By Jasmine Sykes.

Content Warning: Mention of Eating Disorder

pilgrimage— 

a journey (usually of a long distance) made to a sacred place as an act of religious devotion; the action or practice of making such a journey 

(Oxford English Dictionary)

5.45am and I’m awoken by the sudden fluorescent glare of a flickering halogen strip light. Momentarily forgetful of where I am, I open my eyes to the sight of a rather overweight and topless middle-aged man in his boxers, rummaging ferociously in the bottom of an enormous rucksack and rattling off a boisterous Italian monologue, between noisy mouthfuls of chocolate biscuits. “Fuck”, I think to myself, “what the hell am I doing?” Today is May 8th 2022: the day I set off to walk 900 kilometres on my own across Spain, to Santiago de Compostela, and then onwards to the Atlantic ocean- armed with two pairs of clothes and my shoes, a notebook, a camera, and a Nokia brick phone.

At that point, little did I know that such encounters would become utterly normal for me; that I would come to be completely unperturbed by nights in bunk beds on foam mattresses topped with disposable sheets, in dormitories sleeping sometimes over a hundred people; or that the thought of walking up to 37 kilometres in 40 degree heat, without a guaranteed place to stay at night, wouldn’t faze me in the slightest. I had no idea that I would meet people of all ages, from all across the world, and all walks of life, who would share with me some of the most intimate and troubling parts of their lives – and I definitely didn’t expect to share mine with them too.

I had long wanted to walk the Camino de Santiago – the ancient pilgrimage across Spain to the relics of St James in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. In part, romantic notions of wanderlust were to blame – Don Quixote inspired whims of tracing the footsteps of ancient travellers in a foreign land, subsisting on rations of stale bread and hides of mead, and sleeping under the stars. Of course, the modern Camino is nothing like that: the route is well-established and signposted, I could always find a bed for the night and I certainly never went hungry. 

Yet there remains something tantalisingly beautiful in the concept of pilgrimage; something deeply and intensely human. I study philosophy – so perhaps I’m biased – but, for me, the lure of the arts and humanities has always been its capacity to capture something of a very essential mystery: that of the human condition. The sciences explain how we live, the arts explain why we continue to do so – they give us something to live for. The notion of pilgrimage is so beguiling because it captures something of that elusive, nebular, and distinctly human essence. What exactly does it mean to be human? What precisely is that glorious and wonderfully Delphic little kernel at the crux of our being that – I’d like to think; indeed I pray – distinguishes us from the rest of the natural world? 

A pilgrim’s journey is not a constitutively necessary one; but it is driven by real need – spiritual need: a fundamental desire for the sacred. “A journey…made to a sacred place as an act of religious devotion”. I met very few people for whom “religious devotion” constituted anything close to the worship of ‘God’, and even fewer whose “sacred place” was in fact the relics of St James. Yet almost everyone I spoke to, walked with, ate with, laughed with, and even cried with, was bound by the same craving to transcend the immanent reality of their lives; and what is that if not deeply religious and sacred? We were all there to find our way, along The Way of St James. For myself, three years of anorexia and bottomless, pitiless, abyss-like depression had left me confused, lost, and without the slightest idea of who I was – let alone who I wanted to be. I was out the other side – luckily – but I felt so defined by my past that I was unsure how to even begin to move forward; in fact, I questioned whether it was even possible.

Crouched in the dirt at the side of a dusty track just beyond Santo Domingo, under the beating heat of the midday sun; and peeling off sweat-drenched socks to reveal my heavily blistered feet rubbed red-raw; such rarefied musings were not exactly at the forefront of my mind (which at this point was actually rather clouded by a caustic migraine over my left eye). But often physical pain is the most potent and tangible reminder of one’s existence. Several times in the previous years I had seriously questioned whether I would continue to go on at all. Yet here I was: wincing – as I probed a particularly tender blister in between my big and second toe – but alive. Remarkably, gloriously, and incandescently alive.

