TN2 Low Res Issue 9

Transcription

TN2 Low Res Issue 9

Spring/summer
fashion highlights
Crystal Antlers Robert Ballagh Pete Doherty Beers of the world Marble at The Abbey
Calendar of fun
tn2’s pick of the most exciting things to
do in Dublin this coming fortnight
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
Monday
24
Sam Shepard’s Ages of
the Moon has its world
premiere tonight, with
Stephen Rea and Seán
McGinley starring.
The Peacock Theatre, 8
pm, €22
25
Looking for some “highenergy mega electro
rock?” Good, because
Le Galaxie are around
tonight (and are rather
fun indeed).
Whelans, 8 pm, €10
26
Tonight is the last night
of Martin McDonagh’s
The Pillowman at The
Helix.
The Helix, 7.30 pm, €10
27
Hooray For Humans,
with support from Kidd
Blunt, you say? Happy
days.
Eamonn Doran’s, 8 pm
28
The very excellent
Four Tet is to be found
tonight in Andrew’s Lane
with Sunken Foal, among
others in support.
Andrew’s Lane Theatre,
10 pm, €25
1
Hockey and Passion
Pit are riding a pretty
massive wave of hype
at the moment – now’s
your chance to see if
they’re any good.
2
So, I know it’s been on
since September, but
Exquisite Corspe at
IMMA is over at the end
of the month and is
worth a look.
IMMA, until 31 March
3
Clonmel-born John
Brennan has an exhibition in the Hallward
Gallery until the end of
the month.
Hallward Gallery, 65 Merrion Square
4
The Choice Music
Prize is announced
tonight, with lots of the
nominees performing.
Vicar Street, 8 pm, €27
5
Mark Geary is in Whelans tonight.
6
OrphanCode play a
Daguerreotype fundraiser tonight. Go out
and support your local,
poverty-stricken artist.
The O’Reilly Theatre,
Great Denmark Street,
7 pm, €10
7
Peter Bjorn and John
have a new record out
fairly soon and are playing tonight no doubt in
an effort to promote
said record. Yes indeed.
The Button Factory,
8 pm, €18
8
Watchmen went on
general release over
the weekend. Is it really
so wrong to be excited
about this one? Probably.
Cinemas nationwide
9
Self-taught artist Stano
has an exhibition in Axis
Ballymun until May.
Axis Ballymun, until 28
May
xkcd.com
Contents
Spring/summer fashion picks
4
Catriona Gray talks to Pete Doherty...
6
... and also Crystal Antlers
7
Rise up
8
A beer odyssey
9
The censorship debate
10
Reading the world
11
Caroline O’Leary meets Robert Ballagh
12
Loneliness in West Germany at the Goethe Institut
14
Current exhibitions at the Douglas Hyde
15
Marina Carr’s latest
16
Joker Choker at Players
17
The real deal?
17
Reviews
18
Issue
9
The spectre of my thesis deadline hangs ominously on the horizon,
dear readers so I’m going to be brief. This issue, we talked to all
sorts of interesting characters: Pete (or is that “Peter” now?) Doherty, Robert Ballagh and Jonny Bell from Crystal Antlers among
them. Fashion looked ahead to what we’ll all be donning this season (special mention must go to Sinéad Mercier for her lovely illustrations). Theatre took in productions from The Abbey to Players.
Books got all debate-y about censorship. Food and Drink got bleedin’ wrecked, tasting many delicious beers from all over the world.
Art took in a number of exhibitions around the city. Film reviewed
an awful lot of movies. And then there were the rather cool pictures
that Lenka Špryslová took of Rise Against’s gig last week. Lamentably, we couldn’t print them all, but you can see more of her concert
pics at www.lenulino.net.
All that remains for me to do, then, is to bid you farewell until our
next issue in Trinity term and get back on this thesis-writing buzz.
Stupid thesis.
Your studiously,
Hugh
Editor
[email protected]
Win VIP passes for
you and 3 friends to
Felix Da Housecat
Dr Lektroluv
16 March
20 March
in The Academy
To enter, e-mail [email protected] with
your name, the show you’d like to go to
and a contact phone number
tn2
24 February – 9 March, 2009
3
Getting seasonal
Ana Kinsella relentlessly pored over the catwalk shows for
Spring/Summer 09 to bring you the rundown of the top trends
for this spring... whenever that starts
K
eeping up with the never-ending
merry-go-round of this fashion
world is a difficult business. The
rules change so quickly, and as
soon as you’ve gotten used to the current season, the next one rushes
in to transform everything
once again. Well, never fear,
for I’ve combed through the
Spring/Summer 2009 collections looking for trends
so that you don’t have to.
The fashion industry is
scheduled in such a way that
it casts its nets six months into
the future – the Spring collections
show in September, the Autumn
collections in February – giving
pundits a full half-year to place
their bets on the dominant trends
to follow. This season, the Spring collections were shown
in tremulous times,
with Lehman Brothers collapsing as the
fashion pack headed from New
York Fashion Week to London. But the
show must go on,
apparently, and
so for four weeks
the catwalks of
New York, London, Milan and
Paris revealed to
us what we must –
and must not – be
wearing this season.
What is fashion
supposed to do in a recession? Distract
us, with shiny fabrics and bright colours?
Or play along with the mood, and turn to
droopy drawers and floppy hats? Well,
it seems we’ll be wearing both. Colour
blocking is an unavoidable trend this season, seen at Lanvin, Gucci (a personal
favourite is a jade green pantsuit with
matching fedora), Michael Kors and
Calvin Klein, and will have us decked
out in bright solid minidresses, boxy
jackets and pants from now until next
winter. On the other hand, if you listen to the likes of Marni, Marc Jacobs
or Burberry Prorsum, it’ll be dowdy
coats, midi skirts, ankle socks and
check patterns for us – all in bland
shades of beige, mustard and grey.
An antidote to this sartorial
misery lies in my favourite dominant trend – superglam rock ‘n
roll. Gone are the days when the
term “rock chic” conjured up
images of “bandage tight snake-
skin jeans, purple stiletto-heeled cowboy
boots and a pink leather stetson” to quote
Marian Keyes’s Angels. This season, rock
chic is more luxe denim, accented shoulders, crystals and bandage dresses, best
showcased in Christophe Decarnin’s collection for Balmain. His iconic rehashings of eighties pieces such as top heavy
military jackets, ripped acid wash jeans
and tight bandage dresses, all infused
with sequins and crystals, have won him
a place at the top of many fashionista’s
wishlists. On paper it sounds a tad gaudy
but the collection is immaculately produced, and has been seen on celebrities
as diverse as Gwyneth Paltrow and Kate
Moss, as well as the impeccably turnedout Vogue Paris team. Elsewhere, we can
see leather, denim, and quite a lot of black
from Elise Overland, Givenchy, Ann Demeulemeester.
This trend spills over into the wide
world of shoes, with extreme shoes taking centre stage like never before. The
term has been bandied around for a
few seasons but a number of designers
showed barely wearable heels, including Balenciaga, Louis Vuitton and Prada,
quiere, decked out their models in hardedged sequined shifts that look like they
came straight from a 60s sci-fi flick. Not
the most wearable stylings, but an undeniably innovative and awe-inspiring collection.
However, many of these trends will not
translate to the high street. That’s why
it’s important to look at micro-trends –
small aspects that get repeated across
collections. Louis Vuitton, Dries Van
Noten, Marc Jacobs, Matthew Williamson all favoured the fun kinds of prints
which can be easily emulated on the high
street – Dries Van Noten’s black-andwhite squares are a personal must-have.
Zippers also featured prominently, with
Phillip Lim, Versace and YSL using them
to accent and edge otherwise feminine
frilly designs. Soft, shiny metallics made
an appearance at Prada, Vivienne Westwood and globetrotting favourite Sophia
Kokosalaki, and I hope to see this in some
short shiny shapes from Topshop in a
month or two. Annoyingly, some of the
most prevalent microtrends were also the
most unwearable. Prada have been pushing the exposed midriff “bra-top” look
since the mid nineties, and the likes of
Alexander Wang and
Proenza Schouler
are also trying to put
a chill in our kidneys
by exposing flat
tummies and scary
rib cages on the runway. Something tells
me this one’s not for
everyone.
Over the past two years we’ve seen a
turnaround in the levels of popularity of
certain designers, and the Spring 09 collections confirmed the status of newer
designers like Alexander Wang, Rodarte,
Basso & Brooke and Karen Walker over
established stalwarts like Chloe and
Givenchy. These newbies have been winning praise from editors and celebrities
alike, and it’s pretty obvious that these
guys will be exerting a palpable influence
over how the fashion-conscious dress
over the next few seasons in terms of
colour choice, hemlines and the biggest
trends.
Of course, many catwalk trends won’t
trickle down to the high street at all.
Avant-garde Maison Martin Margiela,
who embraces recycling and deconstruction in his radical collections, sent out his
girls with their faces covered entirely in
stretched coloured material. I won’t be
placing bets on this one appearing in the
Arts Block in the months to come.
Avant-garde Maison Martin Margiela,
who embraces recycling and
deconstruction in his collections, sent his
girls out with their faces covered in
coloured material. I won’t be placing bets
on this one appearing in the Arts Block
Illustrations: Sinéad Mercier
4
where a number of models toppled from
their heels, with one taking them off and
walking barefoot. Such extreme heels
have also already begun to trickle down
to the high street, with Zara and Topshop
churning out knock-offs of Balmain’s and
Louis Vuitton’s skyscraper shoes.
Runways turned into treadmills at
times as several designers decided to
advocate sportswear for Spring, with
DKNY, Louise Goldin, Stella McCartney
and it-boy Alexander Wang all are doing
sporty clean edges on pieces like cropped
leggings, tank tops, supertight bodysuits
and oversize hoodies.
The look here is glamourous gym wear
paired with killer heels and slicked back
hair. On the more avant-garde end of
things, sportswear evolves into fashion
from the future at Balenciaga, Jil Sander,
Alexander McQueen and Gareth Pugh.
In particular, Balenciaga, who have had
a run of good collections the last few
seasons under the genius Nicolas Ghes-
tn2
Something for the boys
Cillian O’Connor endorses springing out of bed this season
(no pun intended) in pinstripe pyjamas, the happy colour
yellow, sophisicated blue and seriously scoop neck tees
D
on’t get me wrong. I relished
the recurring, blanketing
snowfall of early February just
as much as the next person but
Spring/Summer 09 has finally arrived and
I, for one, am more than ready for perusing what’s on offer. No more cumbersome
cable knits, gargantuan overcoats and
sweat-inducing scarves. Now’s the time
to usher in the unadulterated easiness of
the coming months, at least sartorially.
For that’s what designers from Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana to
Tomas Maier of Bottega Veneta envisioned for SS 09: a reckless abandonment
of the conventional formalities of dress,
perhaps simultaneously encouraging an
abandonment of worries and woe regarding the economic collapse. In short: ditch
the suited daywear and don your favourite pinstripe PJs.
Yes, gentlemen, no longer need you
worry yourselves with such bothersome
questions such as “What will I wear today?”. Simply spring out of bed and be
on your merry way. Well, that’ll only convince if you’re the privileged owner of
some Dolce & Gabbana satin sleepwear
or Ann Demeulemeester’s pinstriped
pajamalike pants.
But that’s just one
of menswear’s latest
innovations,
and
most likely a tendency which won’t
filter into the highstreet destinations
you and I frequent.
What’s much more
plausible is sporting the colours of the
season. Despite the financial crises we’re
currently tackling, designers have banded together this season to offer some potential source of happiness – sometimes
neon, sometimes muted but invariably
covetable: yellow. From the sober mustard and marzipan at Prada and Burberry
Prorsum (sometimes only culinary comparisons will suffice) to the lemon pastels
at Missoni and the unabashed electricity of Jil Sander and Costume National’s
shades, it was undoubtedly the colour du
jour. It was tailed closely, though, by the
most variegated shades of blue, another
Spring/Summer staple. At Bottega Veneta, it appeared in suits and weekenders of
the most sophisticated royal blue whilst
at Lanvin, Lucas Ossendrijver’s ruching
was illuminated by an almost pulsating
cobalt, an impactive hue which also featured heavily in another of Kris Van Assche’s collections for Dior Homme. Admittedly, the aforementioned shades are
in no way intended for those who could be
deemed the “faint-of-dress,” and designers such as Tommy Hilfiger, Paul Smith,
Dries Van Noten and Emporio Armani (a
personal favourite – midnight blue, which
was threaded throughout the majority of
the collection) provided more accessible
alternatives for the understated man.
Not only did these favoured tones appear alone but they also shone brightly in
colour-blocks and panels. Jil Sander demonstrated it perfectly where aforesaid
electric yellow was intermingled with
steely grey and softer tea rose.
Does this abundance of feminine
colours have you fearing emasculation?
Well, brace yourselves, the machismo’s
about to fade even further. Regarding
shapes, SS 09 saw the emergence of some
subtle gender-bending. At Prada, Miuccia
sought to further castrate us with seriously scoop-neck lightweight knits while
Christopher Bailey of Burberry Prorsum boldly went where few heavyweight
menswear designers have gone before by
lowering necklines to abdomen-skimming depths. I guess this means more
crunches then...
menswear, any small change designers
can provide gives hope that one day we’ll
be offered the multitude of ingenious
creations womenswear boasts.
