By Lawrence Gartshore.

My mother doesn’t believe in depression. Don’t get me wrong, she isn’t some callous, emotionally distant parental figure. Far from it. As a single mother, she has had to fulfil the job of two parents for much of my childhood, working all hours that God sends and still finding time to spend with me. However, like so many from her generation, she doesn’t believe in depression.

To tell the truth, for much of my life I harboured some scepticism too; a product of this ‘traditional’ upbringing. Like her, I was a fan of the quintessentially British ‘stiff upper lip’ mentality. If you ever feel down, you should bottle it up and busy yourself with more cheerful things. Labelling depression as a condition only gives it credence in your mind – feeling down is a sign of weakness, and one simply has to snap out of it.

Then, the black dog struck me. In a way that felt rather selfish, that was the first time I understood what depression really was. It wasn’t the fleeting sadness, the down day, that had been instilled in me as a young boy. It was a war, fought against the most difficult opponent of all – one’s own mind.

That is, truly, the best analogy I can give to anyone who has had the fortune to avoid the condition themselves. War. The most destructive war. A war from the moment one wakes up in the morning to the moment one closes one’s eyes at night. A war so destructive, it saps the very energy from you that is needed to fight it. A war that clouds every decision one makes.

I am conscious that this shouldn’t turn into some pitiful anecdote, an alcoholics anonymous-esque confession, so might I rapidly come to my point.

Movember. One cannot escape the sea of dodgy growth and half-baked fluff that adorns the top lip of countless men across the nation at the moment. For many, Movember is little more than an opportunity to finally pursue the very masculine dream of wanting a moustache, whilst trying not to offend one’s better half – I have found, from personal experience, that women are generally less than keen on the sliver of facial hair that I am able to grow.

More than all of that, however, Movember is a chance to talk. As cliché as the old trope is, there is a profound truth in the saying ‘a problem shared is a problem halved’.

In the UK today, ¾ of all suicides are male. The biggest killer of men under the age of 45 in this country is suicide. It is not violent crime, nor accidents, nor disease that puts a man most at risk of death, but rather his own mind.

So, I urge all of you who have continued reading this far, please check in with your friends. Indeed, Movember places an emphasis on men’s mental wellbeing, but depression is pervasive and does not discriminate on who it affects. If your friends seem off, or abrasive, or irritable, do not ignore the signs. Ask them out for a pint, go for a walk with them, share your problems together. Begin to fight back against a condition that cripples so many. 

My mother’s generation may struggle to understand depression, but it just takes one to break the cycle.

By Henry Munns.

Recently I’ve been asked by a few people whether my passion for climate change is ‘just a phase’. I don’t blame them; it certainly seems like one. Within the space of a few months, I went from having a comparatively basic understanding to having read more than twenty books, listened to over a hundred hours of podcasts, and written multiple articles on the subject. 

Perhaps it is a phase. It is quite likely that over the coming months my passion for climate change will wane. It’s a sombre realisation that something you are so interested in might fade into the background. I’m sure everyone reading this has been in that situation also.

From an early age, persistence is put on such a pedestal; I can picture it plastered on the wall of my kindergarten classroom next to a cartoon of a climber summiting a steep mountain. The school my sister attended for ten years even had the motto ‘per aspera ad astra’, meaning ‘through hardships to the stars’ – slightly cheesy but I understand the intention.

Confronting those doubts, has actually made me want to continue with my interest in climate change. It is definitely a worthy cause, could lead me to interesting career paths, and I find it fascinating.

However, I am prone to phases and obsessions. But as I’ve grown up, these phases have become more productive. I’ve been through a behavioural economics phase, and a quantitative finance phase, among others. 

Why am I saying all this?

Looking at the very early stages of my career, I believe that my tendency for obsession and phases, has become the most important character trait that I possess.

When you’re starting out, your value depends on these four main factors: how smart you are, how well you work with others, how hard you work, and what you know. The first two are, for the most part, set in stone. You can improve how you relate to others over time, and experience in the workforce certainly helps, but progress can be slow.

