any sentiment whatsoever. A small segment was extracted for examination, reading thus: wt u up 2 l8r u cmin out, cnt w8 2 c u agn, but we were unable to make any sense of it, and concluded that the function for communication is somewhat diminished in our modern era. In tracing the small canals running

from the ear to the brain, Addison found “a bundle of Sonnets and little Musical Instruments”; we found some obscene rap lyrics and a five-piece crashing black drum kit where the single eardrum should have been. Another canal extended to the tongue, in which Addison discovered “a kind of Spongy Substance, which the French Anatomists call Galimatius, and the English, Nonsense.” Strangely, no difference whatsoever was found here in our modern day subjects. It was also revealed that, despite nearly 300 years of evolution, the “Ogling Muscles” were in the exact same state: “very much worn and decayed with use”, for both the male and female parties. Remarkably, as we move on to examine the heart, it appears that the young Coquettes and Beaux of today share an almost identical anatomy to those of Addison’s era. The same little

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scars over the hearts’ surfaces from “the Points of innumerable Darts” could be seen, but again the heart itself remained unpierced. Addison also noted that the heart of the Coquette was extremely light, as it was filled with tiny hollows, which “were stuffed with innumerable sorts of Trifles”. Examples of such trifles uncovered in our female heart include: chocolate, little shoes, lipgloss, miniature flowers and ice cream, whilst in our male heart we found: cars, guitars, little women in bikinis and computer games. We can see, therefore, that though the content of these hearts and brains has been somewhat altered since the 18th century, the basic structure remains the same. But however they may change in the future, I’m sure the inner workings of our stereotypical flirt shall continue to fascinate others throughout time.

A bemused onlooker studies the complex mating rituals of the Coquettes and Beaux

politics

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

The paradox of the 21st century

politics

onsensus is not the most common aspect of politics. Yet I would venture that there are two issues which attract it from right and left wing alike: global warming and third world poverty. There are few who are by now unfamiliar with the dire predictions of climate change: 200 million displaced by rising sea levels, floods in Europe, droughts in Africa and calamitous weather worldwide. Last June all the scientific academies of the G8, as well as those of Brazil, China and India, historically grouped together to accept the climate change argument. It is impossible to fully model something as complex as our climate. However, it is also unacceptable to ignore the strong indications coming from so much research into the subject. Global warming can no longer be ignored and, at least in political rhetoric, it is not. There are few who have not been moved by the plight of the third world. The fact that 1.1bn people live on under $1 a day is morally abhorrent. Even the nauseating predicament of having Bono and Bob Geldof appointed poverty’s champion has scarcely dimmed most people’s convictions on the subject. But in dealing with these

Toby Smith two issues the world faces a rather monumental problem: they contradict one another. Development of the third world means economic growth. Economic growth means carbon emissions— and lots of them. If our planet is unable to cope with the emissions generated by the relatively small population of the developed world, how will it deal with emissions generated by the rest of the world playing catch up? China, the economic story of the day, has experienced GDP growth of at least 9% for the past 25 years. This has lifted an estimated 300m people out of poverty and led to an 800% increase in average Chinese income. In total the world’s emerging economies managed to account for more than half of world GDP last year. The Economist, who produced that statistic, calls for celebration of this milestone. It is understandable that it does–such achievements have proved white elephants for economists and world leaders alike for decades. Now, as a result of this recent growth, many millions are experiencing improved living standards.

ALSO IN THIS SECTION 15—a land of milk and honey? the israeli/palestinian conflict 16—nice to EU: the perception of “superstate” 18—“uncritical lovers and unloving critics”: defending the united nations and the case for reform.

Yet there is a flipside to all this: emerging economies also now account for more than half of world energy consumption. China and India alone are planning 775 new coal fired plants. If you add the US to that, 850 new plants are planned which will generate an extra 2.7bn tons of CO 2 emissions. This absolutely dwarfs the commitments of the Kyoto countries to cut emissions by 483m–commitments that look very unlikely to be fulfilled anyway. The West therefore has got itself into rather a fix. It already produces unsustainable levels of CO 2 and seems unable to stop further increases. Yet the achievements of many emerging economies who are successfully tackling poverty and economic stagnation—which are wholeheartedly supported by the west—are compounding the problem past the point of no return. The longer we delay the harder it becomes to reverse global warming’s adverse effects. Sir Nicolas Stern, author of the government’s new report on the effects of climate change succinctly sums up the cumulative nature of the problem: “The sting is in the tale.” This problem needs to be tackled now and emissions cut within the next couple of decades–not doubled. The trillion dollar question is; how? Most scientists and economists advocate a combination of carbon taxes and greater spending on clean technology research. But can either of these things make a sufficient enough impact to reverse global warming in the face of booming global economic growth? The New York Times recently conducted a survey to discover which solutions climate experts tend to put at the top of their lists. It came up with seven steps to curb global warming, each of which would cut CO2 emissions by 1bn tonnes. Rather than bring cause for hope, for most readers it must have brought cause for despair. It included ideas to capture 90% of CO2 emissions from 800 new coal burning plants, the building of 880 new nuclear plants to replace coal ones, a 700 fold

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

politics

A land of milk and honey? Robin Jervis

Sir Nicholas Stern (left), at the publication of the Stern Review increase in electricity generated using solar technology and a 25% cut in electricity usage. Whilst none of these proposals is entirely impossible, it is fair to say that neither the willpower nor the technology to make them work seems likely in the near future. Unfortunately they do not even actively improve CO2 emissions. They simply offset the predicted increase of 7bn tonnes leaving emissions at today’s rates–levels which are already far more than our climate can cope with. Carbon taxes are an important impetus for the introduction of clean technology because by making fossil based energy more expensive they also make greener technology more attractive. They also provide vital funds necessary for energy research. Yet whilst their introduction into the EU and California is a positive step, the schemes have been fraught by problems and can never represent more than a complement to clean technologies, not a substitute. The problem presented is not an impossible one but the need for radical action is unquestionable. We cannot wait for utter catastrophe to deal with global warming–we must act now. It is as hypocritical as it is pointless to call for an end to first or third world growth. Yet the leaders of countries such as China, India and Brazil must accept the need to adopt more sustainable methods of

fuelling energy demands, or today’ s economic benefits will be enjoyed purely in the short term. Here is where the developed world must step in: it must invest in Research and Development on an unprecedented scale. It must present viable energy alternatives to emerging economies that allow them to continue to compete in the world market, not burden them down with insatiable costs. It must also take brave steps to invest in nuclear technology as this, for all its faults, does not produce carbon emissions. In short, the seemingly unrealistic ideas proposed in the New York Times must be forced into reality. All these things cost money. As the funding must come out of our pockets or be substituted from other public sectors, politicians must win over the general public to the cause and make them accept that sacrifices must be made. This is a difficult task. In response to Stern’s recent environmental report for the government, The Sun (our most popular newspaper) ran the headline “I’m saving the world…YOU have to pay for it”. The Daily Mail similarly described the report as “Phooey”. Massive steps need to be taken, especially in regard to political inertia, or soon it may be wiser to call for research into coping with a harsher climate rather than solving global warming itself.