Prints were particularly well executed this season with Alexander McQueen’s pistol motif which seemed to
draw on the deadly sultriness of film
noir, the proliferation of polka dots
(no longer just for indie-Cindys!)
at Ann Demeulemeester, and the
abundance of florals from several
others. As Meryl Streep caustically quipped in The Devil Wears Prada, florals aren’t exactly “groundbreaking” for the season now upon
us. Nevertheless, the reinterpreted
florals designers showed this time
‘round are certainly worth considering. Frida Giannini’s flora were
appliquéd, embroidered and even
airbrushed at Gucci, while at Givenchy,
the garish, hot pink, embroidered and
abstract variety was preferred.
Although accessories are not, and
probably never will be, as slavishly observed by men as by the fairer sex, menswear designers still proffer plenty of
choice. SS 09 saw
the introduction
of the simply yet
stylishly adorned
man with a wide
range of methods to embellish
an outfit. There
were light scarves
in Tisci’s, trademark gothic tones
at Givenchy and
messengers of the finest leathers at Fendi.
As for the advent of the “mlutch” (read:
man clutch), I’m as speechless as you are.
However, shoes were especially enticing
this season. With lesser-known labels like
Red by Wolves and Common Projects,
the boundaries of mens footwear are undoubtedly being eradicated. For those of
you that don’t plan on prancing sprightly
to secure the nearest available beaded,
yellow, chest-revealing scoop-neck tee,
then try branching out with footwear. Patent leather comes highly recommended.
Of course, what’s key to remember
this season is that we should be attempting to adapt our consumption
patterns to the current economic environment. In other words, the biggest trend for SS 09 is avoidance of
the fad and investment in pieces
that offer longevity. Ditch the
cheap and naff and opt for quality, even if it does come at a
slightly higher price.
Christopher Bailey of Burberry
Prorsum boldly went where few
heavyweight menswear designers have
gone before by lowering necklines to
abdomen-skimming depths. I guess this
means more crunches then...
tn2
Alas, it wasn’t only necklines that were
subject to the ball-busting but also the
overall structuring of most garments.
Softer, more rounded shoulders could
frequently be seen in pieces as traditionally masculine as smoking jackets (Stefano Pilati for Yves Saint Laurent). Also,
the skinny silhouette pioneered by Hedi
Slimane during his sojourn at Dior Homme doesn’t appear to be dying out any
time soon though we ourselves might run
a chance considering the relentless starvation which would be required to fit into
the now ubiquitous skinny suits (I’m looking at you Gucci). Further feminisation
was achieved through embellishments
like beading which appeared along the
necklines of cardis and tees at Burberry
and Alessandro Dell’Acqua, respectively.
Although this easier, more feminine aesthetic won’t have enormous appeal, it’s
good to consider the significance of this
movement from the staid conservative to
the more modern masculine. As always in
5
Back from the dead
Photo: Caroline O’Leary
Catriona Gray somehow managed to get past the
hoards of slightly mental fans and have a word with
Pete Doherty when he visited the Phil recently
D
espite the two and a half hour delay, Pete Doherty’s appearance
at the Phil two weeks ago still
caused quite a stir. The prospect
of seeing the ex-Libertines and Babyshambles singer created the biggest queue since
Al Pacino paid a visit to Trinity, with the line
of people stretching all the way from the
steps of the GMB to the Dining Hall.
This wasn’t Doherty’s first trip to Trinity, as Babyshambles, along with Kate Moss,
made a memorable appearance at the Trinity Ball back in 2005. According to Doherty
it wasn’t the best of nights: “it was a bit of a
disaster, that one. My guitarist got the fear
mid-way through, he said I was looking at
him funny and threw down his guitar and
ran off… terrible night it was.”
Doherty also talked about his friendship
with Pogues frontman Shane McGowan.
When asked where he first met McGowan,
Doherty replied: “Honestly, it was on the
floor at a party. He said, “congratulations,
you’re now the most obnoxious man in
pop.” Those were his first words to me… It’s
hard to understand what he says a lot of the
6
time but when you do work it out, it’s generally quite insightful and yeah, he’s taught
me a lot. He’s quite into his history as well.”
Doherty’s year got off to a good start,
when he played with the legendary Roger
Daltrey, from The Who: “[Daltrey] got in
contact with me through the Teenage Cancer Trust, he’s quite heavily involved with
that. A couple of years ago he said something quite hurtful. He said I was a waste of
space, and I wasn’t big or clever and it had all
been done before and all this. And then he
phoned me up after I’d been to the funeral
of a young man, who’d died of cancer and he
said, ‘Well Pete, I don’t take back what I said,
but you’ve proved yourself now in my eyes,
what sort of man you are, so if you need anything, anything, just call me.’ So I said, ‘can
you do a gig with me?’”
Doherty also spoke about his experience
of interviewing Paul McCartney: “My mum
had given me this chip fork to give him, ‘cos
she’s from Liverpool and she was like, ‘what
are you going to give to a Scouser who’s got
everything – a silver chip fork,’ and I was like,
‘yeah that’s a great idea, mum.’ So I gave it
to him all expectant and he just put it in his
pocket and looked at me a bit strange… I was
asking him about some of the things they
used to get up to on tour with the Beatles.
You hear about the Rolling Stones and the
total decadent rock bands, but the Beatles
were the baddest of all, but it was all kept
quiet… they were bumming everything in
sight.”
When asked who were the people who
have influenced him the most, Doherty replied: “No-one really, I’ve done it all on my
own. I’m quite a lonely character. Most of
my friends are dead and have been for hundreds of years. I quite like cats... (pause) Do
you know what, I don’t actually like cats so
much... it started off fine but now they’ve
just taken over, they’ve just expanded. It’s
like lemmings. I’m trying to keep the population under control, it’s about 12 now. But I
mean, they’re so smelly, it’s disgusting. I’m
trying to get to grips with the philosophy of
cats, as it were. I’ve bought a book about the
psychology of cats, trying to get inside their
heads, but they just piss on the duvet.”
Doherty was unsurprisingly quite reluctant to talk about his time in Wormwood
scrubs, but said: “You’ve got to make the
best of a bad situation. To be honest, everything I did write in there, or most of what I
wrote, makes for pretty depressing reading,
just self pity and wallowing in it, just sat on
that bed all day every day and if you’re lucky
you get strip-searched after dinner and
that’s the highlight of the day really.”
Doherty also spoke at length about his
music and his new solo album: “I’ve reverted back to where I came from, where I started out. Songs like ‘Albion’ and ‘Music When
The Lights Go Out’, they were quite ballady
and slow and they were the first songs. Then
The Strokes came along and our manager
said “Look, you’re going to have to speed
everything up if you want to get signed.” So
we did that.
When we first got in the limelight, we
were so deranged and angry and a bit twisted, that we’d just get on stage and turn it up
as loud as we could, whack it out and get off
as quickly as we could. There was a lot of
frantic, nervous energy and it was all a bit
more aggressive and chaotic, and then we
just calmed down a little bit, sadly.”
When asked what was his favourite song
that he’d written, Doherty replied: “Maybe
‘Back From the Dead’, just because I tend to
find when I’m lacking in inspiration I tend
to go back to them chords, it’s just something about them… it’s just kind of mournful and sad and no-one’s worked out where
I’ve nicked it from. And ‘Don’t Look Back
into the Sun’ I quite like as well.”
Doherty also played a short acoustic set,
which included “Last of the English Roses”,
the first single from his new album, Grace/
Wastelands.
tn2
Crystal Bell
Catriona Gray talked to Crystal
Antlers’ Jonny Bell about the “Crystal”
craze and chimney sweeping
W
ith only one EP behind them, Crystal Antlers are already causing quite a stir. Currently in the midst of a
gruelling European tour, singer Jonny Bell looked a
bit exhausted as he took a break from soundchecks
before their gig in Whelans.
The tour is to promote their debut album, Tentacles, which was
recorded in a mere week. Bell looks, if possible, even more exhausted as he describes the experience, saying, “during the last few days
of recording, I slept maybe an hour a night, just staying up, and our
engineer Joe, he just stuck with us because we knew we had to get
it done. And it was also stressful because we went into the studio
directly after a thirty day tour of the US without really taking a break
at all. We also slept in the studio and didn’t really leave for more
than fifteen minutes at a time.”
The recording of the album saw original guitarist Errol Davis
rejoin the band, although he wasn’t able to make the European
tour, which has caused some speculation. Bell quickly dispels the
rumours: “He’s actually in Thailand right now again. It sort of just
happened too late for him to come on this tour, so he’s just waiting
in Thailand until we get back and then he’s going to meet up with us
and tour with us from then on.”
It’s too tempting to resist asking Bell whether he’s irritated by the
constant references in the press to the growing popularity of calling
your band “Crystal Something.” Bell takes the question surprising
well, probably due to the number of times that he’s had to answer
it: “It was irritating, but now I’m just numb to it, it’s just like ‘okay,
what a great coincidence.’ But it seems like there’s some attention
from that, to all three of the bands, Crystal Stilts, Crystal Castles
and us, and I dunno, it might be helping us in some way.”
A surprising fact about Crystal Antlers is that while they were still
a three-piece, they all worked as chimney sweeps. Seriously. When
asked about this, Bell becomes progressively more enthusiastic:
“We all worked for this really crazy, acid-casualty guy and then I had
my own company too. We still do it: when we’re not on tour, I still
sweep chimneys to try to earn some extra money.”
When asked if sweeping chimneys is difficult, Bell replies: “Yeah,
parts of it are. I do full on masonry work too, so I can build a chimney, rebuild them and all that kind of stuff. It’s really hard work but
I love it, it’s so rewarding to work for twelve hours and there’s this
structure that could be there for hundreds of years.”
Shortly after this, the conversation turned to whether Bell had
had any traumatic experience with chimneys: “Yeah… so many, so
many, especially because the guy that we were working for before
was so crazy and irresponsible, he was just like a child. He was kind
of like a cartoon character in a way: once he was trying to get a beehive out of a chimney and started spraying a hose down the chimney. I should preface this by saying that he gets all of his work by
going door to door and talking people into doing this, because it’s
California and people don’t really use their chimneys so much. And
so the customers are always a little apprehensive to begin with. And
so he’s up there, spraying water down this chimney at a beehive and
all these bees start flying out and attacking him and stinging him.
He’s just rolling all over the roof, screaming. I was trying to spray
him down with the hose and the customer’s out there on his front
lawn and there was a school across the street and the school had
just gotten out and all the kids were all standing there watching and
laughing.” Bell pauses for effect before continuing: “I’ve been attacked by a possum before too.”
At this point, the tour manager decided that the ten minutes
were up. It was probably a wise decision on his part, given the way
the conversation was going.
Crystal Antlers’s debut album, Tentacles, is out on 6 April.
tn2
7
Photo: Lenka Špryslová (www.lenulino.net)
The shape punk can become
Tomas Kejmar headed down to see Chicago’s
Rise Against in The Academy last week and was
impressed by the melodic hardcore four-piece
L
ast week, American hardcore-influenced outfit Rise Against, managed
to draw a crowd of approximately
seven hundred ecstatic, mostly
teenage, fans down to The Academy for
a show that lived up to the high standard
they’ve set over the last decade or so.
In order to make the Dublin show happen, expenses had to be cut somewhere and
in the end it came down to the support acts.
Irish fans could have easily feel cheated because instead of rather brilliant Strike Anywhere and Rentokill, who have opened all
of Rise Against’s dates on the continent, or
Flobot and Anti-Flag, who will be sharing
the stage with them on the entire upcoming
UK tour, they got two local bands. However,
that isn’t to criticize The Demise or Paranoid Visions in any respect. These acts, especially the latter, did a great job in creating
an intense atmosphere at the gig.
Prior to getting to the venue, fans had to
exhibit extraordinary patience. The queue
8
stretched almost hundred meters, well up
to the junction of Middle Abbey and Lower
Liffey Street. The slightly amused looks of
passers-by were attracted not only by the
size of the crowd that had gathered but,
more significantly, by the impressive range
of fashion excesses exhibited. Recruited
from all age brackets, from early teenage
kids to hardcore grown-ups in their early
thirties, the impatient crowd must have
been quite a sight on its own.
By the time I got in, the first opening
band had already played most of their set.
Judging from the last three songs, The Demise play a modern take on melodic hardcore and punk-rock, which wasn’t unlike
the style of the headliner. The sound man
could have done a better job but the crowd
seemed satisfied nonetheless.
The fact that the event was 14+ was a sufficient excuse for such an early start and perhaps also for the fact that the bar didn’t offer
anything but cups of free ice-cold water.
With this in mind, the choice of second
supporting band was a little surprising.
Paranoid Visions, known for the anti-U2
campaign they waged in the late 80s, are already legendary and infamous enough and
their allegiance to the anarcho-punk tradition of the likes of Crass and Conflict only
increased the already sharp contrast with
both the other bands on the bill. The eightpiece band, featuring a duo of female singers
and a keyboard player in addition to classic
rock band line-up, effectively divided the
audience.