That leaves your work ethic and your knowledge as the two criteria that you can materially influence. Yet, from what I’ve seen, the latter is severely undervalued by young people. My experience tells me it really matters what you know. Knowledge gives you direct value, increases respect, and sets you apart from the competition. Most importantly, knowledge makes you confident — the impact of which cannot be understated. What’s more, diverse knowledge fosters a nuanced perspective, allowing for better judgement.

So, how can we accumulate diverse knowledge?

Learning follows the law of diminishing returns. Early on, you can learn a lot in a short-space of time. But the more you learn, the harder it is to learn more. 

This is why phases are so valuable. Whilst you’re in one, you become obsessed with the subject; as a result, your learning curve is steep, as seen in the above diagram. By contrast, passive learning, often received in education, is far slower, more akin to the black curve.

By timing the demise of a phase well you can capture the early steepness of the curve and exit before you hit diminishing returns. Provided you move quickly onto the next phase, this style of learning can massively accelerate your accumulation of knowledge. For someone prone to phases, moving on comes naturally.

The specialist or the generalist?

Having said all this, persistence is still extremely valuable. Scientists, engineers, and doctors all dedicate their careers to specific subject areas. What makes them so valuable is their persistence in the accumulation of knowledge in a chosen field.

Nonetheless, striving to be the ‘expert’ isn’t necessarily the best choice for everyone and many people can’t sustain interest in one particular pursuit for their entire career. It is no wonder people make more career changes than ever before. In many careers, diverse knowledge and experience is extremely valuable and can be a valuable tool. 

My advice is two-fold:

Firstly, ask yourself whether you are prone to phases? With that in mind, are you going down the right career path?

Secondly, foster your obsessions – immerse yourself as deeply as you can while your passion still burns. But if needed, allow it to fade away. Moving on does not negate the original interest, and the knowledge can be useful for future endeavours. 

By inhibiting someone’s willingness to step into that obsession, you’re also inhibiting their ability to step into obsessions that matter. Moreover, bungled, irrelevant, and niche phases only build on each-other, making you more interesting. Diversity isn’t a bad thing; it’s the best thing. I’m lucky those around me have, for the most part, fostered my phases, no matter how irrelevant. 

Considering the original question, perhaps someday I will lose my burning desire to learn all about climate change. But just because the fire ceases to burn does not mean I have lost passion or fascination. 

I still want to pursue this as I believe it is one of the most important issues of our time and is one I feel I can have a significant impact on. It may just fade into the background just enough that I can turn my attention to something new. I truly believe that something new will not only add value to both this interest and future ones. This might make it, ‘just a phase’ but I welcome that possibility with open arms.

By Emily Mahoney.

Fight Night is a night organised by Wilder Events to raise money for their charities (BlOKes UK and SolidariTEE), promising 20 students competing in boxing matches, with each match consisting of 3 rounds that last 2 minutes. I am sure many of us have heard of it, but the big question remains, who is brave enough to sign up and fight? I sat down and interviewed my flatmate, Maddie ‘The Baddie’ Clark, who is taking part, to find out a bit more about the inner workings of Fight Night. What does it really take to embrace this commitment that is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating? 

Maddie tells me that she signed up as a challenge, stepping outside of her comfort zone to push herself both physically and mentally. She explains that ‘it has been really challenging, but in the best way possible, and it is for such amazing causes too!’, going on to talk about the incredible charities that the proceeds of Fight Night are contributing to. Maddie explained that Fight Night perfectly encapsulates two of the things most important to her, fitness and charity. The first charity, BlOKes Uk provides a free ‘online other community’ for men to share their experiences with mental illness, allowing them to meet and talk to men ‘from all walks of life’, ultimately challenging the narrative that men should bottle up their thoughts and feelings. The second, SolidariTEE, is a charity led ‘by students and young people, standing against the injustices faced by refugees, and supporting NGOs working directly with those affected by forced displacement’. 