alestine is an area which has been troubled by sectarian violence, racial hatred and religious extremism for several generations. With a cycle of violence stretching back over a century, will there ever be a peaceful and longlasting conciliation between the Israelis and the Palestinians? The history of this conflict serves only to highlight how desperate the situation has become. Although there has always been religious and ethnic diversity in the area, the first en masse arrivals of Zionist Jews began following European anti-Semitism in the late 19th century, and these provided the original spark for conflict. Violence between Arab and Jew began as early as the 1880s. However, the real tensions began following British administration after the First World War, which actively encouraged Jewish immigration into the area, dashing the hopes of Palestinians who wanted the country recognised as a single state. After the Second World War, amid much dismay from the Arab world, the UN created a state of Israel alongside an Arab state of Palestine. The repeated wars within the country and with it’s Arab neighbours have left thousands dead and have merely brewed resentment on both sides rather than resulting in a resolution of the conflict. Israel today is a country divided. The Palestinian Authority (PA) has been granted considerable control over the Gaza Strip and areas of the West Bank, although, following the election of Hamas, an Islamic extremist party and paramilitary organisation, Israel is much more cautious about how it lets the PA operate. Factions of Palestinians fight each other under the banners of Hamas or Fatah (a more moderate party), whilst Palestinian militants continue to attack Israeli targets from within the Gaza Strip. The reasons for such bloody hatred are fundamentally simple. Some Palestinians have been living in the area for centuries and see the region as rightfully theirs, whilst some Israelis see the area as the “promised land” left to them by God. Both Islam and Judaism share many holy sites within Jerusalem, leading to increased tension. However, in more modern terms, the resentment is much moreÎ

politics secular. Since the first Arab-Israeli war in 1945, Palestinians feel they are treated as an underclass in the country—governed under military control throughout the 20th century and left with inferior services, housing and land to their Israeli neighbours. Alongside harsh reprisals on the part of the Israeli security services, the population was left poor, embittered and angry. This resulted in the infitada (literally, “shaking off”; “uprising”) of the late 1980s and 2000, in which fundamentalism and extremism took hold of sections of the Palestinian resistance and led to the waves of suicide bombings and violence, further intensifying the circle of hate and mistrust with each reprisal and counter-reprisal. So how might a peaceful solution be drawn from this bitter feud? There have been many advances towards greater Palestinian autonomy, especially following the Israel pull-out of the Gaza strip in 2005. It is in the interests of all parties to have a peaceful resolution to the conflict. Israeli acts of aggression are becoming more and more unacceptable to the global community, as shown by the response of the UN to the IsraelLebanon war. The well of international sympathy for the Jews following the World War Two has long since dried up (although the Israeli cause still carries significant weight in the US, especially following the “war on terror”). Meanwhile, the continued violence and civil unrest was damaging the economy, making the country more dependent on

The UN partition plan for Palestine, passed in 1947, but never put into place. (Image licensed under the GFDL 1.2.)

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 international aid. The quartet of the US, EU, UN and Russia met in 2002 to discuss a two-state solution and such a scheme even met widespread approval in 2003. Unfortunately, as ever, the scheme was undermined by mistrust and violence. Suicide bombers and counterstrikes by the Israel security services began barely before the ink was dry on the agreement. Why would both parties actively undermine a universally beneficial agreement? Firstly, the Palestinian militant groups, much like their counterparts in Northern Ireland, lack a centralised control. Although the leaders of such groups as Hamas, Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad may sign ceasefires, the splintering of these groups means that their militants would not necessarily acknowledge such an agreement, especially since so many of these fighters and martyrs seek personal revenge against the Israelis. And in order to show a strong front, the Israeli government counters terrorist activity with large scale, some say disproportionate, use of force. This is often clumsy and not in the interests of peace, such as the dropping of a huge bomb on the apartment of a Hamas leader in 2002, killing both him and 16 civilians. In the same way, prominent assassinations of spiritual and community leaders like the murder of Sheikh Yassin in 2004 serve only to breed hatred rather than peace. With the Hamas government in control of Palestinian territory, acts of terrorism and their reprisals are set to continue well into the future. So is a political solution possible? One can only hope that soon there will be a way to thin the bloodshed in the country. However, it appears unlikely. The consistent build up of hostility over a century will not be easily diffused and there will always be conflict in such a religiously sensitive area. However, both Israel and the Palestinians could do much to reduce the cycle of violence that has plagued their existence, possibly with the help of the international community. Unfortunately, the US is unwilling to work alongside organisations such as Hamas for fear of being seen as soft on terror, and historically the UN appears to carry little weight in this conflict. Concessions from Israel appear to lead to an increased ability for terrorists to operate (such as in the Gaza rocket attacks of this summer) whilst many Palestinians feel that if they do not force their plight into the spotlight, nobody else will.

Nice to EU The perception of “superstate” Peter Hagen

n 2004, the ranks of the European Union were swelled by the admission of ten largely central European states. In January two more countries— Romania and Bulgaria—will accede, bringing membership to 27. In the face of power wielded by a central European government over an unprecedented number of people, questions concerning the reach of its authority have never been more pressing. If one were to believe the most Eurosceptic voices then the oppressive, arbitrary power of an authority centred in Brussels is already looming at the door of our long preserved national sovereignty. The Sun—ever the bastion of political neutrality—responded to the release of details concerning the Constitutional Treaty with the header: “Superstate Plans Revealed”. In a similar reaction, Michael Ancram claimed it was “…a gateway to a country called Europe”. A spectre, their language suggests, is haunting Europe—the spectre of supra-nationalism. Meanwhile, the pro-European voices are barely heard in the United Kingdom. To suggest that Europe is— or worse, should be—some kind of superstate, is the political equivalent of belching at the dinner table. If the Europhile were more vociferous though, one would hear a fairly robust defence against the body of antiEuropean fears. But the definition of superstate is hard to pin down, and can be adapted to the argument one wishes to support. The OED gives us “a dominant political community, especially one formed from an alliance or union of several nations”. On the face of it this seems a little tame—common perception of the EU would seem to suggest it is this and something rather more distant, rather more arbitrary. The controversial element of this definition lies in whether the EU is fulfills the criterion of “dominance”. It is certainly true that EU legislation has primacy over all that of individual member states. Similarly, decisions made by the European Court of Justice