There were certainly some that had
come to see them, but the crowd, consisting
mostly of teenage Rise Against fans, didn’t
seem to be prepared to face the version
of punk-rock offered by these guys. Rise
Against’s music is rooted in melodic branch
of punk, as displayed by the likes of Bad Religion, The Adolescents, NOFX or Dag Nasty,
whereas the model Paranoid Visions work
from springs from significantly rawer foundations.
The afore-mentioned Crass, Conflict or
other 80s anarcho-punk acts, like Dirt or
Subhumans, are undoubtedly among their
sources of inspiration. On the top of that,
their sound also gives the impression that
somebody had been listening to Killing Joke
a little too much.
After thirty five minutes of sophisticated
sonic torture and additional twenty five
minutes of waiting, the much anticipated
headliner took to the stage. The set-list consisted of a fair selection of old and newer
songs with an emphasis on the last three
albums. Although it might seem rather surprising, it wasn’t the older, time-proved hits
that provoked the strongest responses. Instead, the crowd, most of whom apparently
knew the band mainly from their music videos and MySpace, seemed to welcome most
the singles from band’s last two albums The
Sufferer & the Witness and Appeal to Reason.
Despite the fact that Rise Against are
rather skilful songwriters and that McIlrath’s voice is really versatile, much of their
material nevertheless stays within the constraints of mid-paced punk-rock music with
pop overtones, which can be entertaining
for only so long.
The semi-acoustic intermezzo as the first
part of encore thus proved refreshing, and
showed that Rise Against, in this case meaning Tim McIlrath, are capable of maintaining atmosphere with as little as one acoustic guitar. Overall, the craftsmanship Rise
Against exhibited live was certainly worth
the ticket price alone.
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Photo: Melanie O’Reilly
A beer odyssey
Melanie O’Reilly sampled some of the best
beer the world/local off licence has to offer
eer. The poor man’s champagne.
Now, you may wonder why on
earth a pronounced beer hater
would write an article on the beverage. Well, for starters I recognise that not
everyone has my impeccable taste, and I’m
told beer is rather like wine in that it is an
acquired taste (that takes an eternity to acquire). Or so I thought.
Have you ever wondered what on earth is
the difference between lager and ale? Well,
my research tells me it is all about the fermentation. Lager tends to be less fruity or
spicy, lighter in colour and if you want to
sound really knowledgeable then remember, the main distinction is yeast. Lager
yeast ferments at a lower temperature than
ale and flocculates on the bottom of the
vessel, unlike ale. A word of warning, lager
tends to be the less sweet of the two main
types of beer.
Ale has many different varieties: pale,
light, red, brown, dark, old… it can really get
quite confusing! And that doesn’t even take
into account the country of origin. Stout, in
case you’ve always wondered, is a term for
the strongest, darkest type of ale, for example Guinness.
Beer is basically trial and error, or at least
that’s how I felt when sampling these beers.
The ones that I would definitely recommend
trying are: Nastro Azurro; Pravsky; Svyturys;
Staropramen; Tyskie and Hofbrau Original.
Czech beer tends to be a fairly safe option
for drinkability, however, there are always
the classics from Germany and Belgium. A
good off-licence for beers of the world is the
Molloy’s liquor store chain. They have quite
a large and interesting selection of beer
from Japan to Canada with many Eastern
European countries in between.
Nastro Azurro is an Italian beer which is
easy to drink and would be an ideal choice
to have at a barbeque or with grilled meats.
(obviously whilst abroad) with your typical
holiday food treats or simply some great
seafood. I will admit that by this stage my
friend and I had given up on food and beer
pairing and were simply knocking back the
beers and tortilla chips. But my brothers
agree that Tyskie is a great lager and that is
quite a recommendation.
Staying with Poland, I will pass on another recommendation: Zywiec, a pilsner-style
lager that is light but still full of flavour. The
girl in me feels the need to emphasise the
word light, and to also mention that the bottle’s label looks quite cool. When it comes to
Eastern European beers, my research seems
B
tn2
It has a very pale yellow hue and a light, nonoverpowering scent and the corn gives the
beer a refreshing twist. Nastro Azurro is
definitely a good option for Beer beginners.
Pravsky is a Czech beer which I feel is another easy-to-drink option. It has a golden
tint, without the overly strong scent of hops
and would be ideal for grilled fish or chicken
with a leafy salad.
Svyturys, a Lithuanian beer, is once again
very drinkable. It has a very light taste with
an almost zingy after-taste that is quite refreshing – something I did not expect as
it has a rich golden hue and quite a strong
smell of hops. Svyturys is a good choice to
I guess everything takes a while to get
used to, and maybe my taste isn’t as
impeccable as I thought! But a person unable
to change and admit defeat is a lost cause.
So, ladies, get off your high horses and throw
yourselves an elegant beer bash!
drink with stir fries, white fish dishes or
Japanese cuisine.
Staropramen, another Czech beer, is a
delicious lager with a strong golden hue.
It must be said there is a rather prominent
scent of hops but, thankfully, no strong
after-taste. Staropramen is quite easy on
the palate and it is possible to drink on its
own. It is a great party lager, and goes down
a treat with tortilla chips and any savoury
party foods. Although I think it would work
quite well with Tex Mex dishes as well.
Tyskie, a Polish lager, has a bit of a kick
to it and is perhaps not the best idea for an
all-night session as you will more than likely
regret it in the morning! It is the perfect lager to have chilled on a warm summer’s day
to indicate that the colder the better as they
tend to have quite a metallic after-taste if
not chilled nicely. My Polish workmates
have told me that Zywiec goes down a treat
with some ‘kielbasa’ (Polish sausage).
The last beer that I would recommend
trying is Hofbrau Original a German beer
from Munich. It is quite bitter, which is refreshing and perfect when chilled. Now, the
very golden hue and stereotypical “beer”
look is a bit daunting to the wine lover, but
it is surprisingly easy on the palate. It does
have a strong smell of malt and hops, but
this scent is not reflected in the actual taste
of the beer. Once again, this beer would be a
perfect summer’s evening choice. Hofbrau
Original is also a good choice for someone
that is not a big lover of beer as it is flavoursome but the hops are not overpowering
like in other heavier beers.
I also feel I should mention Chimay Red
which is a Belgian Trappist beer. It is quite
an interesting bitter and fruity red ale, with
a pleasant head to it. There is a real apricot
fragrance to it. The fact that it doesn’t look
like a typical beer makes it all the more appealing, along with its fruity scent and flavour. Unfortunately, I can not think of the
perfect meal for this beer, but we had it with
some traditional savoury treats like bacon
flavoured crisps, something you’re probably
quite likely to be eating when drinking beer.
When I first started the research for this
article, I was literally dragging my heels at
the thought of drinking vast amounts of beer
(most of which I haven’t even had the space
to discuss). I must admit that my choices
here are a little biased as I found that I am
more of a lager girl than an ale one. Apologies to the ale lovers. I hope you can enjoy
a bottle of Chimay Red whilst complaining
about my incompetence.
But I do feel the need to say that I can
sort of see, and taste, the appeal of beer for
certain occasions. I was quite surprised at
how easy to drink some beers actually are.
I guess everything takes a while to get used
to, and maybe my taste isn’t as impeccable
as I thought! But a person unable to change
and admit defeat is a lost cause. How noble
am I. So, ladies get off your high horses and
throw an elegant beer bash! Kegs-a-ready!
Here are a few other beers worth sampling: Kirin (a delightful Japanese beer that
oddly enough works perfectly with Japanese
and Asian cuisine), Moosehead (a Canadian
lager), Victoria Bitter (a very popular Aussie
lager), and Salitos (a Mexican lager that has
a shot of Tequila and lime added to it – perfect for a party or barbecue). Go on, you
want you want to!
9
I’ll burn my books!
Jean Morley and Rebecca Long
go head-to-head on censorship
Censorship: a tool of moral oppression by a select few
A
rguing against censorship does not make
one a chaotic anarchist, contrary to popular belief (not if you already are one, that
is). It is an argument for freedom; for the
entire population to break loose from the moral
and intellectual control of a select few. Censorship
might be defined as a governing authority protecting “a social moral code,” but, one wonders, the
social moral code according to whom? Tellingly,
the definition does not address where exactly the
social code stems from. Does a tiny censoring body
have the ability to key into the morality of the majority? Or is it defining the social code itself?
Censorship does not rely on the opinion of the
masses; we have never been asked for our say in
whether we ought to be allowed to read violent acts
in fiction. Rather, we must rely on the censoring
body; one small group of people and their judgement of the material. Take the situation in Ireland,
for instance: a Censorship of Publications Board,
made up of five members may prohibit the sale of
periodicals and books they consider obscene. The
shiny Citizen’s Information Website happily tells
us that they are members of an independent board
and that the Minister for Justice, Equality and Law
Reform has no power over their decision. But the
point remains that these members are appointed
by the state. Yes, they are likely to be informed and
fair-minded people, but they’re also likely to repre-
sent the opinions of the state. It’s easier to imagine
a trusted civil servant on the board than a teenager
with a penchant for Grand Theft Auto.
It can happen that when writers are in the act of
being most groundbreaking, most vehemently opposed to the abuses before them, they are also most
in conflict with a censoring body. Maya Angelou’s
award-winning semi-fictional autobiography, I
Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is a stirring account
of deep-South racism. Containing many scene of
explicit physical and sexual violence, it horrified
Kansas authorities on its publication in 1969 and
an attempt was made to ban it. Luckily, logic prevailed over prohibition and the novel went on to be
nominated for a National Book Award. We cannot
simply argue that censorship ought not to be exclusionist and essentialist, that’s what it is by definition. It is the exclusion of material in fitting with a
certain moral code.
It is with a certain degree of reticence that a third
year undergraduate contradicts the great Aristotle,
particularly one who, until recently, believed that
Erasmus was a fun-filled year in Paris, not a Renaissance Humanist. But can we accept that the “light
argument of shameful words leads to shameful actions?” In that case, most modern comedy; made
up of extreme, exaggerated situations and brash
language, ought to be x-rated. Is it not possible that
the obscenities presented can serve a social pur-
pose? Allowing people a variety of information promotes critical thinking, we would
not be sitting in university if we thought otherwise. I cannot argue that the actions of Mark
Chapman (John Lennon’s killer), for instance,
were not influenced by his reading J.D Salinger. But
it could be argued that, rather than the fatal fault
existing within the pages of a book, it was his terrifying single-mindedness, his severely distorted
sense of judgement and radical misinterpretation
of Salinger’s aims. A similar one-minded interpretation drives men to
construe a religious
text into a justification for invading a
country. It is single-mindedness,
not a proliferation
of
texts, which
ought to
be feared.
J e a n
Morley
Censorship: Qualifying people’s freedom
C
ensorship. If you look it up in the dictionary you’re confronted by words like “objection” or “suppression,” which, in turn,
mean the forceful prevention of something, a state of constraint, the painful repression
of thoughts or emotions. Still don’t know what censorship means? Me neither. Maybe we could call it
the “process of restricting the public expression of
ideas, opinions, conceptions and impulsions which
have or are believed to have the capacity to undermine the governing authority or the social moral
code which that authority considers itself bound
to protect.” Harold Lowell might know what he’s
on about but I don’t. Basically, when you think of
censorship you think of intolerance: intellectual
and political. But if you think about it some more,
the existence of a policy of censorship, depending,
of course, on the form it takes, does not necessarily mean the absolute control of people’s public
opinions. Rather, it means the limitation or qualification of that freedom. But “limitation” isn’t a
nice word is it? Especially when we’re talking about
freedom.
According to Aristotle “the light utterance of
shameful words leads to shameful actions” and,
to be fair, the guy kind of has a point. If we allow
ourselves to become desensitised to language, to
the primary medium through which we express
ourselves, doesn’t that open us up to an even more
extreme desensitisation? If we can speak and write
about something like extreme violence and not be
aware of the inherent power of those words, don’t
we deserve to be censored? We censor ourselves
everyday: in order for us to function in society
10
we must censor our behaviour: human beings are
weird, you know. Without a certain degree of censorship, I’m willing to bet there would be chaos.
Let’s look at the relationship between the Modernist movement of the early 20th century and
censorship. Beyond the fact that writers such
as Joyce, Woolfe and Lawrence were dogged by
it, some maintain that without the influence
of censorship and the obstacle it presented,
Modernism would not have had the influence
or the depth that it did. Censorship forced
writers to articulate their aesthetic and social
goals both to themselves and their audiences.
Without the discourse created between censorship and the writers that were forced to
respond to it, classics such as Ulysses might
have been completely different. They might
even have been shorter.
In a way, censorship can be used as a
measure of how far we’ve come as a society,
both nationally and internationally. Sure,
it promoted isolationism, anti-intellectualism and a whole lot of other bad “isms”
in a country that was once known as the island of saints and scholars but that surely
just makes a case for what censorship
should not be: exclusionist, essentialist,
arbitrary and excessively moralistic. The
form censorship takes in a society marks
the intellectual evolution of that society,
for good or ill. Ironically, given that it’s
supposed to be silencing us, censorship
tends to say more about us than we’d like
to hear. Rebecca Long
tn2
Eye witness wonders
It’s a crazy world, but can we understand it?