Six weeks and 900km after taking my first steps out of the small French town of St Jean Pied de Port, I was standing at the ‘Kilometre 0’ monument in the small fishing town of Muxía, on the north-western coast of Spain, watching the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean. The Camino finishes, officially, in Santiago, but the route is probably a Christianisation of a much older pagan pilgrimage towards the setting sun in the west, so many pilgrims choose to walk the further 100 kilometres to the ocean. I had done the same, and so, finally, I was finished. There were no bolts of lightning, no miracles, no voice of God from the sky. My “act of religious devotion” had lacked the drama of a Pauline conversion, but slowly a metamorphosis had taken place. In the beautiful monotony of putting one foot in front of the other; in the simplicity of doing the same thing each day; in the kindness of others and the generosity of their stories; I had found the “sacred place”: me. I had made the journey back to myself.

By Dora Black.

I’m sure that I’m not alone in feeling kind of bombarded by the influx of celebrity biopics in the last few years: they are non-negotiable trend of the current cinema-sphere. Baz Lurhman’s ‘Elvis’, Andrew Dominik’s ‘Blonde’, Singer and Fletcher’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, to name only a few, not even accounting for the unreleased ones. Aretha Franklin, Emily Bronte, Amy Winehouse (again), and Whitney Houston are soon to join the lineup. Because hey, coming up with original stories that don’t dredge up people’s private lives is sooo last year! Bitchiness aside, it’s worth mentioning that though some of them are ultimately good, respectful, and commemorative (Asif Kapadia’s ‘Amy’, for one) so a pinch of salt wouldn’t go amiss. And yet there is one stand-out common factor between these more recent films, revealing a more specific trend: scenes of trauma, personal struggle, tragedy, and intensely private moments exploded into a big screen setting. Whilst this seems, one some level, like an inevitability as these stories warrant the most dramatic, evocative, and turbulent representations, it is hard to ignore the fact that famous figures with less problematic lives (and deaths) are simply not given the same attention. I mean I get it, who wants to watch two hours of someone working hard, having a great career and dying happy surrounded by their loved ones and accomplishments. I’m snoring already. I do think it is worth considering, though, the glaring ethical grey area of dramatically displaying the trauma of celebrities who, having died, are ultimately powerless and unrewarded in their own depictions. This is not to say that, by definition, autobiographical films are an exploitative genre, but the line is getting pretty thin. Or maybe they’re fine and I’m just jarred by the scene of Marilyn Monroe/ Ana de Armas getting confronted by the disembodied voice of her unborn child begging to not be aborted.

One thing that bothers me about this format is the guise of dramatising the story to show a real truth, to unveil the mask of fame, to humanise the muse; there is an illusion of truth concealing the fact that often, the protagonist-muse has zero input. It is an indirect interpretation of truth, often with little more insight than any other person who can take the time to search the celebrity’s name on google. ‘Blonde’ for example, was marketed relatively strongly as a biopic, stressing the research, the prosthetics, the striving for accuracy, when the film itself is based on a fictional novel… ‘Spencer’ similarly, took a real life person and generous helping of artistic licence. The irony of this narrative is then that the celebrity is, once again, helpless, voiceless, subject to the whims and creative direction of corporations or management figures, a power struggle that is almost a staple of these tragi-drama biopic genre films (see Princess Diana and the Royal House, Elvis and Colonel Parker, or basically any representation of managers and agents, for example). It creates a paradox of irony; it becomes almost impossible not to perpetuate the problem that these films depict. By consequence of this common structure, guilt is deflected onto the masses: the sprawling audiences, obsessed fans, harassing press: we the audience feel sympathy, we feel our own complicity in the damaging effects of global celebrity upon these sky-rocketed individuals. We see ourselves in the inevitable shot of screaming faces and hands reaching through fences.  The natural consequence is then a deflection of complicity away from the directors, away from the huge-budget production companies, and the cycle continues, creating a bountiful, and morbidly self-sustaining industry. The irony continues in the fact that these protagonist-centred, often triple-threat-requiring roles are a beacon for up-and-coming stars to take on the project and break through the barrier of not-so-serious tv actor, or bombshell, or action stuntman, into the glittering gates of respectable, award-worthy acting spheres.