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 (not to be confused with the Court of Human Rights) are supreme. These must both be accepted upon entrance along with the extensive volumes of directives, decisions and regulations which have already been passed. In this sense the EU is dominant. Critics squeal with displeasure at the erosion of British national sovereignty which this has entailed, even those who recognise it to be a “pooling” of sovereignty rather than an absolute surrender. However, a wider view of British national sovereignty reveals that it is not as water-tight a concept as its proponents might suggest. Policy can be dictated by even more arbitrary powers than the EU: NATO, the IMF, and— some might even say—the US. Moreover, the EU bodies to which the sovereignty is released contain representatives of our interests (as in the European Parliament or Council, and the Commission although it is supposed to be neutral). We also gain an amount of shared sovereignty over all other members. But the policy on where sovereignty should lie in the EU is rather more than this, and does not support fears of Brussels centralisation propounded by Eurosceptic tabloids or even prominent politicians such as Michael Howard. The question of what level sovereignty is, or should be held at is addressed in the corpus of EU treaties. Despite the commitment to “ever closer union” and “unity in diversity” (or “Einheit in Vielfalt” as the tabloids might suggest we will soon be saying), its guiding principle is one of “subsidiarity”. By this it means the cascading of sovereignty to the appropriate level—so whilst environmental concerns (which transcend national borders) would best be dealt with on an EU-wide level, it recognises the need for local authorities to make decisions which differ from place to place. The appeal of this principle is evident without much explanation—the only impediments being a loyalty to sovereignty impractically held at a national level. This principle is sadly not manifest. Whilst devolution occurred under admirable principles in the UK, there is no comprehensive drive towards the EU’s goal of subsidiarity. It may have the theoretical sovereignty to pass laws above the heads of its member states, but it certainly does not possess the raw power to bring about the principles it has dedicated itself to its constitutionlike treaties. What is the limiting factor

for the UK as an “awkward partner”? Europhobia. Those who dare to express warmth towards the EU in Britain are most often given a sound electoral thrashing. The EU cannot proceed to distribute sovereignty fairly when it is shackled to the popular appeal of politicians concerned with being re-elected— which of course, they always will be. This is not to say that the EU is without its own significant problems, which themselves lead to its perception as a “superstate”. Elections to its Parliament attract shockingly low turnout, raising questions about the legitimacy of its most democratic body. You could spend many happy but fruitless hours asking people on the street if they could name one of their MEPs—happy that is until egged (or worse argued at) by a member of the local UKIP brigade. This

politics lack of awareness, the lack of democratic credentials, and the utter disinterest of its citizens, are significant forces behind the hammer which slowly nails closed the coffin of subsidiarity and a practical distribution of sovereignty. So are the wider concerns of where power should lie to be forgotten then, amidst a torrent of immigration caveats and sceptical editions of the Daily Populist and Sceptic’s Times? As the pressure on EU institutions increases with the widening into further—and culturally very different—states, and as its influence expands, these questions can surely only become more vital to resolve. Why not, then, as we will soon find it increasingly easy to do, start a discussion with a Romanian or Bulgarian about the power and role of the EU and how it has affected them?

politics

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

“Uncritical lovers and unloving critics” Defending the United Nations and the case for reform

n an election process as exclusive as the Vatican’s papal conclave, the South Korean diplomat Ban Kimoon will soon succeed Kofi Annan as the Secretary General of the United Nations. In his acceptance speech to the General Assembly, Mr Ban stated his intention to oversee a “common agenda of reform and revitalization… We should demand more of ourselves as well as of our Organization”. The topic of reform has clambered up the agenda of the General Assembly in recent years in correspondence with the persistent criticism which has been directed towards the United Nations. Criticism and opposition are inevitable for an organisation so unquestionably consequential. David J. Whittaker wryly claims that the UN “muddles through watched by ‘uncritical lovers and unloving critics’”. It seems that in recent years the UN’s position in global public opinion has been perpetually undermined by consistent rhetorical attack, as it has been criticised variously as irrelevant, inefficient, incompetent and illegitimate.

Rob Perkins spends every 32 hours—the United Nations is still the best investment that the world can make”. She does not equate bureaucratic size to bureaucratic waste. However, a potent example of such inefficiency occurred this week in the election of a non-permanent member to the Security Council. The competition between Guatemala and Venezuela was deadlocked for 47 rounds. Last month, Panama was confirmed as the compromise candidate after a consensus could not be reached.

Mozambique and Cyprus. As Albright points out, “such weaknesses…are inherent in the voluntary and collective nature….When the going gets tough, the tough tend to go wherever they want…Peacemaking is a hard, dangerous, and often thankless task”. These failures both scar and inform the UN’s continual efforts to improve the world. The best answer to criticisms of this nature is to learn from the tragic past as Timo Krizner, the Slovenian author imprisoned in Darfur, pleads. He insists that “there must be UN intervention and it must go now, today. But it must be a mission that is planned…

Inefficiency & Incompetence

ne of the most common criticisms of the UN is that it has become a bureaucratic behemoth. Cumbersome, wasteful and unwieldy in its administrative structures, it is proving to be woefully inefficient. The UN is certainly a prodigious institution. It has a membership of 192 nation states. It employs more than 50,000 people, and is composed of hundreds of subsidiary committees, boards and commissions which range from the World Health Organisation to the Ad Hoc Committee on the Scope of Legal Protection under the Convention on the Safety of United Nations and Associated Personnel. Its jurisdiction ranges over international peace and security, economic and social development, humanitarianism, and international law. Annan himself recognises that “the UN is expected to deliver more services to more people in more places than ever before”. Madeleine Albright, former US representative to the UN, asserts that because the UN’s annual budget of approximately $1.25 billion is “roughly what the Pentagon

The UN security council chamber. The mural depicts a phoenix rising from the ashes, symbolising the rebuilding of the world after the Second World War. Related to this is the criticism of incompetence and solemn allegations of corruption and criminality among UN employees. The UN’s beleaguered image is weakened by current allegations of peacekeeping violations like the rape of Congolese refugees. The UN has in particular been dogged by recent high profile failings such as the Srebrenica massacre and the Rwanda genocide. These were horrifying failures of the entire international community, and the UN, at the forefront of the humanitarian and peacekeeping endeavour, is haunted more by these failures than it is cheered by its comparative successes in Cambodia,

We must consider the lessons learnt…” It is certainly justifiable to accuse the UN of inefficiency in some areas. Two weeks ago a panel including Gordon Brown condemned the UN, claiming that “inefficient and ineffective governance and unpredictable funding have contributed to policy incoherence, duplication and operational ineffectiveness”. In Pakistan for example, 75 programme goals were outlined without consulting the government. The panel recommended reforms which would coordinate all UN work at a national level. This critique is the one most frequently targeted in the internal reform agendas. Kofi Annan’s

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 recent UN reforms included addressing “oversight and accountability, information and communications technology…financial management practices…public access to UN documentation…”. The streamlining of internal bureaucratic apparatus is frequently proposed by most major corporations and institutions, and scope for such reform is recognised within the UN hierarchy itself as not only necessary, but supremely beneficial. Irrelevance & Illegitimacy

he UN’s reputation has been undeniably tarnished by the Iraq war. America’s declaration of the “coalition of the willing” circumvented the disunited and fractious Security Council, which meant that the war in Iraq was, according to UN constitution, illegal. The Council was emasculated in its ability to inhibit what was perceived as American unilateralism. Its relevance has been called into question as a global arbiter of international dis-

to the self- satisfied, narrow-minded, and micro-hearted minority, but to most of the world’s populations, it remains highly relevant indeed”. The implication of bias, however, leads to perhaps the most profound critique of the United Nations. The example of perceived anti-US bias does not reflect the prevalent fears regarding the power structures and legitimacy of the UN. The UN, being moulded by the victorious alliance of World War Two powers, is a reflection of the power structures of this period. The UN is not a government and relies on obligatory contributions from its members. Those contributions are outstripped by voluntary support of the wealthier states, especially America and Japan, who between them constituted 37.98% of the total amount provided in 1999. The controversies of funding in this fashion surround the belief that an inherent imbalance in favour of the wealthiest member states exists. The Security Council is the most contentious example of the fundamen-

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It is as pure an expression of humanity as the world of politics has ever managed, and that it has been sustained and strengthened since its conception in 1945 is a remarkable achievement.