Jean Morley, Rebecca Long and Conor Murray
seek a few expert opinions
N
ow is the winter of our discontent, with the threat of fees and
increasing unemployment, even
us lazy students are taking to
the streets. But before becoming too immersed in the inadequacies of recessionista
Ireland, it’s imperative we consider a wider
world view. Although the declining American economy deserves media attention,
questions of foreign policy are becoming
ever more pertinent.
We’re poised in a pivotal moment of
time; as reflected by a recent proliferation
of “state of the world” books. This week we
don our ‘sceptical’ spectacles and view three
social commentaries with a critical gaze.
The New America
Mark Little (New Island, 2008)
America is commonly perceived as a nation of opposites; from obesity clinics to
size zero Jeans, Californian sand to New
England’s green landscapes. Mark Little
does not occupy himself with this obvious
assertion, but summarises two particularly
American opposites. Frontier is the spirit
of individual pursuit, embracing “personal
freedom and innovation” but also isolation,
insecurity and ruthlessness. Conversely,
Ritual is the “spirit of the community; involving cooperation, law and patriotism but
also self-righteousness. Key to understanding old America, but also anticipating the
new, is unlocking the creative tension between these individualistic and communal
forces.
Interestingly, Little sees the Frontier as
not merely a physical entity but as a recognisable geographical line. Running across
the Southern “sunbelt states” it protects
Americans from the “the savage certainty of
the wilderness”. At worst, frontier mentality
and physical space collide, creating people
like Carmen Mercia. A self-appointed border guard, totting a Colt .45 she stands at the
frontier, shooting at stray immigrants. But
ritual is equally frightening; as we visit an
Evangelical church in the town of Radiant.
The spirit of community and god-fearing
love has been transformed into a marketable brand by tycoon-like Pastor McFarland. Equally two-sided is the living breathing American spirit, helping the desolate to
cling to hope, it also firmly lodges them in
an underprivileged position. “Every citizen
is entitled to an equal shot at the American
dream but not everybody is entitled to an
equal share of America’s wealth.”
Mark Little’s style vacillates as much as
his opinions. Analytical, appealing to our
modern desire for accountability, all suppositions are backed up by dates, polls and
figures. The writer has a weathered sense of
the necessity of fact, perhaps from his years
tn2
of interviewing politicians.
But for any stoic analysis, Little interjects a quite literary, even flamboyant turn
of phrase. A personal favourite is the comparison between America’s dodgy immigration policy and a “punch-drunk boxer,” both
lurching back and forth in sickening ease.
With any other journalist, the repetition of
concepts like Baby Boomers and Millenials
would scream at generalisation, but Little
justifies his use of the terms by matching
phrase with researched facts.
The new America has reality but is essentially a myth; its fearsome economic conditions and clash of cultures are part of a larger cyclical process of opposing types. By this
logic all problems can be understood as a
process; a surge of immigration will, necessarily lead to anti-immigration sentiments.
But also, the American model is equally
applicable elsewhere, “This is America but
it could be Ireland” becomes the writer’s
mantra. Although Mark Little chooses not
to back up the Irish comparison, he invites
an interesting reassessment of our own nation. Where are our own complex frontiers
and are they compatible with our rituals?
Jean Morley
A Divided Paradise: An Irishman in the
Holy Land,
David Lynch (New Island, 2008)
Based on his stay in the Summer of 2005
in the West bank Palestinian town of Bir
Zeit, David Lynch’s book A Divided Paradise
is subtitled An Irishman in the Holy Land. It
draws on his experience to create a solid
and engaging account of the human aspect
of a political conflict spanning decades. The
book combines personal experiences, anecdotal evidence and acute insight and analysis on life nder occupation in Palestine. It
is undeniably well-informed, written while
Lynch was studying Arabic in the Bir Zeit
University.
Lynch’s style is both conversational and
provocative, allowing him to describe the
traumatic and violent events like protests
with an admirable objectivity. Placing us
in the centre of the action, he forces us to
confront the violence. As that objective observer he tries to convey a sense of the life
he lived in Bir Zeit but cannot help revealing
his own deep experiences and the effect of
the people he knew around him. It is a searingly honest account. At his first protest as
the book opens, Lynch shakes himself, tells
himself to stop worrying about himself and
start acting like a professional journalist.
In the preface, Lynch states that “Israel is
not a country just like any other” and from
the Israeli man who protests for Palestinian freedom and frequents Irish bars in Tel
Aviv, to the young boy who runs about in a
tear gas attack giving people onion slices for
their noses, we get a vivid sense of the area
and its diverse inhabitants. Lynch is clearly
trying to do justice to the stories of the people he met, stories which personalise a highly complex political and military conflict.
He states himself that “that the primary
role of journalists should be both to bear
witness to the complexity of events and to
attempt to write truth in the face of power”
and to a certain degree he succeeds. While
he admits, forthright, that his foot is squared
completely in the Palestinian Camp, Lynch
manages to give us an objective view of an
extremely complex and volatile situation
lacking any condescending, writerly tone.
Rebecca Long
The Generation Game
David McWilliams (Gill & MacMillan,
2008)
David McWilliams is the culprit responsible
for populist bestseller The Pope’s Children,
and eager young hopeful The Generation
Game. I know nothing of economics, populist or otherwise — as a classicist, I hanker
back to a simpler time when people wore
their money round their neck and bards
struck more fear than banks. But after skimming his book, I feel I know slightly less.
Whereas before I’d assumed economics had
some vague relation to money and that, his
particular brand seems the showy facade for
a compulsive obsession with facile analysis,
his pigeonholing of poverties and litany of
labels.
The premise of the book is that we Irish
are clashing in what he calls a Generation
War. Nothing new there, but teenagers for
once play no part. The fifty-something Ac-
cidental Millionaires are sitting securely on
their mortgage-free mansions to deliver an
industrial drubbing to those desperate newcomers caught out be the collapse, the thirty-something Jugglers, whose willful mismanagement of money has depraved our
glorious nation. McWilliams may well have
“the zeitgeist by the scruff of the neck” as his
cover triumphantly declares, but his relentless classifying seems to me to have a risibly bourgeois emphasis. We’re given whole
bibleworths of detail on such worthies as
the Bono Boomers and the Jagger Generation, but where are Mr and Mrs Struggling
Saxophonist, or the Brothers HelplesslyImprovident, or Jemima Junky and Clarissa
Crackhead? Where is Jimmy No-Job, that
perennial staple of the Irish pub?
And strangely, sadly, success has soured
poor Mr McWilliams. No longer the cheery
cherub of his cover, more a Jude Law than
an Eddie Hobbs, his writing now seeps and
lounges through the gutter to a depth of
bitter disgust, a sordid cynicism we associate more with Chuck Palahniuk. Ireland is
portrayed as a crass and cash-obsessed hinterland, on the make and mad for migrants,
a seedy magnet for the likes of such stereotypes as “four English forty-something men
with shaved heads… chirpy in a still-drunk
type of way, heading home following a second-time-round stag weekend in Dublin.
The Slovak check-in girl with bad teeth who
sleeps four to a box-room in Hazelhatch is
in no mood for their jaded double entendres.” For all that his associates may flatter
him as an excoriating exposer of vice and
folly, a latterday Juvenal, McWilliams’ glib
tirades are about as savage as a wild egg.
Conor Murray
11
Robert Ballagh in conversation
O
rganising art interviews is always a tricky task in Ireland,
mostly due to the fact many
of the country’s artists and art
graduates tend to emigrate to the bright
lights and culture of London, Paris and New
York. At the start of the year I was asking
people for suggestions of potential candidate and one name that came up again and
again was Robert Ballagh. Though the name
may not ring a bell for some people, in his
40 years working as an artist in Ireland, Ballagh been involved in nearly every facet of
modern Irish art and culture. As well as his
ample painting work, Ballagh has designed
theatre sets for the Gate, been stage designer for the touring Riverdance performance,
created the country’s largest murals, designed nearly 70 stamps for An Post and,
most significantly for those of us ancient
enough to remember the pre-euro years,
the banknotes for the Irish pound. Trinity
College students should particularly be familiar with his work, as anyone who has ever
exited the Lecky library through the arts
block door will have encountered Ballagh’s
mural of life size art admirers studying a
reproduction of one of Jackson Pollack’s
drip paintings, part of a collection he did in
various buildings around Dublin. He is also
considered one of the country’s foremost
portrait artists and even had several of his
design works reproduced as murals in West
Belfast.
Having just completed a portrait of pioneering molecular biologist James D. Watson for Trinity’s Hamilton building, and on
the verge of revealing a new (and reportedly
controversial) new painting, I was eager to
meet the man in the flesh on the last day of
this year’s Trinity Arts Festival. Speaking in
the auditorium of Trinity’s Science Gallery,
Ballagh exhibited a slideshow selection of
his works while discussing his life, career
and taking any questions fired at him by the
audience. A slightly wild haired man in his
60s, Ballagh chatted easily with the crowd
about everything from art to genetics and
the experience of forming a drinking group
with Peter O’ Toole during a spell working
at Ardmore Studios as a set painter.
Ballagh was fascinated by images from
an early age, choosing art books on childhood trips to the library with his father because they had the best pictures. However,
unsurprisingly, his mother didn’t see art as
an appropriate career for her son and so after school he studied architecture for three
years until a dispute with his tutors caused
him to drop out and spend the next few
years touring Ireland, the UK and America
with his very Irish show band. After eventually tiring of the musical lifestyle, he happened to meet artist Michael Farrell in the
then very bohemian Toner’s pub on Baggot
Street, who, on the recommendation of a
mutual friend, offered Ballagh an apprenticeship on the spot and began his belated
12
art career.
Chatting to me afterwards, he cheerfully,
and at great length, answered my questions, doling out amusing anecdotes along
the way. Part of what is so impressive about
Ballagh’s career is his involvement in such a
cross-section of Irish artistic endeavors, yet
it seems this was not always initially the
plan. “I have been fairly fortunate in that a
lot of the things that proved really exciting
and challenging and difficult were not things
that I picked to do but was asked to do; like
the stamps, like the banknotes, like the
Riverdance thing, like working in theatre. I
would never have thought of doing theatre
and then just one day I was called up by The
Gate and asked to design a set and said, ‘well
I hate when I hear
people saying, ‘We
have to have more
courses geared to
jobs.’ How dull, more
computer skills and
commerce and
entrepreneurial skills.
You should just open
people’s minds.
That’s what I thought
universities were for;
open people’s minds
and they can adapt to
anything
I never thought of that! I wonder would I
be good at it?’ So that’s a nice thing.” Whatever he has done, most of his works have
retained a particularly Irish feel including
Celtic designs and local backgrounds, that
is now rare often rare in modern art. “What I
try to respond to is the reality I find, I’m living in Ireland and so it is inevitable. If there
are Irish elements in my work and nationalist elements that’s because I live here and
it’s what I respond to, I think if I was living
in Spain people would say, ‘well why is your
work so Spanish?’”
Despite his array of work, Ballagh is now
particularly sought out as a portrait painter,
having taken the likeness of everyone from
Gerry Adams to Louis le Brocquy, John B.
Keane and his own mentor Michael Farrell.
These portraits are much sought after not
only for Ballagh’s skill but also his unique
style of depiction, which usually includes
objects or backgrounds that represent and
signify the sitter and their personality, as
well as the occasional quirk such as a 3D
pint of Guinness. “I just don’t this I would
be happy doing this bourgeoisie person sitting in a chair.” Often having to work from
photographs, he takes pains to meet and
converse with the subject to really gauge
both them and their personality in order to
design the best portrait, a part of the job he
enjoys. “Yes I do like that, particularly when
I am working from a photograph I like to be
able to take the photographs myself because
when you can meet the person and take the
photographs, when looking at them afterwards you are able to judge exactly which
photographs actually best represent that
person. Where as if you are handed photographs and you haven’t met the person, it’s
a hopeless situation.” This method in the
past has led to several problems, “I remember I had to do a commission portrait of Gay
Byrne and it was going to be given to him as
a surprise and so he couldn’t know about it.
I said to the people that I had to have photos. And for a man that was very famous
then they produced these really kind of old
black and white photographs! Particularly
the one thing that changes over the years
is hairstyles and these were just 60s or 70s
hairstyles, so I had to kind of imagine different kinds of hair! I found that a really nonsatisfactory way to do a portrait.”
Also quite unique to Ballagh’s portraits is
their actual shapes, ranging from standard
rectangles to diamonds, circles, frames
within frames and many others. Though
interesting, these have caused problems in
the past. “Well, it almost happened by accident, I’m certainly fascinated by unusual
shapes which are easy to design and even
easy to paint, but I tell you they aren’t easy
to frame!” One particularly famous situation involved Ballagh’s portrait of the late
Dr. Noel Browne, a former politician and
friend of Ballagh’s, which now hangs in the
National Gallery of Ireland. In 1974 as Minister for Health, Browne had attempted to
introduce the “Mother and Child Scheme”
providing free health care to what he saw
were the country’s the most vulnerable people. This caused outrage and an enormous
outcry from the Catholic Church, eventually causing Browne to retire his post. Many,
including myself, believed that Ballagh’s
cross-shaped composition of Browne’s
portrait was a public dig at the situation.