I was intrigued to know about the training process, which Maddie summed up in three words, punctuated by her signature cackle; ‘Really. Bloody. Hard’. Despite this, she says that in the hour-long training (which happens 4-5 times a week) they ‘push you really hard, and I am really enjoying it, despite the skipping- which I hated at the beginning!’ Ultimately, she articulates that it is immensely ‘empowering to see the progress that everyone is making’. We spoke at length about the mental health benefits of boxing as a whole, and Maddie strongly believes that it is so positive for her routine and her mental clarity, alongside the obvious physical benefits. She explains that ‘it is such an incredible way to get all your anger out for that hour, it is just so cathartic! It fosters this real sense of mindfulness, if you’re having a bad day when you enter that boxing ring everything goes out the window and all you can focus on is the person in front of you’. 

Despite her love for acting and being up on stage, even Maddie is still incredibly nervous for the fight, both due to her admiration of her opponent and the size of the audience but she continues to create a positive mindset and reminds herself that she has ‘put in the hard work for it’ as well as to ‘enjoy it and enjoy the process’, but she still ‘would like to come back home without a broken nose!’.

She continually sings the praises of the team at Go The Distance- Durham Community Boxing Club, which is a charity itself, set up to support people who have gone through domestic violence and abuse, and more generally for mental wellbeing as a whole. Maddie says that the support of the coaches is getting her through the training process, alongside the sense of community that has developed between the boxers. Speaking of this community she says that ‘everyone is really supportive during sparring and it is such a nice group. Is quite hard with boxing because everyone wants to train as hard as they can and essentially win, so you’re in your own mental headspace but that support is still there for each other because everyone knows how tough it really is’. Despite her parents being apprehensive at first, after explaining the training process her whole family is excited and supportive, with her brother trekking up to Durham from Marlow to show his support ringside, and she has promised her mum ‘for you I won’t get punched in the face!’. 

When asked if she would recommend signing up to Fight Night she said ‘it’s been an amazing experience in terms of boxing, everyone should get into it at some point! It has been so good for my physical and mental health’. Maddie suggested that Aggression Sessions is also a good alternative for people who want to get involved with boxing for a cause, training is over a longer period, as the hectic rush of 6 weeks of training can be quite intense for some! 

In summary, Maddie says ‘I am as ready as I’ll ever be, I have made some great friends and ultimately, I feel stronger and more empowered than I ever have before’.

By Izzie James.

When thinking about combatting homelessness, and providing dignity to those experiencing it, the significance of language is not something that first comes to mind. Of course, being proactive is important- donating to charities, listening to people’s stories and showing compassion to those experiencing homelessness. However, something that we can all do easily (and daily) is to change the way that we speak about the experience of homelessness. Though it seems like a small step, changing our everyday language can be significantly helpful in working to destigmatise homelessness.

If we look into the word ‘homeless’, it is easy to see where the harmful connotations start. To simply label someone ‘homeless’ suggests that their entire identity centres around whether they have a stable housing situation. It reduces the person to a product of their social position, refusing to acknowledge the complex issues that can cause homelessness. The word ‘homeless’ is an arguably easy term to use. It’s an umbrella term that means we don’t have to think about specific issues relating to individuals. It allows us to gloss over problems rather than thinking about the different complexities associated with homelessness, and leading to the classification of different living situations as all the same. For example, some people experiencing homelessness may have access to non-permanent housing through friends and family, yet others may not have this option.

The word also has a sense of permanency, and by labelling someone as ‘homeless’, instead of ‘a person experiencing homelessness’, it suggests that they are stuck in that situation, rather than just experiencing it temporarily. Furthermore, it creates an ‘othering’ of the people that are experiencing homelessness. The single word has the ability to create an ‘us’ and ‘them’ situation. If a person experiencing homelessness is characterised by the word ‘homeless’, then people with stable living conditions will feel different to them, forgetting that someone’s housing situation does not represent a person.

Joe Smith, who works for a homelessness charity in Bristol, phrases it well. He stated in an article: “We want to say that homelessness is more than visible ‘rooflessness’. It’s about the lack of stable, secure and affordable accommodation and intrinsically linked to poverty. It’s about cutbacks to preventative services, inadequate welfare support and the traumas that can severely impact people’s lives.^_“1 As a society, we need to look beyond the idea that homelessness is an individual’s fault, and broaden our conversations to consider the complex causes of homelessness. 

