Deep in the Dalston/Stokey borderlands, down a half-hidden flight of stairs that lead into an underground cavern, lies a night of spoken word hysteria...
The format is beguilingly simple: twenty slots, five minutes each. No stars, no features. A democratic, egalitarian, and completely open (and free!) spoken word night that quickly reveals the seething talent of London's young literati to those brave enough to enter. It's an amazing evening of lyric and narrative fun.
But with the second and fourth Wednesday of the month now filled, what is a young person about London town to do on the third Thursday of the month? Particularly the third Thursday of, say, January. The sixteenth of January 2014, for instance. As in the one coming up. Where could you be guaranteed a night of witty wordsmithery, glorious gung-ho garrulousness and celebrative cerebrality?
English PEN, stalwarts of the ongoing global defence of the role of literature as a means of developing mutual understanding and, therefore, staunch defenders of freedom of expression, are having a fundraiser.
On Sunday the 12th of January at the Tricycle Theatre in Kentish Town there'll be a screening of
Under Milk Wood, the film of the radio play by Dylan Thomas. Tickets can be booked here.
Of course, you don't need to go all the way to Kentish Town in January to support the role of literature
as a means of developing mutual understanding. In a much more immediate fashion (both temporally and spatially) there's the fantastic Nutshell Christmas Quiz! Huzzah!
Nutshell had the fortune to be in attendance at the Eyewear Autumn Party last week and it truly was a poetical extravaganza.
Eyewear Publishing, launched in 2011 byTodd Swift, is still relatively new to the crowded UK publishing scene but is quickly gaining a reputation for itself, producing beautifully designed hardcover editions of wonderfully wrought poetry.
The Eyewear Autumn Party featured poetry from the lips of Don Share, relaunching his until recently out-of-print debut Union, an exciting reading from Mariela Griffor launching a new & selected collection The Psychiatristwhich was full of revolutionary fervour, Barbara Marsh read from her new collection To the Boneyardandthe well-travelled Sheila Hillier with Hotel Moonmilkmade entire a spectacular evening of wordly enjoyment.
The event, kindly hosted by the London Review Bookshop, was absolutely chock-a-block, with the collections leaping off the shelves and people quite literarily (geddit?) spilling out onto the streets of Bloomsbury.
It was heartening to see so many people coming out to support small-press poetry, long may it continue!
STOP PRESS: Eyewear are launching their first foray into prose fiction. The Boy From Aleppo Who Painted the War by Sumia Sukkar will be launched at Foyles on November the 8th.
Nutshell had the recent pleasure of attending a glorious night of poetry-fuelled fun. Every first Monday of the month the Library Bar in Highbury plays host to Until the Light Goes Out an evening of poetry, music and general performance mayhem.
Brought by way of Irina Juahiainen and Michael Clift, the night has been running since February 2013. Since then it has garnered quite a following, when we arrived there was little more than floorspace to sit on!
The format is to have the night captained by two featured performers afloat upon a raft of open-mikery. Last Monday saw featured poet Chip Grim, showcasing ringside themed poetry (a little like a politicised, literati Jake LaMotta), and Jessie Pie (sans band) finishing off the night with some sing-along Americana style guitar with a swansong that threw more than a nod to the Stoke Newington based great John Hegley.
Free, regular poetry events are rarer than a well-funded library service this far north of the river so it's good to see an evening of wonderful wordsmithery being done just right.
The next Until the Light Goes Out is on the 7th of October.
The British Library and many of you would like an answer to that question, it turns out. And indeed it seems a very reasonable question to ask. Where is the much awaited Nutshell for 2011?
Well, it doesn't exist. That's right, a few unexpected things have happened, and a few delaying agents have popped round to the Nutshell headquarters, so now that we're ready to roll, we find that the year is coming to an end, and that it really would be much better if we called the whole 2011 thing off and went for 2012 instead.
That's the thing with being all independent and free (yes, we're back to free for the next issue, it turns out we really don't like charging for Nutshell), you don't have to come out when the office decides, you can pretty much come out whenever you like. That is not to say that we only like coming out sporadically, far from it: we'd like to come out weekly! But it does mean that when it's only one person working on a project like this, helped by people that are also doing it in their spare time, the timeframes expand, the delays increase and accidents are absorbed much more slowly. This is why we don't say yes to people asking to subscribe to Nutshell. We love the thought, but we don't want to disappoint.
This is also the proof that Santa doesn't exist. One big red man alone would never manage to keep that Christmas deadline every year, coordinating all those helpers who really have their own projects going (most amazon sellers are, in fact, Santa's helpers. Same goes for good sellers on Ebay.)
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Having said all this, I am happy to update you letting you know that Nutshell is in very good form, it is scheduled to come out Jan/Feb 2012, it is absolutely packed with amazing stuff, it will be the first issue to be printed in full colour, the new graphic designer Mauro Sommavilla worked on it for ages and did an amazing job... it's all going swell. Unless of course you're pissed off we're late. Please don't be! The way we see it, all other aspects of life require us to worry, hurry, lose sleep etc. This really really shouldn't - we hope you agree!
One of my all-time favourite authors, Angela Carter, started her working life as a journalist in south London, reporting local news for The Croydon Advertiser, before she achieved literary success. Reading her rich descriptions of a world that only she had the eyes to see has made me wonder what it would be like to open a newspaper and read an article written in the style of The Bloody Chamber or The Magic Toyshop.
Since 2009, one Israeli daily has given its readers a chance to read news written by fiction writers and poets. For one day a year, timed to coincide with Hebrew Book Week, the journalists and editors of Haaretz, a publication often referred to somewhat derisively as Israel’s “thinking man’s newspaper,” give up the reins to a selection of Israeli and international writers, who take over on every section of the newspaper for an edition where “writers write the news.” Even the weather forecast is a poem!