However it seems the truth is slightly more
practical.
“Well the cross, believe it or not, was almost accidental. People, or anyone, looking
at it now say ‘Oh, he’s making this statement
or that statement.’ One critic even wrote
‘Robert Ballagh crucifies Noel Browne’ but
what happened there was I had this concept about the painting, I wanted the stones
to literally spill out into the gallery. Now I
realised that to make the work, the painted
stones had to look as realistic as the real
stones, so, difficult to do but not impossi-
As one of the country’s leading artists, Robert Ballagh has had a profound influence on modern
Ireland’s culture and iconography – Caroline O’Leary met him at the recent Trinity Arts Festival
ble. So, it took me ages, I was painting these
stones for about a month and it so happened
that I had designed the picture in a kind of a
grid system and I suddenly said, ‘Oh wait,
well those panels on the side, I don’t need
those, his legs are there and that’s the format,’ and I realised I could loose those and I
took away those canvases and then thought,
‘Well the sky is just blue up there, I don’t
need that but I do need the cottages going
across,’ and then I stepped back and said ‘Oh
god look what’s coming out here! Huh!’ And
it turned out that that was a wonderful composition. I’d love to say I honestly though of
that from the word go but I didn’t! It came
out for very practical reasons.”
During the interview, I particularly wanted to enquire about the slightly tongue-incheek humour that seems evident in many
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of his works, especially in his own self-portraits. These include Number 3 which shows
him engrossed in a book entitled “How to
Make Your Art Commercial” and Upstairs
Number 3 which includes an image of himself as a classical male nude (in all his glory)
which caused ridiculous amounts of public
controversy, including one print in a Galway
gallery being confiscated by the police. Ballagh simply smiled at the question. “I don’t
see why art shouldn’t be funny, some people
take it very seriously but, that’s not to say I
don’t take it seriously but I do think there
has to be a bit of space for humour, a bit of
space for irony. I do think that’s part of the
Irish psyche, Irish people love storytelling,
jokes, humour and so much Irish visual arts
in Ireland don’t have that aspect of the Irish
character and I think that’s a shame. There’s
also a lovely kind of dark Irish humour that
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I really enjoy, which you come across in the
writing and stuff like that which some people don’t like but which I find hysterical.”
It would not be too much of an overstatement to suggest that as well as being
talented, Ballagh has had a fortunate time
in his career, with the opportunities such
as his apprenticeship, his composition and
his variety of jobs often arising by chance.
Of course few of us can think about the arts
these days without taking into account the
current economic shambles and the fact
that any student currently training in art is
almost certainly looking at a tough foreseeable few years. Ballagh, however, is indignant at the suggestion that careers in art
might well be neglected or even abandoned
in these times of trouble. “You might as well
go into art, as your not going to get a job
anyway! I always felt for that people doing
an art course or whatever, they might not
end up as a professional artist but the skills
and the abilities and the prising open of the
imagination will be of extraordinary benefit
to them whatever area they choose to move
into.”
He is particularly concerned about the
growing obsession with “practical” jobs and
fears that the results of this attitude could
be grim for our society as a whole. “I hate
when I hear people saying, ‘We have to have
more courses geared to jobs.’ How dull!
More computer skills and commerce and
entrepreneurial skills. You should just open
people’s minds. That’s what I thought universities were for; open people’s minds and
they will be able to adapt to anything that’s
thrown in their way. What happens when
we really focus things down to the extent of
education in a very defined way, in a course
that’s geared to jobs? Now we are in a recession, there are no jobs and they haven’t been
educated to move in any other direction. It’s
terrible!”
Coming up, Ballagh has been commissioned to do portraits of murdered Belfast
solicitor Pat Finucane and, rather bizarrely,
former Cuban President Fidel Castro for a
British collector, “I did try to get a meeting
with him but the ambassador told me he is
no longer receiving guests.”
Yet despite all his talents, achievements
and extremely friendly demeanor, it is those
last comments on the necessity of art in
our society that really resonate as I leave.
With our artists emigrating and galleries
struggling, is Ireland really doomed to a
population of businessmen and computer
programmers? Personally, I am going to the
next life drawing class I can find.
13
Into the west
Declan Clarke’s Loneliness in West Germany at
the Goethe Institut is a fearless and rewarding
show according to Conor O’Kelly
H
Photo: Conor O’Kelly
14
aving been invited to assemble a
show for the Goethe-Institut on
Merrion Square, Irish artist Declan Clarke has responded with
video works, photographs, and a series of
interventions, all engaging with the German June 2nd and Red Army Faction terrorist
movements. Staged over four floors of the
Goethe’s public and private workspaces
the show achieves the effect of leading the
viewer through a multi-layered meditation on the causes and effects of ideological
commitment.
History is a nebulous affair; the effects of
time, memory and point of view all conspire
to render the interpretation of historical
events an unreliable pursuit. In this context,
the fame – and infamy - of the various terrorist groups that sprang up in 1970s Germany has grown over the years, much to the
dismay of the families of their victims. The
release in Germany last year of The BaaderMeinhoff Complex, a film which examined the
most notorious perpetrators, brought the
subject to the boil again, with accusations
of stylisation of violence and terrorist chic
levelled at the director. Conversely, support
for the political expression of these groups
philosophises - class warfare, socialism,
rejection of American military imperialism
- are experiencing a resurgence in cachet
not seen since the fall of the Berlin wall. All
of which serves to make Clarke’s show relevant and timely.
Starting inside the Goethe’s reading
room on the ground floor a booklet is provided to orientate the viewer and contextualise the show. I Don’t Ask That Much is the
transcript of an interview between Clarke
and ‘AN,’ a former member of the June 2nd
movement. The interview itself, framed
as a covert meeting, is a thoughtful, engaging and believably honest account of how a
seemingly unexceptional individual might,
in the name of political belief, be driven
to acts of extreme violence. While this is a
useful orientation piece it is also, it must be
said, the sort of platform that victims of the
June 2nd activists can fairly protest against.
While AN is contrite for the innocent victims of his violence, he is still committed
to his cause and his methods. In this sense,
Clarke’s interview gives a very real insight
into the unshakeable beliefs of a lifelong
committed “anarcho-marxist.” The booklet
I Don’t Ask That Much is as much a facsimile
of the clandestine political pamphlets circulated by these organisations in the 1970s,
as it is an original.
In the car park behind the Goethe-Institut Clarke has installed a car on its side.
Smashed and upturned it is evocative of the
actions that the June 2nd movement took
against the delivery vans of the right wing
media group the Springer press. This reproduction of the physical result of protest titled It Was Beautiful and Terribly Sad - is an
effective and theatrical work, and adds a visceral element to a show which is otherwise
concerned with a historical and mediated
perspective on the effects of violence.
There are two original video work in the
show, the first Loneliness in West Germany
documents the artist’s visits to the sites of
the most famous events from the history of
the RAF and June 2nd movements, juxtaposed
with contemporaneous newspaper articles.
This is a literal piece which historicises, and
in many ways diminishes, any drama of the
protest movements achievements and failures. The only present day mementoes of
the actions taken and the lives lost are nondescript kerbsides where bodies fell and
yellowing newspaper headlines. The erasure of significance and meaning is a theme
that seems to run through this exhibition.
In his other video piece – We Missed Out On
A Lot - Clarke demonstrates the process of
making a Molotov cocktail. It’s an instantly
recognisable process and banal in its simplicity. While the title of the work seems
to imply mourning for the passing of more
revolutionary times, the work itself reduces
the revolutionary act to a simple recipe, and
one that doesn’t countenance the ideological meaning or end result of the act. While
the revolutionary act is emptied out in this
piece, nonetheless the appropriately domestic setting of the Goethe Institut’s top
floor flat gives the gestures an eerie and
uncanny effect. Like the revolutionary who
is habituated to his own commitment to
violence, the viewer is invited to commune
with an everyday process of bomb making.
It’s a haunting effect.
Within the Goethe’s library Clarke has
positioned a slide projector to display images of political and cultural currency specific
to the history of Germany and the development of Marxism in general. These images,
neatly sandwiched between shelves of Bach
and Benjamin give the visitor a chance to reflect on the deeper roots of political unrest
in 1970s Germany. Elsewhere, Clarke displays photographic prints of the architecture of Berlin.
This is a very rewarding exhibition and
one that uses the full space of the GoetheInstitut to good effect. It is dangerous territory in the sense that tackling such an overtly
political subject risks deifying and mythologizing the individuals involved. Clarke has
balanced the exhibition well in this aspect;
the work provides context and comes at the
events from a number of angles.
Loneliness In The West runs until 30
March at the Goethe-Institut, 37 Merrion Square, Dublin 2.
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Karin ‘Mamma’ Andersson (photo: Mattias Ahlm)
The jewel in the arts block crown
Continuing her mission to encourage people
to drop by the Douglas Hyde Gallery, Caroline
O’Leary talks to curatorial assistant Barry White
A
s yet another friend, in their third
year of college, expressed their
shock on discovering the Douglas
Hyde was an art gallery, I decided
it was high time I took an in depth look at the
little gallery that is literally on our doorstep.
Curatorial Assistant Barry White happily sat
down with me last week to chat about the
gallery and their exciting new programme
of events for the coming year. A Trinity Art
History graduate, White worked part time
in the gallery during his degree and has now
been involved for nearly 9 years, making
him an ample authority on all things to do
with the Gallery.
The Gallery is run jointly between the
college, who provide the space and utilities,
and the National Arts Council who pay for
the maintenance and running of the Gallery.
What is probably surprising to many Trinity
students is that the gallery has a significant
international reputation and the standard
of the exhibitions there is of the highest international standard. Opened in 1978, it was
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initially run, slightly haphazardly, by students following a rather disorganised exhibitions programme, ranging from contemporary Irish artists to graphic shows. It was
only when director John Hutchinson took
over in the early 90s that the current programme of specifically international standard contemporary art was put into place.
Many first time visitors to the gallery
seem surprised at the small size. Working
within the constantans of tall, open Gallery 1 and small specific Gallery 2, it seems
unusual that when compared to other, larger gallery spaces in Dublin that the Hyde
should be so successful in their acquisitions
and achievements. Yet I was assured that
this has rarely been a problem, “Well some,
some we can’t physically fit through the
doors, but have had some very large installations. It doesn’t hamper us usually.”
Exhibitions in both galleries are often coordinated to provide a connection between
the two rooms, while retaining a differentiation through media and other methods. Gal-
lery 1 tends to house the major exhibition of
work, while the displays in Gallery 2 often
include media such as textiles and ceramics and has featured exhibitions as diverse
as Japanese Tea Bowls and jewellery made
from poison bottles. Though far smaller and
more constrained than the main space, Gallery 2 is important to remind viewers that
there is indeed more to art than just the conventional, as White says “I guess it’s generally a way of getting us to think outside the
box.”
In the coming year the Hyde is poised
to display an immensely varied, yet interesting and impressive collection of works.
Currently on show until 18 March are paintings by acclaimed Swedish artist Mamma
Anderson, which predominantly feature
richly coloured and detailed cross sections
of interiors while Gallery 2 features “The
Paradise” a collection of organic based,
garden-like installations by fellow Swede
Nina Canell. Following on from this will be
a collection of works by Fischli & Weiss, two
of Switzerland’s most renowned artists who
last year were featured in a major retrospective at the Tate Modern. Though known for
their frequent use of different media, ranging from film to photography, art-books,
sculpture and multimedia-installations,
the Hyde exhibition will feature predomi-
nately their photography mixed sculpture
throughout the gallery. This will be accompanied by a collection of ethnic Asafo Fante
Flags in Gallery 2, an art form developed
in Ghana where various gangs within local
tribes adopted the Western concept of designing their own unique flags as a symbol
of their power and independence
As well as exhibitions, I was particularly
surprised to learn that the Hyde regularly
prints books in conjunction with collections and artists. Especially intriguing is
the notebook sized publication The Bridge
composed by director John Hutchinson as a
collection of thoughts and images that have
contributed to the creating of the Gallery’s
tone and collections over the years.
Despite the high standards and acclaim,
the Hyde is still seems slightly hampered by
the fact that it is a gallery located within a
college campus where exposure tends to be
minimal. White admits this can be a problem but is optimistic “Some exhibitions are
certainly less accessible to students who are
not interested in art, but many are and they
should keep visiting to see for themselves.
Our aim is to provide the best exhibitions
possible for both the public and the student
population.”
More information can be found at
www.douglashydegallery.com
15
Photo: Colm Hogan
Dreams of marble
True to form, Marina Carr’s Marble deals with
dour subject matter but is no less life-affirming
for it says Kathy Clarke
A
t the interval of Marble, the Marina
Carr play currently premiering at
The Abbey, the woman next to me
couldn’t take it anymore. She’d
escaped to the foyer, read the last page of the
play, and then made the decision that she
wouldn’t waste anymore of her short life on
this nonsense. In a way, that’s exactly how
the female characters in Carr’s play feel.