Another problem with language surrounding the word ‘homeless’ is that it is often used in a derogatory manner. Many people are guilty of stating that they “look homeless” when they look dishevelled, or are wearing unflattering clothing. Though it seems like a harmless statement, using ‘homeless’ in a derogatory way is only fuelling this sense of otherness and disrespect towards those experiencing homelessness. It strikes a similarity to people who say they ‘are bipolar’ when they have a mood change, or that they have ‘ADHD’ when they get distracted. It generates miscommunications about the actual behavioural sides of these diagnoses, and misconstrues awareness towards mental health issues. Society generally does not think about misusing mental health vocabulary, which can also be said for the misuse of the word ‘homeless’.  With both of these instances, it is harmful to make cruel generalisations towards a group of people that all have different stories, backgrounds and struggles.

It has already been established that using the term ‘person experiencing homelessness’ is less stigmatising than the label ‘homeless’, yet there is more potential for positive linguistical evolution.  It is important to reject any ‘othering’ language, and to call people out if they use words or phrases that may be considered derogatory. It is also important to avoid language or terms that suggests any kind of personal responsibility or blame- remember that every person experiencing homelessness will have different individual circumstances. Choosing to use empowering and inclusive language is a small but essential step.

The London-based charity Under One Sky has recently arrived in Durham, with its aim to change the narrative of homelessness, and to form empathetic relationships with those who find themselves without a home. My reference to this charity, and the amazing work it does, is relevant here due to its very name. Thinking about the term ‘Under One Sky’ is the perfect way to conclude. We are all living on the same earth, all under one sky, all equal. This should be in the forefront of our minds when considering how to treat people experiencing homelessness. My hope is that by making our language more inclusive and empathetic, we can create necessary change and continue to destigmatise homelessness.

If you’d like to hear more, or get involved with Under One Sky Durham, please email: underonesky.dusvo@durham.ac.uk

Or follow their social media page on Instagram: @uosdurham

¹ Joe Smith, ‘To end homelessness, we need to change how we talk about it’, 2019https://thebristolcable.org/2019/03/to-end-homelessness-we-need-to-change-how-we-talk-about-it/

By Emma Large.

Content Warning: References to Sexual Assault.

The one thing that we all tend to take for granted – knickers. 

The crucial undergarments that not only provide the foundation for the rest of our clothes, but underpin and permit the routines and solaces of our regular lives. They keep us warm; they keep us clean; they can make us feel sexy and they can make us feel comfortable. We can stick pads into them when we are on our periods, and constantly they provide that valued additional barrier to the outside world; whether we keep this barrier on or take it off is a matter of our own choice. They really are indispensable – all at once I think emblematic of consent, privacy, comfort and sexiness.

Hence why the absence of pants is the core focus of Durham University student Serena Chamberlain’s charity campaign. I sat down with Serena to discuss the movement and ask her a few questions about what she thinks pants really mean to people.

1. To start things off, can you give me a brief explanation of who you are and what the campaign involves?

Hi, yes. I’m Serena, I’m in my second year at Durham, and my campaign is called ‘Let’s Get Our Knickers in a Twist’ – a female student-led operation which aims to provide vulnerable women with access to brand new underwear. We ask for donations of brand-new packaged pants of any size or style, or we fundraise monetary donations in order to buy these items. We then take the pants to various women’s refuges in Durham, London and Somerset and drop them off.

2. Can you explain what you mean by the term ‘vulnerable’?

I use the term ‘vulnerable’ as an umbrella word for women in lots of different kinds of situations. We provide new underwear for women who are involved in sex work; women who are victims of domestic violence and addiction; and women who have become involved in the criminal justice system, often through no fault of their own. Many of these circumstances often lead to homelessness, which exacerbates their current vulnerability.