I awaited the day of the 2011 Writers Edition, 15th June, with the kind of excitement that I used to reserve for birthdays when I was a child. This year, 53 writers had come on board to cover current events and give readers “a look at the news through literary eyes,” as the newspaper says on its masthead.
So what does “news through literary eyes” actually look like?
The news section echoed the Israeli public’s sense of ennui over the Arab-Israeli peace process, and the widespread sense of disappointment among the electorate in its government, much like the newspaper’s usual political stance. Four writers were featured on the front page.
Novelist Nurit Gertz used Sartre’s famous line “Hell is other people” to express her dislike of Foreign Minister Avidgor Lieberman in a scathing analysis of his stubbornness and myopic take on Israel’s foreign policy. “With Lieberman,” writes Gertz, “since there are no other people, hell is I – and one can imagine how hellish it is to live in a world where, at every corner, as in a hall of mirrors, one can see just one image – that of Avigdor Lieberman.”
In what read more like a short story than a typical newspaper article owing to its use of the present tense, short-story writer and graphic novelist Etgar Keret reported on his experience accompanying Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu on an official visit to Italy the week before the edition was published. At a press briefing, Keret ask Netanyahu a question about the perception that Israel is passive and reactive in the peace process, and the feeling that people either love or hate Israel. Netanyahu answers partly with “this conflict is an insoluble conflict because it is not about territory,” and says that a practical plan for resolving it is to reiterate this idea at every opportunity. Keret speaks for many Israelis when he says “I try to smile, but after this conversation I just can’t summon a smile, or hope. Just despair.”
Poet Haim Goury laments the “withering” of Israeli socialism “in the face of privatisation, and the rise of the national and religious right” in a piece discussing the relationship between Zionism, Communism and the Soviet Union in the years leading up to the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948, and throughout its history. Today, he writes, “Israel is undergoing haredization from within, and is shunned, and cursed at and delegitimized from without.”
On a more positive note, Sami Michael, novelist and prominent Israeli activist, reported on plans to make Haifa, a city with one of the most mixed Jewish and Arab populations in Israel, a member of the International Cities of Refuge Network (ICORN), an association of more than 20 cities around the world that give refuge to persecuted writers, in partnership with International PEN.
The Haaretzeditorial, “It’s all thanks to reading”, reminded readers of the centrality of reading and writing to the accumulation of knowledge, and challenged them not to abandon books in the Internet age “which presents an opportunity and a challenge to reading’s future.”
The Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa adds his two cents with an op-ed originally published in the Spanish daily El Pais last year. Here he advocates for the legalisation of drugs to end the violence caused by drug cartels, particularly in Latin America. Although the beauty of the original Spanish is lost in translation, his assertion that drugs should be legalised because no-one has the right to criminalise the things they don’t like, “including people picking their noses in front of you,” transformed the piece into a comment on the safeguarding of individual liberty in general, and the dangers of paths that can lead “to the suicide of democracy.”
American novelist Jonathan Franzen’s editorial piece, an adaptation of a graduation speech originally published in The New York Times, started off as an ode to his new BlackBerry, and turned into a thought-provoking meditation on the nature of true love and heartbreak in an imperfect world in which people are growing more and more accustomed to the narcissism and mediocrity of “liking” things, Facebook style.
Is there actually a difference between these writers, and normal journalists and editors? Could fiction writers permanently replace the entire staff of a newspaper? I would like to think that they can’t, that word limits and editorial guidelines would be too much for your average writer of fiction. Aside from that, aren’t journalists meant to carry the mantle of objectivity? Isn’t their main role meant to be guardians of the truth, as opposed to masters of the written word?
Postmodern theorists ask whether there is in fact a world out there which exists objectively for all of us, and question the extent to which a newspaper is a reflection of this world “out there.” In a way, I think I would prefer to read a newspaper that did not print breaking news from its local reporters, or reprint stories straight from the wires, but instead featured beautifully written, thought-provoking pieces by a hand-picked selection of the kind of writers that I like to read, dead or alive – which sounds, I guess, a little bit like that game where you name your ideal dinner party guests.
The Haaretz Writers edition is a creative, innovative stroke of genius, and I wish that more newspapers would take such a risk, or indeed, that Haaretz ran the edition more than once a year.
The idea, however, seems better than its execution. I was disappointed at how similar in style the articles were, at how little I got to see of a writer’s individual literary style, and at the absence of creative risk-taking within the articles themselves, with the exception of Keret, whose piece felt as if it was structured like a story. The world seen through literary eyes did not seem that different to me than the world seen through the eyes of Haaretz's regular reporters, and I did find myself thinking, as I read, "if only Angela Carter wrote the news..."
It is with tears in my eyes that I set upon writing this review, for The Tempest at the Little Angel Theatre in Islington was such a wonder and joy to behold that I am still moved now.
What a sweet, unassuming place the Little Angel Theatre is, hidden in a little court off Cross street it would be impossible to just walk past it and notice it unless already on your way there to see something. Tipped by a friend, we managed to catch the last night of this sold out production of The Tempest and I am so glad. A mixture of puppets and people, this child friendly production was superbly acted and never patronising. All the actors not only perform multiple roles impeccably, with an ease that leaves the audience not quite sure just how many actors are in the play and a transport that makes their throats knot and noses tingle; they also double up as master puppeteers, dancers and excellent singers and musicians, playing a variety of instruments.