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putes, and its image of irrelevancy has not been alleviated in the current concerns over the nuclear capabilities of Iran and North Korea. Those who supported the Iraq war have condemned the UN for an anti-American bias. Clare Short claimed that “many in the US hate the UN… The US wants to use the UN to tell everyone else what they must do and is increasingly willing to use its power to bully and punish those who get in its way”. The irrelevancy critique flounders when applied beyond the Security Council’s ability to negate hegemony. The breadth of United Nations activity influences the livelihood and welfare of every individual, group and institution, and any inference of irrelevance can be quashed by a wealth of anecdotal evidence which would surpass this article’s word count many times. As Albright recognises, “the United Nations may seem useless

tal democratic deficit which is the source of so much rancour and mistrust. The Council is comprised of five permanent members: America, Britain, China, Russia and France. These countries represent the World War Two victors. The remaining seats, as indicated earlier, are rotated among the other member states. The concerns are self-explanatory, and the Security Council’s fundamental flaws are indicative of broader legitimacy concerns, regarding how the UN can be held to account and can fairly represent its global community if they are not also a global electorate. The desires, both to hold to account those who help shape the global environment and to feel fairly represented in the arena where the decisions of history are made, underpin many of the criticisms of the UN. These grievances are extremely complex. They are also

politics rarely addressed by those within the United Nations system, where the majority of internally sanctioned reforms focus on the politically manageable dimension of streamlining and efficiency. Reform measures for these critiques are often initiated outside the UN itself, in groups like the Committee for a Democratic UN, which desires a Parliamentary Assembly to “create world institutions vested with legal, political and executive authority with which problems may be approached which can only be coped with adequately on the global level”. The Permanent Virtue

his article should be in no way interpreted as a condemnation of the United Nations. The language of reform should not be cloaked in the language of failure, as in Tony Blair’s assertion that “there is a hopeless mismatch between the global challenges we face and the global institutions that confront them”. The criticisms acknowledged here reveal the reality of the reform agenda. These grievances may certainly be genuine. That they in most cases require redress is conspicuous. Change is a constant, and it is reform which revitalises and strengthens the organisation that has perhaps the most profound influence on international affairs and the welfare of the global population. But fundamentally, the UN is an expression of an ideal. It is not, as cynics and critics suggest, merely designed with the manipulative agenda of projecting a Westernised conception of perfection onto the world. It is as pure an expression of humanity as the world of politics has ever managed, and that it has been sustained and strengthened since its conception in 1945 is a remarkable achievement. It must not be allowed to fade in a quagmire of unresolved aspersion. Instead it must meet the challenges that confront it in order to re-energise its holistic dedication to the best interests of the entire global community. As the Secretary General Designate Mr Ban affirms, “Given the enduring purposes and inspiring principles of our Organization, we need not shout its praises or preach its virtues. We simply need to live them every day: step by step, program by program, mandate by mandate…To revitalize our common endeavour is to renew our faith not only in the UN’s programs and purposes but also in each other”.

arts

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

Cinema’s Digital Revolution

arts/music

n film theory, the discussions of what defines cinema classically revolve around the questions of either format or narrative. Is it film editing that makes cinema what it is, or the use of different focal lengths, the focus, or the frame? On the other hand, most viewers equate cinema with story-telling; so is the unique way that cinema can impart narrative the key to its identity? What most of these questions forget is that at heart, cinema is basically live action films. That is, cinema’s identity is constructed through photographic recordings of real events which took place in a real space. While a character in a film is fictional, the actor portraying the character nonetheless occupied that physical space. And while the images can be modified using light, filters, and lenses, the cinematic image is like a footprint in sand—it is a recording of reality. More than just that, it is the attempt to make art out of that footprint. With the advent of digital cinema, however, that very basis of cinema has to be redefined. It is now possible to generate photorealistic cinematic images using computer graphics while we as the viewers have no way of knowing whether it was actually filmed or not. While cinema evolved from animation, it soon strove to

Marin Hirschfeld define itself in its early stages as an objective and untampered recording of reality. But as cinema becomes digital it is reverting to those origins. I would argue that digital cinema today is no longer an unmitigated recording of reality but instead a return to animation. Some of cinema’s original names testify to the fact that, in its origin, it is simply the art of moving pictures. Early techniques of displaying moving images such as the Kinetoscope, the Cinematograph and many others essentially evolved from projection shows popular in the 18th century. In 1789 Paul Philidor created what may have been the first true “Phantasmagoria” show, a combination of séance parlor tricks and projection effects, which he toured across Berlin, Vienna and Paris. The most famous of the ghost showmen of the late 18th century was the Belgian inventor and physicist, EtienneGaspard Robert, more commonly known by his stage name Etienne Robertson. In 1797 Robertson took his show to Paris where he staged hauntings using lanterns, smoke and special sound effects in an abandoned crypt in Paris. Though quite

ALSO IN THIS SECTION 23—art or advertisement: selling the dream, the warhol way 25—rhinos and woolfs in the barn: dramasoc’s year so far 28—prog on the barrow downs

varied, these proto-cinematic devices nonetheless shared a number of basic characteristics: firstly, they relied on hand drawn or hand painted images and secondly, they were animated by hand. Optical toys such as the thaumatrope—a plate with an image on either side and strings attached, which when twirled would superimpose the one image over the other—or the zoetrope, a rotating cylinder with single frames drawn in a loop which would become animated when viewed from a fixed perspective— were also hugely popular in the 19th century. Then, in the 1890s, the automatic generation of images and their automatic projection were finally combined. The scientist and photographer Étienne-Jules Marey invented a “chronophotographic gun”—essentially the first portable film camera— which could capture sequential images at twelve frames per second. Thomas Edison’s kinetoscope was the first truly modern cinematic device, creating the illusion of movement by using a continuous loop of celluloid film frames over a light source with a rapid shutter. The British electrician and scientific instrument maker Robert W. Paul then pioneered the idea of displaying moving pictures for group audiences rather than individual viewers and invented the modern film projector, giving his first public showing in 1895. Meanwhile in France, the brothers Auguste and Louis Lumière invented the Cinematograph, which was an allround cinematic apparatus encompassing camera, developer, printer and projector. The Parisian Georges Méliès also began shooting and projecting films in 1896. He specialized in science-fiction and fantasy films, including the 1902 A Trip to the Moon, and created special effects techniques that remained fundamentally in use for most of the 20th century. Edwin S. Porter pioneered film editing in films like The Great Train Robbery of 1903, the first real Western. Porter was the first to argue that the basic unit of structure in a film is the shot, rather than the scene. It soon became clear that moving pictures were more than just a passing