Despite my general soft spot for the work
of Ireland’s most prolific female playwright,
I could empathise with this disgruntled audience member. Like most of Carr’s work
Marble – directed by Jeremy Herrin – deals
with issues and ideas surrounding death
and the realm of the dead, not exactly upbeat subject matter.
Marble further develops many of Carr’s
previous themes and obsessions- the mythic and the mundane, and, of course, how it
is that we die. Carr has in fact discussed at
length her interest in the process of death
and her ideas of what death essentially
means. She tells Melissa Sihra, “We are of
time, but also beyond it… The fact
that we are dying
probably is the only
significant thing for
all of us. And how
we live, and how we
die… I have always
thought that death
is just a moment, like two seconds. It is just
the end of your world here. It is almost like
the starting block of the race.”
Essentially a play about dreams, the narrative surrounds two couples – Catherine
and Ben, Anne and Art – both have kids, both
are happy. Thing are disrupted, however,
when Catherine and Art start having erotic
dreams about one another, set in a marble
room, with marble windows. As the line between real life and the dream world blurs,
jealousy grips and life for both couples begins to unravel. Catherine can no longer
bear to live in the living, mortal world, full
of supermarkets, restaurants and wine bars.
Cynical and disgusted with life, she is simply waiting for it all to end.
Central to these themes is the idea of
liminality and an in between place, the
threshold between two spheres or states
of being- dreams and reality, death and life,
mortality and immortality. Employing a sort
of heightened hyper-realistic style in her exploration of these themes and ideas, Carr
places her audience at a critical distance
from the work, offering an “oblique access
to the culture and society in question,” as
is suggested by Sihra. Catherine explains:
“It’s as if my real life is happening when I go
to sleep and you and I are a dream, a fragment, difficult to remember on waking. Being awake is no longer important.”
As in Carr’s other plays, the women are
wild and unconventional (unlike the men,
who are basically talking props), unable to
find a place in the mortal world. The striking difference in Marble, however, is that
this isn’t the typical midlands backdrop regularly employed by Carr, but a much more
contemporary Ireland.
Revisiting themes and issues from previous plays and developing them in a new way,
the set is indicative of a “yuppy” apartment
by the docks where the furniture is retrochic and wreaks of Habitat. These issues
of displacement and anomie suddenly feel
all the more unsettling when juxtaposed
against this aesthetic backdrop. The absence of the rural landscape is not lost on
Carr’s characters. Catherine talks about
“rural, open parts of the country that are really just asylums.’”
While the play is marketed as taut, funny
and incisive, I found
these self-reflexive
references to previous works much
more amusing than
the gags centred
around the battle of
the sexes. Another
example of these
references could be identified when Carr’s
themes of incest were parodied by Anne’s
reading of a book she described as being
about “tasteful incest.”
Special mention must be made of the
set design by Robert Innes Hopkins, which,
in addition to the retro-chic apartment
vibe, included a huge marble column that
stretched up majestically out of the audience’s line of vision.
In the final scene of the show the column
emerges from the theatre floor, leaving a
gaping crater reminiscent of a tomb or even
the gateway to hell, water dripping down
into darkness. Smooth transitions were
made possible by remote control, sofas sliding efficiently into place without the help of
stage hands.
If there was one thing I took from this
play, it was a greater respect for life and a
sense of human mortality of which Marina
Carr has always been acutely aware. Some
might emerge from The Abbey wanting to
make the most of every second, climb the
Himalayas, sail down the Mississippi on a
home made raft. Then again, if you don’t
fancy going skydiving, “I know it’s not living
on the edge but then, there’s not room on
the edge for everyone.”
At the interval of
the play, the woman
next to me couldn’t
take it anymore
16
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No joke
Brian Martin has produced a number of his own plays in college over the
last few years. Michael Carroll assesses his latest effort, Joker Choker
nce, I read part of a book on experimental theatre, but it was
very boring so I stopped. Prior
to seeing the show, I feared
Brian Martin’s new play Joker Choker, on in
week four of this term in the Players theatre,
might be experimental. The line between the
Real and the Unreal might become blurred
before our eyes – the possibilities inherent
in fiction might even be exploited.
Brian Martin’s play was experimental,
but not, on the whole, in a way that offended
one’s refined sensibilities. It was at its most
effective when sensibilities weren’t at issue
at all. These were moments that affected
members of the audience viscerally: sometimes the girl beside me squealed. But I’ll
get back to that.
Brian Martin is a very strange person.
Sometimes when he wakes up he can’t move
and he sees either an old man or an old lady
with filthy old skin reaching out to grab him.
This also happens to Mark, the thirteen year
old boy at the centre of Joker Choker. It’s
called sleep paralysis and happens when
your mind has woken up but your body
hasn’t and your muscles are still sedated by
your brain. The old person is a hallucination. But at the start of Joker Choker the old
man and lady are replaced by someone more
sinister, a nameless apparition of some species or other.
This play was at its best when it was clear
its playwright wasn’t thinking at all, when it
had nothing to do with theory. It was at its
worst when social realism of the culchie alcoholic domestic abuse kind mixed with surrealism of the “that’s absurd!”, this-mustbe-a-French-play variety. These moments
were thankfully rare. Brian has a strange
condition, so abstract that binaries such
as Real and Unreal probably don’t interest
O
A really good effort
T
om Stoppard’s The Real Thing is
about love, passion, honesty and
articulacy, or rather, inarticulacy.
Our protagonist Henry is a playwright, involved with an actress, Annie and
likes to think of himself as highly intellectual, believing his art as a writer is sacred
and that language should be treasured. This
role is executed superbly by Stephen Brennan, whose comic timing makes the play
highly witty, and helps the audience digest
the wordy nature of the play. Henry may
have all the words, but he is unable to put
them together when he wants to express to
Annie what she means to him. We see Annie
getting increasingly frustrated by his lack
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of words for her which down spirals in attempts to make him jealous.
The Real Thing is scored to a vintage
soundtrack of pop tunes from the 1970s and
80s as Henry decides his ‘Desert Island Top
Ten’ which is a complete guilty pleasure for
both Henry and the audience and allows for
seamless scene changes. This play is highly
theatrical, beginning from the tiny signifier
of a red curtain, we see “a play within a play,”
there is a blur between reality and acting, art
and life. It questions whether art can influence life. Designer Conor Murphy has mirrored the theatricality of the text to the set
with his use of a revolving wall for all scene
changes. The set works remarkably as the
him. Rather, throughout the play, opposites
were mixed randomly and with intensity.
There were lines straight out of Disney
(“Do you know what I am?... Your imagination.”) and lines straight out of a poetry
reading in a basement (“everything denied
is liquefied in streams of molten magma
that erupts out your mind when you least
expect it”). Hamsters committed suicide
and fathers threw children down the stairs.
An apparition flew out the window and reentered through a shining wardrobe. And
all in an extraordinarily detailed and lifelike bungalow bedroom from the 70s Irish
countryside.
Somehow, among these immediate and
jarring rather than neatly theoretical configurations there were characters. Kate
Brower, for example, was heartwarming
and endearing as Lucy, a 19 year-old girl who
is also Mark, a 10 year-old boy. None of the
characters were stable, they were constantly mixed around, and the play’s greatest
achievement was that they somehow were
believable. Siobhan Cullen’s prostitute Lorraine subtly mixed childishness and worldweariness.
Most disturbingly, Tom Williams’s apparition changed from something inhuman
to something as troubled and human as the
rest of them. Then on the bed before us he
had a spine-chilling seizure like a wild animal. Jim, the owner of the bungalow played
by Manus Halligan, came through the bedroom door but for five seconds he wasn’t Jim
but Lorraine because he wore her clothes
and walked like an imitation of a prostitute.
The girl beside me squealed but then she
laughed because it was very funny. Like the
play, this moment wasn’t theoretical – it
was disgusting, like a messed-up thought in
a troubled brain.
The Real Thing at The Gate is great at points, but
not unmissable says Barbara Alice McCarthy
scene and set changes are flawless. This is a
play for lovers of the theatre and all things
theatrical, we are constantly reminded that
the show is indeed a performance.
The first act is greatly entertaining and
we are hit with wit for its entirety. The Real
Thing touches on dark issues such as adultery, infidelity, jealousy and deceit but we
are never asked to face them head on. Stoppard’s language shrouds the issues and
while this can lead to funny and lighter circumstances, I was left feeling that nothing
was fully confronted – be it Henry’s love
for Annie or Annie’s deceit and attempts at
making him jealous. The second act is weaker, a half hour longer than the first, which I
think was not a wise decision as the audience became restless towards the end. We
see resonances of the play in act one in the
reality of act two, which links us back to the
question of art influencing life.
Overall, I think The Real Thing is worth a
look if you like theatre and its workings, you
will find yourself awed by the set and Denis
Clohessy’s sound design. The dialogue is
quirky and funny, but at times can be a bit
overbearing, particularly towards the end of
the second act. The Real Thing is immensely
funny at times, heartbreaking at others and
sometimes just a bit wordy. I would recommend it for an enjoyable night out to the
theatre but it is not unmissable.
17
Restaurant reviews
(01) 6337215
18
s
tion Offce
na
Chez Max is hidden at the side of Dublin
Castle, and when you step inside you really feel you are in a different world. We
went on a cold and rainy Wednesday and
I can think of no better antidote to a cold
rainy Wednesday in Dublin than this
cosy little French restaurant. The Early
Bird is on offer from 5.30 to 7 Sunday to
Thursday and at €19 for starter and main
course offers excellent value for money.
Choice is limited to three starters and
three mains, but on the plus side the
portions do not appear to be altered for
the Early Bird.
For starters, I had the goats cheese
and roasted vegetables “en aumoniere”
(basically encased in some crunchy filo
pastry). When this arrived, I had a momentary panic- the plate was drizzled
with the scourge of Modern Irelandpesto. I am a huge fan of good pesto in
the right context, and I didn’t envision
this being one of them. However, it was
not overpowering and was more like a
salad dressing. On approach with a fork
the whole thing descended into what
became essentially a salad with veg bits,
cheesy bits and crunchy pastry bits mixing into the obligatory bed of rocket. It
was strangely filling, and thankfully, my
fears were unfounded. La Copine decided to run with the French theme and
ordered French Onion Soup. This came
with grated cheese on the side for you
to form your own goopy layer, which I
thought was a nice touch as there is nothing more gross than the lukewarm layer
of pre-congealed stringy cheese which
is so often a feature of “French Onion
Soup”. The soup itself was delicious and
perfect for a Winter evening. For mains
we stuck to the classics- I had Moules
Frites and La Copine had Boeuf Bourguignon. The Bouef Bourguignon was a
winner- a stew of beef, mushrooms, bacon and onions all cooked for about forty years in wine, so that everything tastes
of each other in the best possible way. It
came with some new potatoes in a side
dish so as not to detract from the main
event. The only criticism is that it was a
bit too salty. I love seafood, so I was a little disappointed when the mussels were
tasteless and slightly dry-the trademark
of reheated molluscs. The sauce was
gorgeous though and they came with
the best chips I have had in ages. Slightly
thicker than matchstick, crispy but still
fluffy inside, and piping hot, we were
fighting over these even though we were
full to bursting point. When I say full to
bursting point obviously all I mean is
that we had to share a dessert. This isn’t
included in the menu but at €5.50 per
dessert it’s not too much of a stretch to
share one. We chose gateau au chocolat,
which was basically just a bog-standard
chocolate sponge, nothing to get excited
about, and two coffees. We felt in no rush
to go anywhere and they put no pressure
on us to leave, even thought the restaurant was fairly full. The French music
and French waiting staff really added to
the atmosphere. I would definitely go
back to Chez Max, even just for a quick
lunch in town. Melanie O’Reilly
cuisine
Japanese & Korean
address
7-9 Exchequer Street, Dublin 2
phone
(01) 6334071
nity New
Tri
s
II.1
ce
phone
Ukiyo Bar
ff
1 Palace Street, Dublin 2
Tr
address
II.1
name
Walking into Ukiyo Bar, I couldn’t help
pausing for a moment to just inhale and
enjoy. It smells exactly like an Asian restaurant should; warm, spicy and…well,
just yummy. The soft music and muted
lighting create a relaxed vibe, while the
quirky décor oozes effortless cool.
Our waiter was friendly; however, he
only provided us with full price menus
and didn’t mention an early bird. Lucky
I asked, as Ukiyo offers one of the best
early birds available in central Dublin –
bento box and a beer for €15. (For readers unfamiliar with the idea, a bento consists of samples of a few different dishes
usually served with miso soup and rice.)
Given that the bento box alone is priced
€17 on the main menu, this is a pretty
sweet deal; and is also available at lunchtime for an excellent €10.
I was a little disappointed that our
bentos were served in individual dishes
rather than the traditional partitioned
boxes, but cheered up rapidly when I
started eating. The first dish I tried was a
delicious beef chop suey. The sauce was
seductively smoky and managed not to
overpower the flavours of the perfectly
cooked beef and vegetables. The other
main dish was lemon-marinated mackerel, also delectable. This was a relatively
plain dish; no heavy sauce, just a lemon
slice and the beautifully flavoured fish
itself. It was served in fillet pieces, but
flaked into lovely bite-sized chunks with
very little persuasion (good news for
uncultured souls who find chopsticks
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lery). There was also a portion of makizushi (rolled sushi) served with ginger.