Gross Caliban is here a clunky, 2-people puppet that is utterly frightful when enraged and sweet when in a more delicate, vulnerable attitude. The other main puppet, the floaty Ariel, is fine and subtly animated and its interaction with Prospero is one of the most moving elements of the play.
As well as deeply moving, this production is terribly funny at different levels, sweet in the father and daughter moments between Miranda and Prospero, exhilarating when Trinculo and Stephano are on stage, and unpredictable when the actors leave the stage and interact with the public. Even the seagull puppets are riveting!
Finally, the lighting and sound effects were seamless and essential to the atmosphere, particularly fine were the shadow play, and choral and orchestral moments that seal the union of Miranda and Ferdinand; as well as the particularly suggestive opening, which sees Prospero light up the tempest with his staff as if with a giant match.
It's sad not to be able to tell you to go and watch it as alas! it is no more. But as a huge part of the charm came from the theatre itself, so intimate and special, and the puppets, which when well made like in the Little Angel Theatre, are twenty times as magical to behold as any computer generated thestral, I feel confident that you'll be just as ecstatic as we were tonight to see any of their future adult productions. Alternatively, you if you have any young friends between 3 and 6, you might seize the opportunity and catch the forthcoming production 'The Magician's Daughter', running from the 28th of May to the 10th of July.
After going to the Little Angel Theatre once, I am sure you'll also want to take one of their adult puppet making courses, so I guess we'll see you there!
Today might not be sunny and warm, but surely you can remember the cleverly timed string of sunny days that blessed this country over Easter and the Royal holiday, if you can’t that’s probably because you are still sun stroked or were abroad on an anti kingdom trip. Either way, we're here to tell you that now it’s officially possible to envisage hanging out in a park and sleeping in a tent of your own free will and not just because you’re homeless. For a few months coming up we can confirm that the outdoors won’t kill you… it’s time to start thinking about festivals, and we’re thinking Latitude.
The Nutshell team went to Latitude last year for the first time and it was wonderful so this year not only we want to go again, we want you to be there too. Here’s a list of 5 indisputable reasons:
1. Sheep the colour of rainbow and the most bucolic of settings. I’m not sure why, but blue, green and pink sheep do exist outside the realm of hallucinogenics and they’re at Latitude, sprawled about on the field by a sleepy river, looking happy and chewing grass. Thick forest surrounds the main stages, with some smaller stages deep inside among the trees… We have to say, the location is perfect, and it kind of makes the festival.
2. The literary presence. There are several tents dedicated to poetry and literature. These are large, cool areas sheltered from the scorching sun and equipped with comfy cushions. One can very well wake up early in the morning, have a quick shower and then come here and settle on a cushion to see who’s reading what, not exactly dozing back to sleep but waking up gently to the sound of a poem or a story. If this doesn’t sound blissful I don’t know what does.
Later in the day, things warm up and the tents get packed, and the good thing is: they get packed with lovely people. The line up is super and the atmosphere great. Damn we do love those shady tents!
3. The comedyyyy. How blissful rocking up to the comedy tent at random times and finding ourselves sitting there in stitches for hours. The comedy tent is huge and really crowded, you’ll have to walk over people to get to an empty patch and that’s probably when you’ll be picked at by the comedian on stage. A tip: outside the tent we found some sofas lying about, if you see a free one, drag it all the way to the tent and use it. They’re the most comfortable way of watching comedy, they'll swallow you whole and you'll literally forget yourself.
4. The music. This year we feel like we're in a time warp, it's just a jump to the left and a step to the right and Suede appear, together with Echo and the Bunnymen. Those of you brave enough to admit it can join us right now and get really excited about these comebacks, what a treat! Also, remember when OMD meant Original Manoeuvres in the Dark and OMG absolutely nothing? We do, and we can't wait to be there and see how they hold the stage. The great thing about this year's line up is that Latitude combines good oldies with really fresh new bands, without forgetting the sweet inbetweeners like Paolo Nutini, The Cribs, Paloma Faith, KT Tunstall, The National, Eels, Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan and British Sea Power.
5. The rest! Theatre, Cabaret, Film, Ballet, Contemporary Art... who knows what will impress you and capture your imagination, what will Sadler's Wells and the English National Ballet will come up with or what will happen at Pandora's Playground. One of the best things about festivals, and what it should be all about, is discovery and experimentation. Wandering the grounds finding new things to like.
We can't wait!
Paolo Nutini - Headlining on Saturday at the Obelisk Arena
I’d never been to the Hootananny in Brixton before. From Brixton underground you walk down a road unpromisingly lined with council estates and massive car and textile units. The venue has a peripheral outer gate and a pair of typically truculent bouncers. There are fried food stands in the front garden and a man wants to know if I’m on the weed tonight. Inside the dance area fills up quickly when the first band of the night, By The Rivers, arrives on stage. They deliver a really bright energetic set that has the whole house dancing. When not themselves playing, the wind/brass section of the band do their own little dance in one corner of the stage which is really fun and amusing to watch. The whole band looks so comfortable and happy performing and of course that lifts the audience. A few clips below.
On 31st March Pepe Belmonte was just about to start off on a tour to launch his critically acclaimed debut album 'The Hermit's Waltz' but was involved in a serious bike accident after being knocked down by a speeding police van.
On Saturday 16th April, he was supposed celebrate the final night of his UK tour. Instead his friends are hosting a very special fundraising night for the Beatroot Rendez-Vous founder who is currently recovering from the accident.
We friends hope to raise some funds to help him do his tour once he's better.
The proposed line up is set to include:
Jenny Lindfors Benjamin Folke Thomas Trevor Moss and Hannah Lou Frank Doody Jack Day Trent Miller Grace Banks All the Queens Ravens + many more!