3. Why is there such a dire need for underwear specifically, for women in these vulnerable situations?

While it is great that clothes donations and charity shopping are becoming increasingly popular, lots of people forget that the one item which cannot be donated to charities nor bought from charity shops is underwear, due to personal hygiene reasons. There is consequently an underwear deficiency for those who cannot afford new pairs. We know having spoken to women’s refuges that they get very few donations of female underwear, and they so desperately need them.

4. Why do people forget or choose not to donate underwear?

Many people are not aware of the issues I have just mentioned, so forget to donate underwear; moreover, people often choose not to donate pants because it requires a greater sacrifice. It’s easy to donate old jeans you haven’t worn in a few years, but having to go out and buy brand new underwear is a bigger effort requiring more money and time, so it is not done as much.

5. What inspired you to start the campaign?

My mum and I have been volunteering at a women’s refuge local to us in Somerset for quite a few years now, and when we have asked what they need the most, it has always been underwear. Two years ago, my mum threw a large fundraising event for women’s knickers, and ever since I have wanted to do something similar but didn’t know what. Timing is key and I wanted to do it at university, because here it is easy to get more people on board and build a support network. 

I would say I had two key parallel experiences that incited my determination to set up this campaign. The first was when I was volunteering at the Somerset women’s refuge, when I was lucky enough to sit in on some ‘advisory sessions’ (as I believe they call them) with the ladies who came in. The second was during my volunteering in Zambia on a female-empowerment project. I conversed with the ladies on both occasions, and a common theme across both sets of conversations was that when these women were bleeding vaginally – either from menstruating or, unfortunately, from assault – they did not even have a pair of underwear to stick a pad to (if they had one).

6. Now, I know about this next question because I was there (and it was indeed epic), but what is a ‘pants party’?

So, the ‘pants party’ movement is an initiative to increase donations to the campaign. It was a large all-women gathering in one of our university houses, with the dress code of pink or pants, where those attending were either encouraged to wear their knickers if they were comfortable – or if not, wear pink. This helped to create a really fun atmosphere and a united sense of femininity. We wanted the party to be ‘all-girls’ was so that we could create a safe space, especially in the current climate where I know my friends and I have felt a lot of unwanted male sexual attention. For me, I felt it was freeing to be in our underwear just for ourselves, free from external judgement and discussion. We had a camera and took some great pictures (with people’s permission of course) – which is where the cover picture for this interview came from.

We had a firm ‘no knickers no entry’ policy, which meant you had to bring a brand-new pack of underwear to the door in order to be let in. We collected 380 pairs of pants that evening, which we took to a women’s refuge a few days afterwards.

We are trying to encourage students at lots of different universities to hold their own pants parties and do their own take on it to collect donations of underwear – if you would like to do so, please get in touch with me!

7. How many pairs of pants have you collected so far?

1882. 

8. What are your plans for the future?

Alongside spreading the ‘pants party’ initiative, we are hoping to collaborate with some more underwear brands and charities to host joint fundraising events. Bravissimo has already sent us 500 pairs of underwear and we have a current collaboration with ‘Bottoms Up The Brand’, in which they’re giving us 10% of their profits from November.

There are plans in the works with some of the Durham University fashion shows and for further collaborations with Durham charities, like the City of Sanctuary through Durham Refugees Club, by matching their clothing donations with knickers donations to local asylum seekers.

9. Do you think the problem of underwear might be difficult to talk about for some women? Do you think that female underwear has a certain taboo about it?

Yes, I do – and it’s a strange taboo because underwear is such a basic necessity. I think for some reason a sense of dignity is tied up in our idea of female underwear, maybe precisely because it is so fundamental to our lives, and is a symbol of our sexuality, and helps us with all our ‘embarrassing’ bodily functions that have been kept secret and underground by society for years. I think the stigma around pants could be similar or linked to the stigma around sanitary products. We know that many women in vulnerable situations may find requesting underwear humiliating or embarrassing, and we want to provide knickers for women without them needing to ask. But ultimately, we’d love to remove the stigma around female underwear which shouldn’t even be there in the first place.