Not being an expert and lacking a menu
or a comprehensive explanation from
our waiter, I couldn’t say exactly what
was in it, but I can say that it involved
squid and that as someone who has never really had much of a taste for sushi, I
enjoyed it. However, there weren’t any
particularly strong flavours or textures,
and for the more adventurous sushi fan,
it would possibly seem quite bland and
boring. The salad was very pleasant, a
simple dish of sliced red and yellow peppers, onions, carrots and cucumber; it
complemented the other dishes perfectly and added a lovely sweetness to
the meal.
Overall, it was a very enjoyable dinner.
But the star attraction of Ukiyo has to be
its private karaoke booths, which are located downstairs and cost just €25 per
hour. The website states that each booth
can accommodate up to ten people, but
we had a few more and there were no
objections. It does get extremely warm,
but luckily there’s a direct line to the
bar, and anyway when twelve friends are
belting out “Total Eclipse of the Heart”
after a few rounds of sake, no one cares
if it gets a bit sweaty. There’s a surreal
contrast between the tranquil dining
experience upstairs and the uninhibited
butchering of power ballads and 80s pop
tunes downstairs, but the combination
makes for a truly memorable night and
is perfect for birthday celebrations or
just a bit of fun. Melanie O’Reilly
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CD Reviews
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The second album from husband and
wife duo Handsome Furs sees the Montreal band looking to Eastern Europe for
inspiration. Face Control got its name
from the somewhat bizarre practise
in Russian bars of admitting people
based on whether or not the bouncers
like their appearance, even though they
might have booked and paid for their
tables in advance. Thank god the bouncers in Dublin don’t have similar powers,
given the fact that they’re quite obnoxious enough already. But anyway, the
entire album is loosely based around the
idea of living in a Soviet state, although
several of the tracks sound undeniably
American, especially “Talking.” The album also explores the idea of life in the
twenty-first century as being irrevocably enmeshed in a panopticon culture
controlled by the internet.
Wolf Parade’s Dan Boeckner and
short story writer Alexei Perry have
placed travel – whether it’s the extensive touring or location-themed albums
– at the heart of Handsome Furs. After
their 2007 debut album, Plague Park,
which was named after a park built over
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an eighteenth century mass grave in
Helsinki, they decided to develop their
sound in the process of writing Face Control, creating a more upbeat album, that
has far more instrumentation and fuller
arrangements than its predecessor.
The low-key dance beats and melodic
tunes make this album very easy to listen to, with several tracks really standing out. The opening track, “Legal Tender” fuses cold, metronomic electronic
beats with jagged dissonant guitars, as
does “Radio Kalingrad”, another unmistakable highlight of the album. Another
song that’s strangely addictive is “Officer of Hearts (It’s Not Me, It’s You).”
The track is short, clocking in at just
over a minute and a half, and is purely
instrumental, with the bold anthemic
synthesisers pushing the track closer to
trance than the indie-rock sound that
dominates throughout the rest of the album. The release date of Face Control has
been delayed to March, due to band referencing a New Order song on the track
“All We Want, Baby, is Everything”. The
album is well worth the wait, though.
Catriona Gray
Bell X1’s last album Flock garnered
great reviews both at home and in the
US, the question is: can Blue Lights on the
Runway live up to the expectations set
by its predecessor? With rhythm guitarist Brian Crosby’s recent departure from
the band fans will be interested see will
there to be much of a noticeable change
to the band’s sound.
Opener “The Ribs of a Broken Umbrella” shows the album’s inclination
towards a softer synth sound, the soundscape brings Achtung Baby-era U2 to
mind. “The Great Defector” is the lead
single from the album, one of the most
upbeat tracks on offer, altogether a great
track however at just 5 minutes it begins
to drag out a bit towards the end. In fact
this is a reoccurring theme throughout
the album, though Bell X1 are known for
their unpolished, raw sound you can’t
help but wonder what a tighter production may have added to the album. The
new album has its electronic influences
yet is reminiscent of Talking Heads in
many ways. “The Blow Ins” is one of the
highlights on the album, “I’m Tuesdays
child without the grace” being one of the
best lyrical quotes to be had. You can’t
help but feel that Bell X1 have found
their winning formula of piano ballads
and should perhaps have tried to develop this more throughout the album.
“Breastfed” recalls debut album Neither
Am I and brings some welcome variety
to the album. “A Better Band” is also one
of most radiofriendly tracks, you can
expect it to receive just as much airplay
as “The Great Defector,” its chilled basshook and rhythmic drums are paired
well with Noonan’s clever wordplay.
“Light Catches Your Face” is one of the
most heartfelt tracks on the album ‘ light
catches your face, your smile, this must
be what one of us is about’ is the refrain
which cant help but grab you as the track
draws to its end, however yet again a
great moment is hampered by an overly
long ending.
In summary this album has its great
moments, it doesn’t represent any major changes in direction for Noonan and
Co but their songwriting ability is without doubt improving with every album,
sadly however it’s just proven too difficult to surpass Flock. Keith Grehan
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Film reviews
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“I can sum up the problems of this band
in one word. Maybe two words. Actually,
three words: We Don’t Have Good Management.”
If such unintentional comedy gems
were all Anvil! The Story of Anvil had to
offer, the film would still be a triumph.
Thankfully, however, Sacha Gervasi’s
ode to his beloved heavy metal heroes
has much more depth, pathos and honesty than its “Spinal Tap for real” description would suggest.
The film charts a year in the life of
aging rockers Steve “Lips” Kudlow and
Robb Reiner, lifelong friends who from
age 14 have had their sights set of rock
superstardom. In 1982, their band Anvil
burst onto the world stage with the album Metal on Metal, influencing a generation of musicians including Metallica’s
Lars Ulrich and Slash of Guns N’ Roses
fame. While other bands from that era
went on to great financial success, Anvil
disappeared into obscurity.
Now in their fifties, the film joins Lips
and Robb in the snowy suburban sprawl
of Toronto, as they work dead-end jobs
and play to local audiences they know by
name. After a brief glimpse of their sombre daily lives, the film kicks into gear as
they make one last-ditch attempt to become successful: an ill-fated European
tour followed by a reunion with Metal
on Metal producer Chris Tsangarides
for their new album, This Is Thirteen. At
almost every stage of their journey, mishaps and arguments lead the band to the
brink of dissolution, creating an unpre-
Gran Turino
director
Clint Eastwood
starring
Clint Eastwood, Bee Vang, Christopher Carley
running time
116 minutes
dictable mix of tragic and hilarious moments that lift the documentary from a
standard tour travelogue to something
truly special.
Central to the appeal of the film is the
brotherly relationship of Kudlow and
Reiner, whose compelling personalities
are immediately engaging. Lips Kudlow
is the ideal frontman, a bundle of energy and optimism who communicates
through his excited rants and pained expressions the sacrifices they have made
to follow their shared dream. Reiner, on
the other hand, is thoughtful, practical,
and yet passionate; a perfect foil to Lips’
histrionics and top-notch drummer material.
Anvil! expertly balances the inherent humour of their predicament with
a genuine fondness for the two men, no
doubt due to the director’s experience
as a roadie for the band during their
brief heyday. The film respects the dedication both the band members and their
families have shown in spite of countless false starts and setbacks. But just
when it seems that life has got the best
of them, a magical moment occurs that
is truly heart-warming and uplifting:
a rare chance to see a real life story of
someone’s dream (sort of) coming true.
They say any band that takes themselves too seriously should watch This
Is Spinal Tap, and true as this may be, for
any would-be musician who doesn’t take
his or her dream seriously enough, Anvil!
The Story of Anvil is not to be missed.
Michael Armstrong
Gran Torino is the story of Walt Kowalski (Clint Eastwood), a veteran from
the Korean War and a retired Ford autoworker. The film tells of an embittered,
impenetrable widower and his battle
with the world; Walt Kowalski is the last
man left of his kind, defending his property in a neighbourhood of immigrant
Asian Americans.
The film opens with Walt at his
wife’s funeral, barely able to tolerate
the annoyances of those close to him:
his sorely disappointing kids and his
thoughtless, selfish grandkids. They receive no more than grunts and snarls;
even the young freckled-faced parish
priest (Christopher Carley) is shown
the door. Walt desires to be alone. He is
a difficult man isolated in a time that is
not his. Other than his dog Daisy, all that
he cherishes is a relic of better times: a
1972 Ford Gran Torino.
Walt’s implacable fortress of isolation is breached by his new immigrant
neighbours. When Thao Vang Lor (Bee
Vang), the young teenager from next
door is dared by a local gang to trespass
on Walt’s property and steal his beloved
car, Walt is unknowingly dragged out
of his misanthropic exile, while poor
Thao nearly gets his head blown off for
the stunt. The archetypal Eastwood mix
of blue-collar values and bare knuckle
methods, Walt emerges from seclusion
and becomes reluctantly involved with
Thao’s Hmong family, remarking: “I’ve
more in common with these gooks then
I do with my own spoiled, rotten fam-
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ily.” Thao brings great disrespect to the
family by attempting to steal the car
and is forced to work for Walt to repay
the debt. An inevitable bond of mutual
respect ensues and with the further
help of Thao’s smart and able sister Sue
(Ahney Her), Walt’s wall of bitterness
crumbles.
Walt is now embroiled in Thao’s
battle to avoid his own pitiful destiny,
where among Hmong people “ the girls
go to college and the boys go the jail”. All
the while Eastwood is tempted by the local punks to don the Dirty Harry gun and
holster and go out in a blaze of glory.
Walt Kowalski in many ways epitomises Eastwood’s hard-nosed, gruff
persona, and the film is haunted by the
ghosts of his previous roles. Lines like
“Get off my lawn” and “Ever notice how
you come across somebody once in a
while that you shouldn’t have messed
with? That’s me.” serve as testimony
to the fact that at the grand old age of
78, Eastwood can still pull it off. However it must be said that the film does
much more than rehash stereotypes; it
is a touching story of a man’s realization
that life is not a war and that he is a different man from the one who fought in
Korea: he’s simply too old to lose friends
anymore. The fact that Walt manages to
purge his demons without resorting to
pseudo-redemption or easy violence is
an affirmation of both Eastwood’s creative development, in both performance
and direction, and the overall quality of
the film. Andrew Grant
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Film reviews
François Bégaudeau, Franck Keita, Nassim Amrabt
running time
128 minutes
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The Class, directed by Laurent Cantet
and winner of the Palme D’Or at Cannes
in 2008, is a wonderful film about a Parisian teacher and his class of thirteen
year-olds from diverse racial and ethnic
backgrounds.
The film is based on the memoirs of
François Bégaudeau, an actual highschool teacher, who assumes the lead
role in the film, playing a fictionalized
version of himself. Similarly, many of
the students are actual students who
use their real names. These techniques,
coupled with the documentary-style
direction of Cantet combine to give
the film a realism and relevance that
separates it from the myriad of inspirational-teacher/deprived-student films
that Hollywood has produced over the
years. The Class outclasses such films in
its honest portrayal of teenagers. It does
hint at certain traits in characters, but
allows them to be more than the usual
stereotypes.
The Class manages to firmly capture
what it is actually like to be in a class on
a day to day basis. The teacher, François
Marin (Bégaudeau), struggles to get
through the day’s work, yet, much like
Socrates, never allows the students away
with off-the-cuff remarks about race or
sexuality without demanding a rationalization that makes the kids think. As a
white teacher in a class that is predominantly filled with French-born students
of African or Caribbean descent, François is keenly aware that more is going
on in his schoolroom than just grammar
and verb tense exercises.
A small triumph for both Mr. Marin
and his students comes in the form of
‘personal portraits’ that each student
creates. This exercise allows Mr. Marin
to get know these kids, yet more importantly, allows them to assert their individuality. On the last day of school each
student is given a booklet containing
each portrait – a tangible achievement
that embodies a mutual respect. Bégaudeau’s plays himself not as some perfect plaster saint or paragon of virtue; he
makes as many missteps as he does bold
forward moves. This film manages to
be inspirational without the typical hityou-over-the-head speech that magically reaches the students. Instead, we
are shown real life teaching by trial and
error.
What is most enchanting about this
film is its ability to subtly grasp and hold
your attention without you realizing you
ever gave it away. For the majority of the
film, there is no significant plot, event
or action that spikes your interest, only
an ever-flowing, well-paced dialogue between teachers and students that slowly
entwines you in its grip. The film peaks
near the end, when a rebellious Malian
student, Souleymane (Franck Keita), is
threatened with expulsion even though
this almost certainly means he will be
deported back to Africa. The students
take his side against François, who is
torn. Cantet, as he has throughout, takes
no clear side, and this is the beauty of
The Class. Robert Grant
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Friday the 13th
director
Marcus Nispel
starring
Jared Padalecki, Danielle Panabaker, Amanda Righetti
running time
97 minutes
Friday the 13th, the latest “re-imagining” of a classic slasher franchise, is
loosely based on the first three instalments of the series, opening with a reminder of how it all began at Camp Crystal Lake. Back in 1980, Mrs Voorhees
was decapitated by the sole survivor of
her murderous revenge on a group of
camp counsellors. She sought retribution for the death of her son Jason, who
drowned almost 20 years previously
while the counsellors at the time were,
ahem, otherwise engaged. Fast-forward
almost another 30 years and ten (yes,
ten) sequels of varying quality later, and
a typical bunch of vacuous morons arrive at the abandoned camp, only to be
welcomed by the ever-inexplicably alive
Jason and his trusty machete. And this is
all before the opening credits.