When: Saturday 16th April 2011
Where: The Betsey Trotwood, 56 Farringdon Road, City of London, EC1R 3BL
Time: 8pm - 11.30pm
Price £4
**Make sure you get there early if you definitely want to get in because we expect it to be packed out!**
What the hell happened to gig audiences? I’ll come back to this. First time I’d been to Nambucca since the fire that gutted it. The insurance money's created a new spacious look I like. I get a drink and wait for the DJ to stop playing and the bands to start up out back. After a protracted period of this not happening I go round the back to investigate only to find there’s now a separate closed-off room where the bands perform. Who knew? I see a band who don’t do anything for me, wonder if I’ve missed Patch William, the band I’ve come to see. Luckily I haven’t. They do a cool set ending with a really rocking indie tune called Skinny White Boy which I’m considering ditching the camera for in order to dance to. Glancing at the audience they’re as static as hypnotised cult members, apart from two couples in the corner who seem to think they’re attending a barn-dancing contest. To my dismay, the table I’m filming from starts to rock slightly – one attendee’s contribution to the night is a bit of swaying against the furniture. In fairness the audience gives decent verbal feedback. Couple of clips below.
Brought to you by Beatroot Rendez-Vous, The Support Your Independent Record Store Tour in association with Record Store Day is under orders. Pepe Belmonte - the delightful opening act of our latest event at the Old Queen's Head - will be travelling by camper across the UK playing in-store shows followed by gigs the same evening in local venues supporting local acts.
If he's coming to your town, you should not miss it, if he's not, it's worth the trip!
Here's the schedule:
**APRIL**
7th BRIGHTON 4pm @ Ziggy's Basement, 29 Gloucester Rd & 7pm @ The Latest Music Bar, 14-17 Manchester St,£1/£4
8th BOURNEMOUTH Red Rose Records, 3 Royal Arcade Chaplins Cellar Bar, 529 Christchurch, Boscombe
9th YEOVIL Acorn Music, 3 Glovers Walk
11th BRISTOL 5pm @ Rise Records, 70 Queen's Rd, Clifton & 7pm @Mr. Wolf's, 33 St Stephen's Street
12th STROUD 1-2pm @ Kane's Records, 14 Kendrick St 7pm @ Star Anise, 1 Gloucester Street, £1/£4 (with HERONS and HERMES)
13th FLINT 12-2pm @ Mold Music, 27 New Street 7pm @ Y Pentan, 3 New Street (with local acts)
14th NOTTINGHAM 5pm @ The Music Exchange, 18 West End Arcade7pm @ The Golden Fleece, 105 Mansfield Rd, FREE
16th LONDON 2pm-4pm @ Brill, 27 Exmouth Market 7pm @ The Betsy Trotwood, 56 Farringdon Rd, £1/£4
There is a small door charge at some of the evening shows but collect a magic mystery item at the in-store gig for £1 entry!!!
Underground Poetry (UP) is a new movement founded by Nina Ellis that distributes poetry leaflets to London Underground travellers. More information here: http://undergroundpoetry.org/
UP have run three events so far this year (two in London, one in Cambridge) which feature poetry readings and musical performances.
The most recent event was held on 2nd March at Proud Kitchen, Stables Market in Camden. I shot a few clips on my Flip-cam. Here’s Nina Ellis and George Worsley reading poems, and Will Adlard and Benjamin Compston performing together on guitar. Cool.
For those of you hoping to see the daring, honest, brutal, sexy, filthy and scandalous on film, choose something else as you will certainly not find it in Howl, tonight, at the Curzon Soho.
Howl is rubbish. But let’s take a closer look. This film is made of scenes of Ginsberg reading Howl, scenes from the obscenity trial, an interview with Ginsberg, and HORRIBLE animation. Aside from the horrible animation, the ingredients for a decent film are there. But at a certain point film makers need to stop and think about how they're doing what they’re doing, who will end up watching it and whether it will work or not. Here it just looks like this wasn't done. Putting together all the ingredients is not enough, you must have some kind of vision, an instinct, something that will make it all gel together - and it should involve the ability to hire a better casting director.
Turning Howl, poem poet and crowd, into a film didn’t work - let's see why.
First of all, this is like being at school, the poem is paraphrased either visually, via horrid animation of people shooting up or mating (heterosexually), or through endless repetition, or – final straw really – through dialogues, literally explaining, in the trial scene, what the words might or might not mean. Surely to find out about Howl, one would have rather read the poem itself, or the relative wikipedia entry.
Second: there are times in which films set to tell stories we already know the end to, like the obscenity trial in this case, but these films generally manage to create some sort of tension, work their magic so even if we know the outcome, we might either put it out of our minds or wish to see how we got there anyway. Not here, this is not a film about the trial, nobody gives a crap about it. This is a film where the trial is thrown in for good measure, no tension is built around it and nothing justifies it even being there. Oh, and did we have to cast Don Draper as Don Draper? Doesn’t the fellow want to try something else for chrissake?
Third and final, third and main: excitement, or the total lack of. If you go and see Howl you are either a Don Draper/Franco fan, or know Howl. If the former, you are dismissed. If the latter, you are expecting at the very least cock and balls, insatiable ecstasy, or both. As on screen Franco fails (was he even trying) to look less like the badly cast unremarkable hotshot he is, and more like Ginsberg reading Howl to an enraptured, galvanised, and adoring crowd, people in the auditorium start to leave or fall asleep.
Snoring.
Really.