10.  If people want to donate to the campaign or help in some way, what should they do?

Please keep donating pants by dropping them around (contact us via email!) or donate at the GoFundMe link: https://www.gofundme.com/f/provide-knickers-to-ladies-who-need-them-most?member=22146243&sharetype=teams&utm_campaign=p_na+share-sheet&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_source=customer

Have your own pants party and help us to fundraise either physical pants or monetary donations.

Furthermore, if anyone has any ideas or connections that could help with fundraising please drop me a message – this kind of stuff really helps and opens up new pathways for the campaign!

Social media for ‘Let’s Get Our Knickers in a Twist’: Our Instagram and TikTok handle is @letsgetourknickersinatwist – follow us to get regular updates on the campaign, pant counts and to see where your donations are going and the impact they are having.

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.

By Mimi Nation-Dixon.

I have often found myself losing focus when watching a TV show or a film – but I always find myself completely entranced when watching a piece of theatre – from my younger brother’s starring role as the donkey in his Year 2 nativity, to watching Juliet Stevenson star in Robert Icke’s combative play, ‘The Doctor’– I was captivated, albeit for different reasons.

This may be because through choosing to go to the theatre you are committing yourself to two hours of complete submission to the story being told. You are physically within the same building as the actors – so, however talented or not they may be (I am here referring to my brother’s role as a donkey), you can see and feel the human effort and skill behind the story.

This became apparent to me over summer; watching the preview night of ‘The Doctor’, there was a moment when an actor forgot his line at a pivotal moment. Confused panic spread across the eyes of all the cast on stage.

Suddenly this dramatic pause had lost all drama.

It was now just awkward.

Bizarrely, the audience felt nervous – a bit like what I would imagine one to feel if, when taking a bus, the driver took his hands off the wheel and yelled “look no hands!” Momentary excitement swiftly replaced by pulsating panic. But – through eye contact and improvisation the actors soon navigated their way back to the story. Hands now securely back on the wheel, the audience could breathe a sigh of relief. The wheel of the story once again moving.

Forgetting lines is probably one of an actor’s worst nightmares, but – with actors performing every night for weeks on end – statistically, forgetting your lines is inevitable. Human error is a necessary by-product of human effort. Top journalists will make typos – evidenced by a quick flick through the website MailOnline (though I am hesitant to use the phrase ‘top journalism’ and MailOnline in the same sentence). What I am trying to get at here is, wherever human effort is involved, mistakes are inevitable.

Yet it was this ‘mistake’ which made me realise the value of live theatre, and why it will always strike me as uniquely challenging – whether I am lucky enough to be able to perform and make live theatre professionally, or even just to be able to afford to watch live theatre regularly.

Theatre, to me, is where the most authentic human stories are told. The actors are just humans creating a story. The actors don’t know what will exactly happen on the night, and neither do the audience. This creates room for the unexpected.

As an actor, there is nothing more exhilarating than being on stage, adrenaline electrifying both performer and audience, the scene takes a new turn – the story leads the narration. Back in 2014, the space for exciting spontaneity facilitated by live theatre could be observed in the final performance of Jez Butterworth’s play Mojo. Actor Ben Whishaw smashed up the card table hinges and all, Daniel Mays and Rupert Grint ‘corpsed’ in their scene when Mays spat out a toothpick, and Tom Rhys Harris improvised his (usually silent) entrance. It was organic and exciting, and thus more real.

Live story-telling has power and value; evoking empathy through enhancing the shared human experience. I will never forget watching ‘A Monster Calls’ with a whole mass of fellow National Youth Theatre members. After the curtain call, we were all stuck to our seats, coming to terms with the story we had just been immersed in. On the tube home, none of us spoke to one another – so struck by the emotion of the play. Our silence however, was secure. Secure in the knowledge that we were all experiencing the same heightened emotions. Although silent, we were united by the invisible thread of the story we had just been told.

After-all, story-telling, although not one of the ‘seven life processes’, is a base human requirement, the feeling following watching a piece of live-theatre shouldn’t be elitist – and, making it inaccessible risks losing a key part of our human voice.