Another interesting relationship to consider that I think could explain the sudden explosion of the genre into vogue would be the relationship between biopics and the awards industry. Through these pre-existing stories, the directors and production teams are given, or at least hijack, a story structure bespoke-fitted to the award season criteria:

         – They are uncommon and yet follow the common man (people with normal backgrounds but unusual talent and unusual careers). Mass relatableness without being mundane.

         – They are epic and dramatic. The absolute highs of global acclaim, whether of extraordinary career success, economic and material prosperity, extravagant and star-studded social circles, are off-set by the common problems of substance abuse, or mental health fluctuations, abusive relationships, traumatic experiences etc.

         – Audiences have a pre-existing excitement and sentiment. There is a developed connection between the audience and protagonist, independent of and preceding any knowledge of the film at all, bolstering popularity and somewhat warping the public critical eye.

Though this connection is mostly speculation and a personal theory, it does circle back to the issue of ethics in the use of these stories. Are these production companies trying to ‘capture the magic and charisma’ of someone’s life, ‘bring awareness’ to the traumas of industry, or are they trying to blatantly exploit a dead icon’s personal life in order to lean into the favour of institutions like The Academy? Who can really tell!

By Sia Jyoti.

Raised in a traditional, well-mannered household, the idea of smoking was introduced to me as wholly  unacceptable. Cigarettes took the shape of shame and failure, for reasons not entirely related to the  physical side effects, and I accepted this at face value. Yet, in noticing when and where smoking could  be seen as glamour raised questions on duality and classicism for me. Does an action’s acceptability  defer from class to class? What is it that makes a practice chic for some and degrading for others? Now,  detached from the views instilled in me through the insulation of ‘home,’ I can unravel the act of  smoking through an objective lens. 

In its raw form, smoking causes cancer. Early death with a chance of blindness and a side of blackened  lips; smoking is not your friend. This aspect does not change, for everyone is aware of smoking’s side  effects. Yet that very disinterest in side effects shared amongst all smokers is either seen as an  embarrassingly active rejection of improvement in some, or a rebellious charm in others. In seeing a  man smoking by a bus stop and a girl rolling by a racecourse, the likelihood of similar conclusions being  drawn borders on impossible. Whether a woman on a sidewalk wears the same eyeliner as a girl in  Jimmy’s smoking area does in no way leads to a similar categorisation of them. For our bias is not  rooted in objective reasoning but in class perception which is inherently tied to the acceptability of our  actions.  

As ill-informed as a teenager may be in smoking to fit in, one would likely forgive them for their naivety.  In assuming that their future is bright and that the occasional secret cig in their friend’s garden will not  hinder their success, the action is deemed harmless; almost bordering on cute. In an equally naive frame  of mind, youth smoking in a less established area will instantaneously lead to the correlation of  addiction, and failure — with a subtle undertone of disgust. Both scenarios mirror one another in their  isolated events — but for the possibility of the latter’s bright future. I have come to realise that plenty  is excused when people believe that you’re likely to succeed in the future. Whether based on selfish  gains or purely on the human instinct to trust what is ‘good’. In our current society, goodness is  associated with pretence and wealth. In our failed attempt to associate what is good with what is  meaningful, acceptance has manifested itself in wealth-induced social integration.  

It is for this reason that classism presents a cloud over smoking. Whilst the action of rolling in an  African American community will blindly correlate to ‘illegal’ marijuana consumption, it takes the form  of artistic technique at a predominantly privately educated university. It seems our judgement is not on  the stamina of one’s lungs but on the inevitable winner of the race that is born ahead of everyone else  on the track. Where economic differences differentiate so widely between the starting point of one’s  career path, smoking is only injurious to those who find the finish line to be further away. 

Nonetheless, I find it fascinating. Not the class perception or the injurious side effects, but the  communal side of it. Whether one smokes on the patio of their beach house or in the melancholy of  their relentless clerical job, both breathe it in for a moment of calm. Despite the social fragmentation  of humans, we share in our yearning for a moment of peace. A second of giving into a weakness which  collectivises irrespective of one’s class or background. Perhaps the next time I see a cloud of smoke, I’ll  leave it at that — unfazed by the person behind it.