This might have been acceptable or even a source of pride for, say, Antonioni or Pasolini, Bergman or Haneke, at times, knowing that this or that film they made was not designed to be immediately accessible to all, but just to an élite; but here?? That such a blood pumping, all shaking, whirlwind of a poem (and of a poet) [and of an era] should be translated so tamely into film that people fell asleep is in itself a certain failure.
All this film needs now is a subtitle, a caption:
‘Howl, by Disney'
‘Howl, was it in fact censored? I can’t remember’.
‘Yawn..’ sorry I meant ‘Howl, soon on a plane near you - for those who fear flying and would rather be asleep’
Family performing at the Nutshell Winter Boum, Sunday 27th February 2011. Much of the ambient noise is provided by Faye yacking away about something or other. The decision to shoot directly at a pillar is an innovative one, but I think artistically it paid off.
Having shot a few clips of Family I then forgot about my flipcam until Faye went up to take a photo of These Furrows, at which point I retrieved it and captured their dying moments on stage. I realise such a short clip is of no use to man or beast and present it here for perusal by amphibians.
Luckily, early on in the evening, I did manage to record a clean audio track of Josh displaying a worrying absence of knowledge about his siblings’ work in our magazine. It wasn’t clear he’d looked at either Kat’s or Alex’s poems in Nutshell 1, and, though he claimed to have read Kat’s story in Nutshell 2, damningly, he then failed to recognise the issue it appeared in. How distressed Josh’s poor mother will be to hear this tale of fraternal impiety I can only imagine. Now I’ve never been one for blackmail. Faye, however, has no such reservations, as one might expect from the national of a country that routinely elects Berlusconi to power, and we’re hoping a financial backer for Nutshell has at last been found.
My friend Siobhan and I have started going to the cinema together, there seems to be one implicit condition though, we can only see unbearably depressing films. It's unbearable or nothing. Which is fine, I guess, since we both enjoy that kind of pain, and we seem to bear it all right. Recently she suggested Blue Valentine, then I suggested Never Let Me Go. You can see them both and let me know which one you found to be the most depressing.
First of all, let me admit that prior to watching them I had no idea what they were about. Of Never Let Me Go I knew the cast, and the only reason I suggested it is that I quite fancied seeing pan-faced Keira and pig-faced Carey in action together again. It might be a bad habit but in the past few years I have started deliberately avoiding reading plots and reviews of films I might want to see at the cinema. I am far too put off by genres, so not having a clue what it is that I am about to see makes it easier to actually go and be surprised - sometimes. This doesn’t, of course, explain why I knew nothing of NLMG, since it's based on a novel which I own but i haven't read yet. I won't apologise for that though, I am busy, get over it. It's on the pile of books to read, I keep adding to the pile and keep reading the last book added. I was going to read it at the right moment and the moment hadn't come yet, so, from the poster alone (I don't read back cover plot outlines either) I assumed I would be a coming of age smooch fest, a boarding school version of Pride and Prejudice, only modern and therefore – I hoped – more explicit.
Imagine my surprise seeing Keira play the part of the selfish bitch in what turned out to be a really disturbing story scripted to spin sci-fi on its head and free it from any sci-fi elements bar one, microchip bracelets, a cinematic addition apparently. As it was a Q&A, I had the chance to see that the book lovers had no objection to the filmic rendition, and Ishiguro himself – I hear – is fairly happy with it, as he was consulted every step of the way to make sure everything felt right and nobody got pissed off. The casting worked really well, the children, in particular, were well trained to mimic their adult correspondents; and the Japanese aesthetics were well respected. What annoyed me, I have to say, is the exasperated cinematic cliché of colour representation of emotions. Blue, gray, green and the combination of the three equal sadness and hopelessness. Great, let’s turn this film into the winter installment of a knitting catalogue. In fact, let’s also design our intertitles to match that and turn the film locations ans time placers into knitting chapter openers (Hailsham: child wear, The Cottages: farming housewives, Completion: er... shawls?)
Anyway, enough technicalities, what is the film about? Should you see it? You should read the book first - you should always read the book first unless we're talking of The Girl With the Pearl Earring - but if now is not the right time yet, I'll be happy to spoil it for you. NLMG is the story of three children who meet in a special boarding school for clones who are created and raised for the sole purpose of becoming organ donors in their 20s. As the three protagonists grow up friendship, love and resentment get tangled, until Completion time approaches (death, that is) and they have to let go. The sadness is constant and justified: just like normal humans the clones know their existence will come to an end and hope to postpone it, the difference is that unlike that of most humans, their life will terminate in their prime and they don't get a chance to forget about it. Their desperation is not the raw, uncontrollable one of the replicants in Blade Runner, which is probably why this film didn't do well in the US market. The fact that the characters don't run much, reveals Romaneck, has displeased some critics over there. There is only one run in the film and not much screaming and confrontation; this is down to Romaneck's desire to remain close to the Japanese concept of Yūgen, according to which emotions should be expressed subtly, elegantly, like a small ripple on the surface of a river troubled by very strong, deep undercurrents. Not in the screamy, snotty way we go about things.
Ignore the remark on the overindulgent photography, I recommend this film because it surprised me, and also because not watching films only because Keira Knightley is in them is no longer a good excuse.
Circalit, the new online hub of the literary world, has just announced a competition to find the next big crime fiction blockbuster with winning entries being submitted to the leading literary agency, A.P. Watt.
Circalit, whose social networking and digital distribution platform aims to bring writers and agents together, are hosting the competition online where the public are able to read all submissions and vote for their favourite novels. The top submissions will be read and considered for representation by A.P. Watt. The competition is free and those wishing to enter must start by creating an account at Circalit and posting their work online.