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 trend and as a result there was a huge boom in nickelodeons—the first real, permanent cinemas. By 1908 there were 10,000 nickelodeons in the United States alone. As the technology continued to develop and become more stable, it distanced itself from its origins in animation. Animation became a subgenre of film, an unwanted relation relegated to the task of entertaining children. 20th century animation became the heir to the 19th century techniques of moving images. While cinema aimed to erase the traces of its own production and simply (re)present reality, animation overtly admitted its status as artificial representation by not being photorealistic but rather using sparsely detailed animated characters in the foreground and a non-interactive, stationary background. Of course there are many examples of live action films which depict alternative and fictional realities. But even fantasy and science-fiction films like the original Star Wars trilogy are nonetheless part of this tradition of portraying reality. The images might not actually be filmed on location in the Death Star, but they are filmed in a studio. The cinematic images are testament to the fact that actors occupied a physical space–regardless of what that space is meant to represent. To alter the reality of the image in classical cinema therefore meant to actually alter reality–using studios, miniature sets, models and special effects like light and smoke. But in the late eighties, Sony began marketing the concept of “electronic cinematography”, the digital recording of images and sound. One of the earliest developments of truly digital technology was digital sound, implemented in the early 1990s with the rise of the compact disc. At present there are three digital sound systems in use: Universal’s DTS; Sony’s SDDS; and Dolby 5.1 and Digital. While not the norm until about 2002, digital cameras are being used increasingly in anything from Hollywood blockbusters such as Star Wars Episode III to independent arthouse films like A Cock and Bull Story. Digital projection is only used in a handful of cinemas worldwide, as the conversion from normal to digital projection is very expensive. Digital nonlinear editing programmes, such as Apple’s FinalCut Pro, have become

arts

A scene from A Scanner Darkly.

Independent Pictures.)

the standard and, like digital sound mastering, they allow images and sequences to be edited with far greater ease and with no loss of quality compared to earlier systems. There are two forms of digital manipulation of images which are now used constantly, often without the viewer being aware. The first is image processing, in which the lighting and tint of a shot, as well as the removal of flaws, can be rearranged; the second is CGI (Computer Generated Imagery) where anything from characters interacting with real actors to composite landscapes are created. The first real CGI character was created by Pixar for the film Young Sherlock Holmes in 1985. CGI was not really considered photorealistic enough by the film industry and therefore rarely used until The Abyss won an Oscar for special effects in 1989. In 1991, Terminator 2 presented the T-1000 Terminator villain which was created using liquid metal and morphing effects that were fully integrated into live action sequences. Terminator 2 also won an Oscar for

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its effects. Especially in the early days of digital effects, George Lucas’ Industrial Light and Magic (ILM) pioneered many of the effects now in general use, while his Pixar—later sold to Steve Jobs and now owned by Disney—has specialised in fully animated CGI films. Further milestones in CGI were in 1999 with Star Wars: Episode I which was the first film to feature a CGI character wearing fabric; The Matrix which introduced “bullet-time” and 360° virtual camera pans; and the fully animated CGI film Final Fantasy in 2001. Effectively, these developments mean that at present practically every film released both in cinemas and for home viewing is a digital film. Every aspect of film-making, from the recording to the actual cinematic image and its projection has become digital. How does this affect the principles of filmmaking? First of all, rather than filming actual reality, it is now possible to generate any image using CGI. Secondly, when live action footage is filmed digitally or converted into a digital format it loses thatÎ

Images are no longer recorded by light falling through a lens and reacting with raw film stock at 24 frames per second, they are created in a computer. There may or may not be certain elements which are still filmed using sets and actors, but even they will have been tampered with in post-production.

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arts

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 unique relationship with reality. The computer—and ultimately the filmmaker—does not distinguish between images that are filmed and images that are created artificially. Cinema is no longer a footprint of reality. Thirdly, whereas special effects were previously part of the filming process, they are now a part of postproduction and have almost become synonymous with editing. Where filmmakers would have to have countless retakes or wait for certain light levels, everything is now done using post-production software. Ultimately this means that cinema is no longer a recording but rather a creative medium. Images are no longer recorded by light falling through a lens and reacting with raw film stock at 24 frames per second, they are created in a computer. There may or may not be certain elements which are still filmed using sets and actors, but even they will have been tampered with in post-production. However, this is not meant to be a nostalgic lament back to the old days of analogue cinema because at heart, the effects on the audience remain the same in digital cinema. The French film critic André Bazin describes the 1951 film Where No Vultures Fly, in which dramatic tension is created in a shot where a lioness is stalking a child. To him, it is “this single frame in which trickery is out of the question that gives it immediate and retroactive authenticity.” The dramatic effect on the viewer is so strong because of the awareness that a real lion occupied the same physical space as a child actor. But the identical effect is achieved in for example Jurassic Park, where the dinosaurs and actors only come together in a virtual space. This same relationship exists between classic Jackie Chan films, in which we know that he does his own stunts and are therefore impressed with the action scenes, and films like The Matrix, where we know that the stunts are physically impossible but as they nonetheless look believable we are just as impressed. Two recent films perfectly illustrate digital cinema’s new identity, namely Richard Linklater’s Waking Life and A Scanner Darkly. Both were filmed using digital cameras and then, in a process called digital rotoscoping, each frame of the shot footage was traced over, essentially

turning it into an animated film. Waking Life follows a young man as he observes and participates in pseudo-philosophical discussions about the nature of dreams and reality, while A Scanner Darkly is an adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s novel. Set in the near future it is about a narcotics cop chasing a drug dealer—the twist being that due to drug use, they are in fact the same person with a spilt personality disorder. The quality of the plots may be debatable, but the key is that the nature of the images presented underline the fact that cinema today has returned to animation. While the paradoxical nature of the process of rotoscoping means that we as the viewers can still discern that part of the images were recorded, the nature of digital images however means that we can no longer differentiate between what was recorded and what was created. These two films represent the future of filmmaking.

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I am not claiming that all films in the future will look like A Scanner Darkly. For one thing, the process of creating each frame is extremely expensive—each minute of film takes about 500 hours to complete.

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Obviously, I am not claiming that all films in the future will look like A Scanner Darkly. For one thing, the process of creating each frame is extremely expensive—each minute of film takes about 500 hours to complete. However, these films overtly show the nature of the cinematic image at present. An image that is created rather than recorded. The digital revolution means that cinema has reverted to what it originally was intended to be: simply the art of moving images.

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

arts

Art or Advertisement? Selling the dream, the Warhol way

aving recently been thrown into the most unnatural of situations, university accommodation, I found myself facing the reality of having to live, for the best part of a year, with my mortal enemy: a physicist. Add to this equation copious amounts of alcohol, sleep deprivation and irregular eating habits, and the result was always bound to be an explosive one. The occasional spot of banter and debate were only to be expected. Events inevitably came to a head one night when, after far too many glasses of a substance suspiciously masquerading itself as an alcopop, I was confronted with a red-faced, rather dizzy roommate who unceremoniously blurted in my ear “Art, eh? What’s the point?”. I have removed the more colourful words used, so as not to offend, but you get the drift. I could not sleep that night, no matter how much I told myself that he was a closed-minded ignoramus with no capacity for creative sensitivity. The truth was, I knew then, as I do now, that this was exactly what many people think. It seems one cannot stumble through a contemporary exhibition now without contemplating, or vocalizing, these thoughts. Who has not mumbled, “a five year old could have done that better” to themselves whilst walking through the aisles of the Tate Modern, no matter their own artistic ability or knowledge? Contemporary art, in particular, has been demonised by a musty aura of subjectivity, snobbery and suspicion, much of which is only exasperated by those within it. I believe it time to address this overwhelming image-problem, if you will excuse the pun. It is the age old problem. In a world that thrives on newness and originality, especially within art, can anything truly “original” really exist anymore? Is there anything “fine” about it now? What is not classified as art these days? It is only by asking these questions with the artist’s own problem in mind that we can begin to understand art as a solution to its own questions. Art (and by that I mean visual art) is, after all, a