We then meet yet another group of
all-American college brats, on their way
to Daddy’s lakeside cabin for a weekend
of sex, beer and bongs. Along the way
they encounter Jared Padalecki roaming the area on a motorcycle and looking
typically broody, in search of his sister
(who was among the pre-title bunch).
The kind-hearted girl in the group (i.e.
the one who’s not going to get naked)
falls for his heartbroken puppy-dog eyes
and the pair go rummaging around the
forest in the falling darkness while her
friends get down to some good old-fashioned debauchery.
Do I really need to describe this “plot”
any further? It’s laughable to consider
these sitting ducks as characters, as its
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impossible to care whether they live or
die. There is zero suspense in wondering who will make it to the final scene
and the only question is who’s next for
the chop. This would be almost forgivable if there was any tongue-in-cheek elements behind the depravity, but its just
the same tired old clichés with no effort
to inject any humour whatsoever, unless you count the lonely hillbilly victim
whose sole purpose is to raise the body
count and contrive a situation for Jason
to pick up the iconic hockey mask.
Obviously there was never any purpose behind this project other than to
squeeze a few more cents out of one of
the most lucrative horror franchises
ever. But surely someone could have
made a little effort to give us a scare, or
at least a giggle?
It goes without saying that the script
is painful and the acting is average at
best, but even the gore isn’t particularly
shocking or inventive. The makers seem
unaware that unlike audiences of the
1980s, today’s viewers have been desensitised by torture porn of the Saw and
Hostel variety, and gratuitous stabbing
just doesn’t have the same shock value
any more.
Worst of all, in a move that disappoints at least half of the potential audience, Jared Padalecki does not at any
point remove his shirt. However, three
ample-chested young females are more
than happy to expose themselves for our
enjoyment. Go figure, ladies.
Áine Boyle
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Like Meryl Streep’s character in Doubt,
we only witness small, almost insignificant details surrounding a possibly inappropriate relationship between Father
Flynn (Philip Seymour Hoffman) and a
young student of his. Set in the 1960s,
the student, as the only African American pupil, is having difficulties adapting
to life in a strict Catholic school. Father
Flynn acts both as a mentor and friend
to him, but this relationship is brought
into question after Sister James (Amy
Adams) witnesses Flynn putting the
boy’s undershirt into his locker. She
later tells her superior, Sister Aloysius
(Meryl Streep) what she has seen, which
leads to the head nun attempting to
prove Flynn’s guilt.
The real achievement of Doubt lies in
the dubious nature of the crime, which
becomes the film’s intriguing cipher.
There are no scenes of molestation,
nor would one suspect any impropriety
from the interactions between Flynn
and the student. The crime itself is never even verbally articulated; instead, the
characters discuss the issue with vague,
although impassioned, statements of
accusation and innocence.
At the beginning of the film, Aloysius witnesses a student flinch as Flynn
touches his shirt. This is enough to
convince her of Flynn’s crime and fuels her aggression against him for the
entire film. By the end, there is no climatic revelation of innocence or guilt.
Instead, Flynn abruptly resigns his post
and transfers to another church, while
The Young Victoria
director
Jean-Marc Vallée
starring
Emily Blunt, Rupert Friend, Paul Bettany
running time
100 minutes
Aloysius seems content that this decision proves his guilt. This ambiguity
and indirection serves to make the film
appear deep, and definitely engages the
audience by puzzling them.
The film, however, suffers from perhaps one too many “telling” oblique
angles and references to bad weather,
which, rather amateurishly, mirrors the
narrative’s tension and drama. The ending feels tacked on, too, with Streep’s
character crying literal tears and confiding in Sister James that she “has so much
doubt.” Perhaps an attempt to humanize
Sister Aloysius, the scene feels unnecessary and odd, leaving the viewer bewildered as the credits begin to roll.
The ending also undermines the
most enjoyable element of the film:
watching Streep play a venomous and
self-righteous character, placed in direct conflict with Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s warm and affable Father Flynn.
Her strict and merciless character is the
type one would typically identify with
villainy, yet Doubt inverts this concept
and the result is that we sympathise and
align ourselves with Flynn while viewing
Streep as the enemy.
Doubt is only the second film of John
Patrick Shanley, who also wrote the
screenplay and the original play, which
won the Pulitzer Prize. A generally entertaining if somewhat heavy-handed
film, the great cast allows Doubt to remain entertaining and engaging in spite
of its more melodramatic moments.
Christopher Kelly
I have always been partial to a good period drama. There’s something indulgent
about nestling in on a Sunday afternoon
and watching the likes of Pride and Prejudice or Vanity Fair. It’s the extravagance
of the costumes, the graceful dances and
the romance of a by-gone era which we
find so seductive. However, I think that
the dramas that are most cherished go
far beyond aesthetic frivolity. What is
also alluring is the wit and intelligence
which shines through the dialogue. The
heroes and heroines are usually very
witty, making them as admirable for
their brain as well as their beauty. Nonetheless, beauty and romance still helps.
I was therefore surprised at the
choice of Queen Victoria as an unlikely
muse for such a drama. When I think of
Queen Victoria, I think of the portrait of
her looking big bird and beaky; a round
and sturdy matriarch at the helm of the
British Empire. It is exactly this image
which the director, Jean-Marc Vallée so
assiduously tries to deconstruct. Hence
the title: The Young Victoria.
The film starts the year pre-ceding
Victoria’s coronation. Played by Emily
blunt, the future Queen is only seventeen but is the heiress presumptive to
her Uncle, William IV (Jim Broadbent).
Should he die before her birthday, her
mother, the Duchess of Kent and Strathearn (Miranda Richardson) would assume the role of Regent, and all the authority and power that role implies. The
Duchess, under the influence of Sir John
Conroy (Mark Strong), guards Victoria
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assiduously. Until her coronation she
is virtually under house arrest; never
allowed in public and rarely allowed to
socialise. The few occasions she does, it
is only with company of their choosing.
However, once safely on the throne and
free from Conroy’s shackles, Victoria
falls prey to the charming but equally
manipulative Lord Melbourne (Paul
Bettany) who successfully haunts each
decision she makes. Meanwhile Prince
Albert (Rupert Friend) attempts to woo
her and it is excitement of the delicacy of
Albert and Victoria’s courtship, twinned
with the interplay of power and politics
which drives the film.
Scripted by Julian Fellowes (Gosford
Park), this is a witty and heart warming
film. Victoria’s youth is an arguably untold story and Fellowes and Vallée manage to capture the strength and energy
of the young Queen. Bettany is suitably
unctuous as Melbourne and Strong appropriately threatening in his latent ambition to become Regent.
The sets are faultless, as are the costumes, which are just modest enough to
be appropriate for Victoria, but beautiful
enough to be interesting. Emily Blunt,
however, definitely steals the show. She
manages to capture the complexity of
the young Princess, her sense of responsibility and kindness with a twinkle of
rebelliousness shining through. Vallée
said of Victoria, “it was her humanity
that attracted me the most”, and this
is perfectly captured within the film.
Gabrielle Hales
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Film reviews
Chris Evans, Dakota Fanning, Djimon Hounsou
running time
111 minutes
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I’m not the biggest fan of sci-fi flicks. For
me, there is little point in sitting quietly
in the dark theatre for two hours listening to some insane, implausible and
catastrophically written mumbo jumbo
about quantum death rays and interstellar time warps.
Naturally, however, there are some
exceptions. The Matrix, for instance, is
a film I could watch repeatedly for the
simple reason that it defies the pitfalls
that normally plague films like it and
delivers an original concept, enough
superhuman orientated violence to sate
even the most murderous of actionjunkies and a well-written script. Entertaining is the word I’m looking for. No
matter how ludicrous and implausible a
sci-fi film may be, as long as it entertains
with an effect-laden plot, gratuitous explosions and elaborate fight scenes, I’ll
be sound as a pound. Push does not and
if anything it’s guilty of being contrived,
borrowing heavily from TV shows like
Heroes and films such as X-Men.
The film’s opening exposition tells
the story of the shady government organization known as Division, which
seeks to turn psychically gifted young
people into an army of super-warriors,
a project that was pioneered by Nazi
scientists. These psychics range in
their abilities from ‘movers’, who can
move objects telekinetically, to ‘pushers’, who implant thoughts in people’s
minds, to ‘watchers’, who can see into
the future. Nick Gant (Chris Evans) is a
second-generation ‘mover’ who is des-
perately evading capture by Division in
the bustling metropolis of Hong Kong
when he is tracked down by a grungy,
teenage ‘watcher’ called Cassie (Dakota
Fanning). She seeks his help in finding
Kira (Camille Belle), a pusher who she
believes may hold the key to defeating
Division. Soon, however, the pair are being hunted by the nefarious agent Henry
Carver (Djimon Hounsou), a ‘pusher’ in
the employ of Division, who will stop at
nothing to prevent them from reaching
their goal.
Naturally, you would expect this film
to be full of psychic ass kicking and exciting chase scenes. Well, you’d be wrong.
Instead, Push commits the cardinal sin
of its genre and sacrifices thrills for tedious, cumbersome, dialogue-heavy
scenes and a meandering and convoluted plot. Even Dakota Fanning engaging
in a healthy spot of underage drinking
fails to raise a smile. Perhaps its because
I’d be hitting the bottle hard too if I was
cast in movies like this. Meanwhile the
impressive special effects seem redundant amidst the stifling lack of excitement. When the action scenes finally
do arrive, they fail to exhilarate and the
frenetic, shaky camerawork is confusing rather than thrilling. As Push lurches
slowly towards its climax at just under
two hours, it jerks between a series of
incomprehensible plot twists, which are
as frustrating as they are clichéd. “So,
Fancy going to see Push? Nah, to be honest I’m not too pushed.” Feel free to use
that one. Alan Henry
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Vicky Cristina Barcelona
director
Woody Allen
starring
Scarlett Johansson, Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz
running time
96 minutes
In the depths of winter, sometimes it’s
a little hard to remember what summertime feels like. Afternoons at the Pav,
dead-end temp jobs and holidays in the
sun can feel a long way away on a wet and
windy Monday morning in February. For
anyone in need of a reminder, thankfully Woody Allen is back on form with
his latest effort, Vicky Cristina Barcelona,
a film about everything a great summer
can be.
The film follows two best friends on
a two-month vacation in Barcelona, a
welcome break from their lives back in
New York. Vicky (Rebecca Hall) is about
to marry her fiancé Doug (Chris Messina), a yuppie businessman who at first
appears to be the perfect match for the
levelheaded yet sensitive young woman. Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) is the
complete opposite to her friend, a passionate and impulsive person searching
for love and artistic inspiration during
her time in Spain. After taking in the architecture of Gaudí and some Spanish
guitar performances, their holiday takes
a bizarre turn after a chance encounter
with Juan Antonio Gonzalo (Javier Bardem) who whisks them both off for a
romantic weekend in Oviedo. Soon both
women become entangled in Juan Antonio’s love life, and the arrival of his borderline psychotic ex-wife Maria Elena
(Penelope Cruz) causes all concerned to
reassess what they truly want from life.
What could have been a distinctly average rom-com is saved by a witty script
and an excellent ensemble cast. Javier
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Bardem is hilarious as Juan Antonio, a
man torn between his insatiable libido
and the puppy dog devotion he bestows
upon his ex-wife. Often just his sleepyeyed expressions are enough to raise a
laugh, while Penelope Cruz excels as the
dangerously unstable object of his affections. In fact before his entrance the two
other central characters are not exactly
compelling; it is unclear whether their
over-intellectualised
conversations
are a sideways jab at the pretensions of
Manhattan’s upper-middle class, or a reflection of Woody Allen’s revered place
in the very same privileged elite. The irritating narration by Christopher Evan
Welch unfortunately seems to suggest
the latter option.
That the film recovers from such an
underwhelming start is an impressive
feat, as it goes on to explore themes
of creativity and sexual desire with an
honesty and frisson typical of the best
of Allen’s work. Both Vicky and Cristina
eventually develop into well-rounded
characters worth caring about, while
throughout the film the rich cinematography creates a vibrant world of primary
colours and sun-drenched locales. Furthermore, the film provides no easy resolutions to matters of the heart, displaying an emotional maturity reminiscent
of Truffaut’s classic Jules et Jim, while
avoiding any po-faced soul-searching.
All in all, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is a refreshing and life-affirming film; the perfect antidote to a dreary day in Dublin.
Michael Armstrong
23

TN2 Low Res Issue 9

Transcription

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