Raoul Tawadey, founder of Circalit, commented, “There is a wealth of literary talent across the globe, only a fraction of which gets the recognition it deserves. Crowd-sourcing is a great way for the publishing industry to find literature that already has a proven readership. We hope this competition will give talented new writers the opportunity to get their work noticed and demonstrate the power of the internet to create a global talent pool.”
About Circalit Circalit is the world’s premier social networking site for writers. Originally launched in February 2010 as a place where screenwriters can showcase their work to film studios, Circalit is now also home to novelists, playwrights and short story writers across the globe. Its free service allows writers to have their work reviewed by peers and professionals, enter into free writing competitions, create a fan base, make industry contacts and market their work, and apply for professional writing jobs online. Circalit’s mission is to digitise and democratise the way that good literature is discovered by agents, producers and publishers.
Cool for Cats and Nutshell Magazine team up to bring you the perfect Sunday do. Expect to stuff your belly with the best Sunday roast in town while watching live acts that are the pick of the crop, then the night will escalate both in beat and in heart rates as drinks replace food and it all turns into a massive party… without the hassle of a late night.
Aside music, food and drink there'll be a crafters' couch, and a Nutshell mag corner to keep your hands busy.
The line up includes: The Palpitations, Chapter 24, Microdance, These Furrows, The Inevitable Pinhole Burns, Raven Beats Crow, and Family
FREE ENTRANCE - you can't miss it!
Old Queen’s Head, Essex Road, Sunday 27th February, from 3.30 until night falls
Kimberley Chen reviews the thrills and frills of the Dior Illustrated: René Gruau and the Line of Beauty exhibition, showing at Somerset House, Embankment Galleries, until 9 January 2011.
After many university students lugging hefty, hardback sketchbooks, busily scribbling and sketching saucy, seductive and wonderfully dressed figures at the DesignMuseum’s Drawing Fashion exhibition, Somerset House have also decided to open its doors to yet more fashion illustration fans. This time it sets out to explore the amazing relationship between Christian Dior and RenéGruau.
There were many screeching girls who ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ at the sight of beautiful Dior Haute Couture clothed mannequins. Bright, unmissable pink paint splattered over a pristine white dress would usually be an utter tragedy to behold, but the Olga Sherer outfit inspired by Gruau for the Autumn/Winter 2007/08 collection makes this so-called “clumsiness” into a thing of great beauty. Attach a pink scrunched rose detail to the hip of the dress, pull up sleek, long, black gloves, embellish the neck with a chunky pearl necklace, tilt a paint palette hat on the head (Complete with generous dollops of thick crimson, navy and black paint, and a giant paintbrush) and voilá here is an outfit that screams glamour and stylishness. Vintage perfume bottles also got their fair share of admiration, and no wonder, since these golden beauties possess such a commanding elegance just begging for attention. All the bottles were shaped as gorgeous amphoras, and the Diorling 1963 bottle and the Diorissimo 1956 bottle used Dior’s favourite motif: flowers. The former perfume bottle has a delicate rosebud stopper, whilst the latter has a spray of golden roses and jasmine as an ornamental lid. These miniature cuties gain a great amount of respect as well-sculpted works of art.
Despite all the gaping jaws at the mannequins, the obvious star attraction of the show was Gruau’s exquisite fashion illustrations. One thing which I wasn’t expecting was a rather kinky and naughty looking cookbook. La Cuisine Cousu-Main is a Dior cookery book filled with recipes Dior himself liked to prepare, plus 10 original drawings by Gruau. One picture showed a naked woman having a bath in a frothy gigantic glass of alcohol. There is a huge nest of alcoholic bubbles resting on the woman’s head, whilst the woman gives a wide, mischievous and suggestive smile.
RenéGruau’s fashion illustrations for Christian Dior show intelligence, humour and attitude. The five contemporary UK-based illustrators who contributed images inspired by Gruau, indicates how he continues to impress and influence artists today, and beyond.
Kimberley Chen is a London-based writer. She has previously written for a number of publications including Blueprint magazine and The Architect’s Journal.
It’s past midnight.Outside the street is dead quiet.No car drives past the colourful houses.Even the cars speeding down the avenue at the end of the street cannot be heard.The local dogs that live on these doorsteps are all sleeping too, guarding the people they wish were their owners.Solovino, one of the most famous dogs on the block, the one who knows all the faces and is known by them all is curled up outside number 16, dreaming of rabbits.As he chases them through his field of dreams, his raggedy ears twitch nervously and his dirty paws scratch at the pavement.In his dreams Solovino is a champion.No rabbit can evade his sharp sense of smell.He is a graceful huntsman, shiny of coat and wet of nose, who can track down any of those fluffy, big-eared little creatures with hardly an exertion.Yes, Solovino is feared and respected in this field of dreams.No bitch can resist his canine charm.They wait eagerly with their bums raised exaggeratedly in the air, just waiting for him to sniff.While he is sleeping, the speeding taxi that caught him unawares that fateful morning disappears from the limited view of his memory and his right hind leg becomes not an impediment but a definite advantage.What dog would be more attractive than one who not only is the best hunter for miles around, but who does it on the strength of only three good legs?
And so it goes.Every night he waits outside the girls’ house.He cries and whines and scratches on the door, just waiting for them to say yes.He knows he has convinced one of them.Every time she sees him there is the warm pat on the head, the “oh Solovino, how are you?”.He has taken to following her whenever she leaves the house, just to prove how faithful he can really be.The other two, however, are a different matter.They never stop to say hello, always walk away as quickly as they can and try not to look him in the eye.So Solovino makes a decision.He is going to try harder than he has ever tried, he is going to make them love him, make them need him and make them feel guilty as hell for not having given him a home sooner.