Moran Sheleg unique product of humanity, along with music and literature. Its reputation of aloofness and detachment from society is therefore nonsensical. With this in mind, let us approach this as a physicist may do the theory of relativity; by using a model as an example. My weapon of choice? Andy Warhol. Let me paint you a picture, set you a scene, against which we may examine the role of contemporary art within contemporary society. Against an inky purple, smouldering background, one of the few indestructible commercial icons of modern times stands, bright as a red-hot poker tip sinking into the eye. Andy Warhol’s 1985 silkscreen print Chanel hangs in a gallery window just off London’s Bond Street; the

showpiece of the exhibition striking passers-by as they scurry into shops and clamour to become part of the dream that dangles before them. One glance at the glowing, square form and they are touched by a world eternally beyond their grasp, yet for a moment so close, promising great things if only they part with the relatively small amount of money needed to purchase a piece of glory; a bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume. All this from one simple image. The wonder of Warhol is his ability to extract the iconic from the ordinary. His series of “Ads”, of which Chanel was originally one of ten silkscreen prints depicting iconic American exports, have transcended their function to become something quintessentially Warholian; they beg the question “When does advertisement become art?”. Î

Can’t think of what to get mum for Christmas?

arts Indeed, the artist’s self-professed dogma of “Art as Business and Business as Art” seems an apt description. The work treads a fine line, one which fits into neither category completely, instead teetering on the edge of both to transcend classification, while naming itself brashly with its own divine purpose. As highlighted by Benjamin Buchloh, Warhol had an innate awareness of the “rapidly changing relationships between the two spheres of visual representation and of the drastic changes of the artist’s role and the audience’s expectation at the beginning of the fifties”. Warhol’s work is both a commentary on, and a product of, the contemporary society for whom, and from which, it was produced. With a background based firmly in commercial illustration, Warhol was no stranger to the power of imagery within marketing. His experience

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the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 materials for his prints. With such concentration placed on surface, it is necessary to take notice of the medium used to create the image. The silkscreen print is, to date, the simplest and cheapest of all printing processes. In order to produce a multi-tonal screen such as Chanel, several separate screens are prepared for each block colour and are then printed one after the other, each colour being pushed through the open part of the screen by a stroke of the squeegee. The result is a unique, highly artificial and perfect image. By using the most accessible and disposable of mediums and materials to depict commonplace objects, Warhol conjures the antithesis of ordinary; a haunting, glamorous and archly ironic incarnation of commercial beauty. As for the depiction itself, a strange contradiction is represented within the simple lines of its form.

What is an image if not a message? If that message be one of commercial merit, is it necessarily less “artistic”? The endurance of an image, whether high art or high street, is what makes it successful.

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was based in selling an ideal, whether that be in the form of a shoe or, in his later works, that of a person. In this way, Warhol can be described as a maker of dreams, an architect of icons. An icon, in the traditional sense, is a representation of godliness, something out of this world, set apart from the everyday reality of human life, but expressed in human form. Warhol uses the medium of print to turn the idea of icon on its head, juxtaposing material and form with content. Moreover, he claimed “I never read, I just look at pictures”. It is this approach that changed public attitude and created a new way of seeing, by demanding attention to everyday, consumerist objects, one of the key concerns of the Pop Art movement. To understand the purpose and message of Warhol and his work, one may simply look at the chosen

The solidity of the bottle is jeopardised by its mirage-like appearance, its ghostly white and luminous outlines, making it look as fragile as the glass which forms its real life counterpart. The mesmerising, amoebiclike shapes which dance upon the bottle’s shoulders and neck add movement and dimension to the otherwise flat, rigid form. Then the label, stark white and fixed in the very middle of the screen, demands the eye’s attention, dispelling any misunderstanding by showing the viewer exactly what it is: a label. This balancing of elements eliminates the danger of the image lacking personality, potentially turning it into a poster or crude, simplistic representation. Chanel instead uses this delicate detail alongside blunt minimalism to create an elegant aura of intangibility; the clean, almost unnaturally perfect lines give it an other-worldly status. It is no

longer an object; it has become a symbol of everything to which society aspires. By seeing it, we see ourselves and the futility of contemporary existence, regardless of whether this is the artist’s intention or not. Paul Bergin has remarked on Warhol’s ability to “see without reflecting” and to “reproduce without understanding”, likening the artist to a machine. If this were the correct interpretation of Warhol-asartist, then the only possible purpose for Chanel would be to market alone, and not to question or even to aesthetically please. This, however, still does not make it implausible as art. In many instances, art is inseparable from advertisement. What better way for an artist to showcase his talents, as well as to gain financial success by securing a patron, and personal fame, than by using his art as promotion? In fact, all art can be viewed as an advertisement for something; a way of life, a belief, a school of thought, as well as the artist’s own skill and talent. What is an image if not a message? If that message be one of commercial merit, is it necessarily less “artistic”? The endurance of an image, whether high art or high street, is what makes it successful. 20 years on, Warhol’s Chanel continues to hold its grip on the cultural mindset. The fashion house, 75 years old last year, celebrated the anniversary by using reproductions of Warhol’s silkscreen to decorate Macy’s department store in New York. Although it may be easy to criticise and discredit it as inconsequential memorabilia with a gimmicky edge, and so to condemn much contemporary art along with it, it would be wrong to do so. The sheer nature of art lends itself to interpretation and reproduction, whether it be for use in an exhibition or on a billboard. Warhol’s understanding of this sets him apart from other artists of his era, in that his is the view of the future, an art that constantly looks forward and coldly predicts things to come. It is within Ads, and particularly evident in Chanel, that the relationship between consumerism and the idealised world (Hollywood, for example) is exposed, as opposed to explored. Although contemporaries such as Roy Lichtenstein captured a

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 similar idea within their art, none seemed more reluctant to admit to meaning than Warhol. Whilst Lichtenstein, the creator of similarly functional images such as Kitchen Stove, states that “[Pop Art] is an involvement with what I think to be the most brazen and threatening characteristics of our culture, things we hate, but which are also powerful in their impingement on us”, Warhol emphasises that all is but surface. Yet it would be impossible to understand or even recognise the image, despite its label, without some contextual knowledge of contemporary western society. So in this way the very surface is what, ultimately, makes Chanel both iconic and ironic. This is the shadow under which every artist since Warhol and his gargantuan vision has had to create their own unique solution to the common problem. Not since Picasso has there been such a prolific and absolute influence on the world of visual art in modern times; what room is left for the aspiring artist? Some, such as the Hirsts and Emins of the world turn to shock tactics, while others prefer a regression back to the fundamentals of the traditionally respected and “high brow” mediums of paint and marble. Yet all face a common problem; producing originality in this mass produced age of recycling, restoration and reprimand. No other subject known to man is disregarded as hastily as visual art, despite its prominence in the history of man’s endeavours. If science deals with the big questions of the universe and the world outside of human existence, then art is surely its equivalent in cultural and humanitarian terms. What other practice studies the accumulative influence of society, psychology, class, race, natural environment and politics upon humanity as completely and uniquely as visual art? Some contemporary art may be brash, gaudy or achingly self-conscious, but that is exactly its point: art is a reflection of the human state at any given time in history. That does not mean that it should be regarded as any less valid, or less worthy, than any other activity used by human beings to understand the nature of our own existence, and, to a greater extent, the existence of Creation; Physics, Art, and all.