Luckily for him, or not so luckily, depending on your point of view, the rainy season is just beginning.Every afternoon round about four o’clock, the sky opens, and as everybody knows, in a few weeks or so every afternoon will see inundations as heavy as anything.So Solo, as those close to him sometimes like to call him, parks himself outside the house at rain time and whines away like a poor lovesick little puppy.He knows that maybe you can ignore a dog crying at night, when it is still warm and dry outside, but when the street is like a river? When all the other dogs, or at least those who are lucky enough to have owners are safely tucked up inside?What he wasn’t counting on however, was how little the other two girls feel when they see him there outside as they run home in the rain, or quickly make their way to the metro station under their umbrellas.Of course girl number three still looks at him with those wish-I-could-adopt-you eyes, but the other two don’t seem to budge.
Solovino has to think long and hard about this.In his experience, there are two types of people.People who love canine company and those who can think of nothing worse than waking up to a dog slobbering all over them first thing in the morning.And even worse, a vast majority of these are actually self-professed cat people.He suspects that the other two girls are of the latter kind.The first one, he has noticed, is the glamorous type, the kind of girl who never leaves the house without at least two coats of mascara and exciting shoes on, whatever the weather.Girl number two is the smart, down to earth, type.His tactic of following them down the street, nibbling at their shoes and placing his filthy paws affectionately on their breasts has done him little or no favours so far.He could almost kick himself now he thinks about it.He has even noticed that girl number three has started to recoil at his affections.
One Saturday afternoon, when the girls have still not stepped out of the house, Solovino is curled up outside their door in the sun, dreaming once again of rabbits.Solovino rarely dreams of anything else.In fact, it is a secret little known to humans, or cats or even birds for that matter, that dogs, even those who will probably never ever meet a rabbit, are hard pushed to dream of anything but the eternal rabbit chase.The colour or species of rabbit might change, the dream might take place in a field, or a car park or even a road filled with cars racing past, but the subject will not change.The rabbit, the universal rabbit signifies a host of things to dogs worldwide.It is the vehicle through which the humble dog understands the world.And so when Solovino awoke from a dream where there were no rabbits in sight, where he felt the absence of rabbit so deep within his soul that he started to howl and whine in his sleep, he realised that the only recourse left to him in these desperate times was the one thing that he had never tried before.After all it is not only humans who know the old saying.Absence certainly does make the heart grow fonder.
Solovino makes all the necessary arrangements.He makes sure he explains what’s what to the other dogs on the street. The new guy, who came to the street a few weeks ago, who looks like he hasn’t washed in years and who no one on the street has deigned to give a name, is sad to see him go, but understands.The ginger cat, who Solovino has never been particularly close to, gives him a brotherly nod, wishing him luck on the road.The other dogs of the street, of which there are about five, promise not to let on that they know he will come back, and more importantly, promise not to try to win their way into the affections of Solovino’s girls.“Don’t worry, they’re yours Solo”, says the one with half of one ear chewed off,“Yeah m’ijo, don’t worry, just make sure you come back”, says captain, the graceful dog who has not let the hard life of the street life rob him of the good humour of the Labrador.Bertha, the big mama dog who has been pregnant a million times and always lets the others in on it when she finds food and makes all the newbies feel like part of the family, gives him a reassuring lick on the neck.
With one last bark, Solovino makes his quiet escape.He runs all the way to the big avenue at the end of the street, makes a left and runs up the avenue, passing little streets identical to his own, stopping every once in a while to sniff the scent of other dogs, eat food left on the pavement and relieve himself.A long life on the road has made Solovino see life with eyes wide open, and one of his favourite past-times is to make his mark in just those places that humans would really rather he didn’t. It is not only that he finds it funny to watch them scream and shout as they step into the shit he has just left on their doorstep. There has been many a late night where he and the other dogs have discussed at length the political implications of controlling where a mutt can go to the toilet.Defecating and pissing where he shouldn’t is his way of protesting the human arrogance that assumes that they own the pavement.
The life of a street dog is not easy.Solovino has been doing it since he was a pup.His is the old story of the unwanted Christmas present.It only took them a few weeks to realise that she was allergic and then that was it, it was either little Juanita or him. Of course, they chose Juanita.Solovino had never really been able to get over that rejection.He had never been able to fully accept ownership again.But now, after so many years living la vie en rue, he was ready to settle down.And the girls were not like any other family that he had ever seen.
Not that he hadn’t enjoyed life.As he walked along now, nibbling at a broken ice-cream cone over here, picking up the scent of a bitch on heat over there, his mind was flooded with the memories of a lifetime under the stars.The first time he had ever come to the street, all the faces were different.The families who live in the same pile of bricks generation after generation had changed a little of course.The little girl in number 18 had started wearing make-up, and he had noticed that relations between her mother and her grandmother had started to strain under the weight of their daily convivencia.The old lady across the road had started curtain-twitching less and less as the pain of arthritis kicked in.But really it was the animals, his extended family, which came to mind.
Bertha, the stereotype of the dog mama that every dog knew, had made him feel welcome in the way that she had made many a dog feel welcome over the years.She was the strongest, most generous dog he had ever met.A mongrel who had never met her real parents, she had been raised by an assortment of dogs and humans over her many moons.When Solovino first rounded the corner into the street, she had been lying in the sun across the road from number 16, nursing a brood of seven newborns who were the result of a one night stand with a sexy Alsatian.This was before Solovino’s accident, when his four legs were all working fine, and he could run as elegantly as any dog.Bertha had explained to him which houses tended to leave food out, which humans were receptive to doggy affection, which were the good places to shelter from the rain.Him and Bertha had become fast-friends, and a tear welled up in his big brown eyes as he remembered the day that the last of that particular brood, now grown-up and independent, had turned arses to Bertha and trotted off round the corner to find their fortune. Bertha had been through this many a time, and it never failed to make her melancholic.Which of course was only natural.It was never long before she would forget and get pregnant again, only to live through the same agony.