Rhinos and Woolfs in the Barn

ithout wishing to descend into some kind of unappetising mutual love fest, The Zahir feels it really ought to congratulate DramaSoc on its efforts this term. The line-up of plays is notably heavyweight, featuring the likes of Albee, Ionesco and Miller—to name but three—and yet, somehow, productions of great quality are put on every week at the Barn. Our reviewers have been to see three plays so far and are eagerly awaiting the season finale, Miller’s The Crucible in week 9. Their thoughts have been published on our website (www.thezahir.co.uk); if you’ve missed them, here are two.

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (week 3) Edward Fortes

ess than two weeks before curtain-up, considerable doubt was cast over the fate of the ambitious opening Drama Barn production of the new year, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. The performance rights for Albee’s play, notoriously difficult to get hold of for amateur productions, were suddenly withheld: threats of free, “educational performances” in the Dixon Studio and plain cancellation loomed large and unpleasant on the DramaSoc committee’s agenda. As one might imagine, enlisting the help of a professional theatre director passing through town invariably helps to smooth out these kinds of creases, and a couple of phone calls later Edward Albee was granting permission for the show to go ahead himself. With the above in mind, merely to set foot in the Barn can be counted a considerable achievement for James Spinney, his cast and crew, let alone their providing those lucky enough to see it with, undoubtedly, one of the most engaging, entertaining and affecting shows of recent years. I use the word “engaging”, and this was by far and away the production’s greatest strength. It has been pointed out on more than one occasion that the

arts Barn is not the most comfortable of venues for the spectator; in even the shortest of plays there is a danger of one’s attention drifting, most likely in the desperate pursuit of the notion that there must be some more comfortable way of slouching on those seating blocks. Incidentally there never is, but this only amplifies the already daunting challenge of putting on Albee’s classic play in its entirety, free of any notable cuts in the script, at a running time of well over three hours. The insertion of two intervals instead of the conventional one therefore appeared excessive at first glance; in practice it proved a very shrewd decision however. In basic terms, the promise of few minutes’ rest at both natural breaks in the play, at the end of each act, gave the audience something to aim for; it enabled them to acknowledge the structure of the action in their own minds by presenting

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Numerous sequences, in the hands of a less capable cast, might have dissolved into mere shouting displays or melodramatic stand-offs

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it in manageable portions, each of which could then be appreciated both for its own merit as well as its place in the increasing tension of the whole. As such, rather than dreading the return to aforementioned seating after each part, one was eager to see more. This very measured, controlled approach was particularly admirable in a play where the small detail, the passing comment, and all the psychological intricacy of the conflicts being played out are so important. It was a great relief then that, with ample evidence that those behind the scenes had a clear grasp of the material, the actors’ performances should emulate this sense of “control” in their respective portrayals of the four intense characters. More than a huge challenge in terms of lines, Albee’s script places considerable demands on the actors to strike the right emotional balance, and they allÎ

arts grabbed their opportunities to shine. Numerous sequences, in the hands of a less capable cast, might have dissolved into mere shouting displays or melodramatic stand-offs but, starting with Anna Rohde’s Martha and Patrick Rogers’s George, those moments of duality—where the boundaries between relatively light-hearted matrimonial banter and blunt, vehement dislike begin to blur—were beautifully exploited. While it might be said that it took the cast a moment to get into their rhythm—the timing of the opening exchange between the main couple might have been sharper—once they had settled into things very seldom did they hit a wrong note. The tense, “push and pull” nature of Martha and George’s relationship was consistently well evoked, particularly in the cold, face-to-face, downstage-centre confrontations between Rohde and Rogers, or indeed in the former’s menacing persistence in, “Honestly, George, you really burn me up!” […] “You really do, George.” […] “You really do.” Rogers, on his side, gave to George a complete body and mind for the audience to examine: half aging, cynically-witty academic, full of dismissive gesture, half calmer (and quieter) husband masking a certain tired vulnerability— as if these games should have stopped

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the tense, “push and pull” nature of Martha and George’s relationship was consistently well evoked, particularly in the cold, face-to-face, downstage-centre confrontations between Rohde and Rogers, or indeed in the former’s menacing persistence in, “Honestly, George, you really burn me up!”

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the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006 long ago but he cannot deny them to Martha—and he shifted between positions with remarkable ease. Moreover, in their rare moments alone onstage, both leads handled the demands of greater introspection with huge amounts of presence. Rogers’s reading of The Decline and Fall of the West had a suitably regretful, rueful quality, before accurately bringing all his imbedded frustration to the surface, as he dashed the book against the chimes. Similarly, Rohde alternated very nicely in the opening speech of the final Act between an endearing kookiness (“Clink! Clink” as she taps on the glass, giggling) and the thinly-veiled selfexamination that the ultimately vulnerable Martha is conducting at this stage. Elsewhere, Alan Stewart and Emma Charnley slotted into what are not easy supporting roles. For one thing they demand consistent focus, as the younger couple spend great lengths of time onstage in complete silence, only reacting to George and Martha’s sparring as and when the older couple deem it useful. Although providing the necessary, “oblivious and ditsy” comic-relief, Charnley did not fall into the twodimensional trap Honey might present; while her hysteria perhaps jarred in a couple of instances, she responded to the greater demands placed on her in her exchange with George, when she reveals the true reasons why they have no children, eliciting our pity for Honey’s basic immaturity. Alan Stewart made Nick the necessarily cocksure young gun—“the future”, as he is branded for his alignment with Biology—particularly in his bouts with George, it was only a shame that his accent should be somewhat hit-and-miss during the second and third Acts, proving distracting on the odd occasion. Of the few criticisms that one can level at Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? then, only one is worthy of particular note. One of the reasons why the “Games” played between the two couples become increasingly daring and intrusive lies in the characters’ almost unabated drinking throughout the action. Unfortunately here one had little sense that the continual imbibing was affecting them in any significant way, and consequently part of the more realistic justification of their actions was lost. It only needed the odd stumble into a table or chair every so often, just to remind the audience that inhibitions are being lost and politeness disregarded, but only Emma Charnley’s Honey

gave any real sense of progressing drunkenness. That said, the detail came to light only in retrospect; at the time it did not seem to matter overly, and in the end it cannot detract from the scale of the production’s achievement in such a short amount of preparation time. As expected, it was a marathon evening, but thankfully one more than worth the running; indeed amid all the phrasemaking, back-biting and plain abuse that goes on among these four people, the production still managed to be consistently affecting in those slower, quieter moments. In short—and very simply—one cared, and by the time George was singing “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” in his turn (rather more softly than Martha once did) and she meekly admits that, “I…am…George…I…am” you could hear a pin drop. My heart fell with it.

Rhinoceros (week 7) Chris Samiullah

hinoceros is not an easy play to put on, and this production suffered the loss of two of the main actors with just days before it was to be performed. Nonetheless, the play went ahead with the director, Nikolaus Morris, and the producer, Anna Rohde, admirably stepping in. With this in mind, the play was very good, achieving a balance of thought provoking dialogue and emotive imagery. The necessary cutting of a few scenes did not significantly alter the impact of the story, though Ionesco die-hards might object. Eugène Ionesco wrote Rhinoceros as a reaction to Nazism, it is a play primarily about conformity but also relates to many other themes like individuality, the human condition and a variety of political ideologies. On the surface, the plot is simple, and in typical Ionesco style, absurdist, with an entire town progressively turning into rhinoceroses until only one man remains. This man, Berenger, must deal with seeing the office girl he has a crush on and then his friend, Jean, turn into rhinoceroses. Obviously, there is an element of farce about the action, but it was dealt with well, with sightings of rhinoceroses signalled by a combination of apt techniques. These varied from crowds

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exchanges. However, the key scenes were strong. Alan Stewart put in a great performance as Jean, who has an extremely challenging scene at the end of the play where he must very slowly turn into a rhinoceros, whilst still conversing in quite philosophical terms (“I am misanthropic!”). There is a danger at that point for over-acting, but a commendable compromise was struck, with his transformation powerful but not hysterical. James Duckworth made a great supporting contribution as the Logician, his ultra-stoic tones working well to emphasise the absurdity his statements. The performance seemed to grow in strength as time went on, and I would expect that audiences on Saturday and Sunday will see a smoother show as the cast adjust to last minute changes. This version of Rhinoceros has no interval, since it is almost exactly 90 minutes. This productions strength lies in its ability to impart the ideas of the play onto the audience without appearing forced or patronising. Ionesco’s play makes for an interesting evening, with moments both profound and extremely funny. The director and cast have pulled off a tough piece with style and maturity.

www.thezahir.co.uk

shrieking in alarm, to symbolic dance sequences. Indeed, the dancing was one of the most smoothly implemented aspects of the play, with the dancers managing the impressive feat of being convincing rhinoceroses. Intriguing movements that were a combination of lumbering and rushing constituted the excellent choreography which was also was complimented by very appropriately chosen costumes, with the dancer’s hats also giving them a slightly sinister aura. The venue itself was helpful in that it is a very intimate affair, and the feeling that one is surrounded is easier to accomplish. The sombre music, punctuated with pounding drums during rhinoceros sightings, gave the play a dark feel at times, and this sensation was carefully imparted onto the audience without compromising other more absurd and chaotic scenes. Inevitably, some of the dialogue was a little disjointed, with Berenger occasionally coming across as more of a prompt for Jean than an actual participant in the conversation. Performances across the board were solid, though at times lacking polish. That said, there is also the issue of translation from the original French to consider when discussing the periodically wooden

arts

music

the zahir | vol. 2, issue 1 | friday 1st december, 2006

Prog on the barrow downs “The revealing science of God can be seen as an ever opening flower in which simple truths emerge examining the complexities and magic of the past and how we should not forget the song that has been left for us to hear.”

t was with these and other such lyrics the prog band Yes alienated casual listeners everywhere, and became, in the eyes of the fastidious seventies critics, the epitome of everything that was wrong with progressive rock. The genre fell from grace with the fickle public, and was relegated to cult status worshipped by delusional twits everywhere. Take my bedroom for example. Posters of bands like Gentle Giant, The Moody Blues and Camel sit solemnly on the dim walls. Bo Hansson’s classic Music Inspired by Lord of the Rings swirls ethereally from the stereo. The place is a dusty shrine to a whole genre of music that has long been dismissed as pompous and over-complicated. These idols had long soft hair and blackened eyes, and wore swathes of brown corduroy—untainted prog rockers who have long since aged into grumpy old men—and back in the seventies the record buying public unreservedly bought into the chemical mysticism of it all. They existed in a very English puddle of expanding musical horizons, absurd lyrical pretensions and weird time signatures. Their records were works of conceptual art adorned with sci-fi landscapes and incongruous Tolkienesque imagery. Then, in the late seventies, the grey streets of London went and belched punk into the daydream and twenty minute long meditations on eastern philosophies suddenly seemed, well, egregious. But prog lives on. Indeed, if one looks closely, its influence is present even in much of the derivative nonsense that has the audacity to call itself music these days. Of course, we don’t get prog in its pure form anymore. The likes of King Crimson and Yes are either hosting radio shows on Planet Rock, still trying to tour or are dead. One cannot fault the bands who are still attempting to create music, but still one feels that they should all have done a Pink Floyd and had a highly publicized, bitter split. Preserved some dignity. Not that all such musicians should give up. David Gilmour’s latest (On an Island) was like rubbishy Floyd, but still quite good. Kate Bush’s Aerial, her first album in over a decade, was an instant classic—

David Mackie not only did it manage to feel like a cohesive, themed piece of work (all too rare in an age of throwaway downloads and bad production), it also produced torrents of girly tears from art-rock romantics everywhere. The late ’60s and early ’70s were the golden age of prog and psychedelic bands, back when the music industry was actually about music, not just image. I don’t believe we’ll reach those spirituous heights again. Not because most prog rockers looked like something out of a nightmarish version of Wind in the Willows, nor because we just can’t get drugs like they used to do ’em, but rather because everyone these days is just too darn cynical. Deep appreciation of yodelling Dutch prog group Focus now feels like something one should actually be ashamed of! But although prog no longer exists in its purest, most undiluted form, it has subtly permeated even the sweaty pages of punk rags like the NME. How? It’s because of dad’s music collection. It seems that today’s commercial indie groups have been wallowing in sounds and words from the past, and some have been saturated with some startlingly prog sensibilities. Quality fare like the

Mars Volta and Kula Shaker aside, bands like The Coral have clearly been listening to their dad’s Syd Barrett records, the incorrigible Muse are desperate to be Gilmour-era Floyd, and even soundalike Radio 1 fodder like The Feeling are trying to imitate Supertramp. But is this diluting of true progressive ideas for the sake of image not far more pretentious than prog itself? There is something so torturously insincere about it all these days. Just look at the artwork for James Blunt’s album, for example. All those psychedelic colours and swirls make it look like something interesting by a drug-addled poet. Instead it’s a collection of bland tosh by some drooling simpleton from the army. Another example is Scissor Sisters’ take on “Comfortably Numb”. What was once a plaintive and beautifully sad ballad about heroin addiction is now a stripped down dance tune. Just the thought of such sacrilege is enough to make one feel like they have been force fed a mine then punched repeatedly in the stomach until it detonates. The fact is, with so much art and culture so easily accessible, authenticity has gone out the window and been replaced by marketing. It’s so very sad. What we must remember though, is that however many remakes we suffer, however many unoriginal clowns making money off fools we must endure, we’ll always have The Moody Blues’ Days of Future Passed. And that’s got to be worth something. Hasn’t it?

King Crimson’s 1969 debut In the Court of the Crimson King