One time, one of Bertha’s children had actually made his way back to the street by accident.The reunion was very touching, and Bertha’s pup, who had been away for years, regaled the dogs and cats on the street with the adventures she had lived in the city.Most of the dogs in the suburbs rarely made it very far into the big smoke, where the dogs where mean, and the humans worse.Not that life in suburbia was not full of its own tragedies.Solovino could remember the countless dogs who had made their lucky escape from cruel owners only to be found again and kidnapped, or the many a dog caught unawares by the irresponsibility of a speeding and thoughtless driver.And then there were the men who came quietly in the dead of night, who would put a dog to sleep and carry him away to an uncertain future.The dogs on the street had organised a watch to protect each other, but very often it would be the very dog on watch, the only one awake who would have disappeared by the time everybody had woken in the morning.
Yes, Solo had lived many an adventure on that street, it was a part of him now, and he was determined to make it his permanent human home, with all the benefits that that entailed.His friends understood that it wasn’t that he was abandoning them, but that at his age, he craved a little stability.And so he would make himself disappear for a while, until the girls would begin to wonder where he had gone, would begin to miss his crying and whimpering outside their door, the affection in his eyes to welcome them home when they had had a bad day.He had known dogs who had won their way into the most icy of hearts, and he was determined to follow in their footsteps.
Time passed.For a dog there is no more accurate measure of time than the ebb and flow of smell and sound and light.A dog knows that when the complicated mix of what humans know as daytime smells has faded in intensity, when the distant whrrr of cars, which to a dog is as loud as thunder, really has reduced itself to something more like a whhrrr, then another of life’s mini cycles has come and gone.Soon the light will slowly seep its way into the world’s four corners, and life will begin again.But as far as measuring long periods of time goes, for a dog it is slightly tricky.Having no calendars to rely on, the humble dog can only try to remember how many times life’s mini cycle has renewed itself, and more often than not, loses count somewhere around 20.Solovino was not sure exactly how long he had been away from the street, but what he did know was that he had seen the yellowy-white circle in the sky, known to humans as the moon, change shape significantly, that he definitely had got past the count of twenty and that the rainy season was now in full throttle.
The day that Solovino decided to go home was a Thursday, unbeknownst to him.He sniffed his way along the street, picking up the distant scent of his friends and neighbours until his nose led him round a corner and into his old familiar territory.The closer he got the more excited he became.He started to run awkwardly towards Bertha and the dog who when he left had been the new guy, who were sitting on the pavement in the sunshine, his tongue hanging out of his mouth with happiness as he ran.As soon as they caught smell of him they stood on all fours and began to bark in surprise.He sped up and jumped towards them in a scene that would seem to the untrained eye like a fight in the making.Bertha began to lick his face and paw him with glee.The new guy began to chew one of his paws to welcome his return.The little girl at number 18, who happened to be staring out of her window at the house across the road where a certain handsome young 15-year-old gentleman lived began to shout “Mama, mama, Solovino’s back!”Yes Solovino had certainly been missed by some.
When the excitement had died down, Bertha started to fill him in on the goings on while he was away.Two new dogs, one young bitch and an old (unlikely) mongrel mix of chihuahua and dalmation had started coming to the street and stealing the food left out by the good resident folks for the good resident street dogs.One of the other street regulars had been killed by some poisoned food.Bertha and the New Guy weren’t sure enough to name names, but had their theories about one family who had shown nothing but contempt for the streets animals ever since they had moved to the street.Captain had finally been adopted by the old curtain twitcher, who had always shown a special fondness for him.A series of break-ins in the neighbourhood had made her realise the extent of her love for the old dog, and she had opened up her doors for him, living room and all.
“What about the girls?” he asked, “How are my girls?”The ensuing silence and averted eyes told Solovino everything that he needed to know.Bertha gave him a reassuring lick on the face, and the new guy pawed him and said“I’m sorry Solo, but you were gone for so long…”Solovino couldn’t say that he wasn’t disappointed.Away on his own, walking unfamiliar city streets, one of the only things that had kept him going was the idea that awaiting him, finally, was a home.That the three girls would have grown to miss his whining and his company on their way to the metro station so much, that they would even have bought special dog food bowls just for him to welcome him on his return.
“So come on then, who was it?”The answer to his question was a long and awkward silence.“Come on, I can take it.Did they adopt the new guy?” Bertha started to whine a little, “It was wasn’t it, or was it Captain? Yeah that whole curtain twitcher story was a good cover, last time I trust any of you…” Solovino was so far into his monologue that he was yet to notice a small, elegant ginger cat, wearing a brand new sky blue collar complete with tinkling bell, glide his elegant cat way along by the gate of number 16 and up and over it into the overgrown, messy garden on the other side.If he had stopped for just one minute and looked in that direction, he would have noticed the brand new metal bowls, one full of milk, the other full of cat food, which had been placed outside the front door of number 16.If he had seen the direction in which Bertha’s eyes, filled with compassion for her dear and disappointed friend, were looking, he would have seen girl number one actually holding that smug ginger cat and letting it claw her brand new jumper and get cat hair all over it.But Solovino would not find out about this treachery until later that day.And when he did, he would want to kick himself forever having let old ginger know his plans.After all, you never can trust a cat, especially not when there are cat-people involved.
I awaited the day of the 2011 
