Critic Cal

Like many Brits (and not just the 16.1 million who voted as I did), I am sad for my country right now. I am sad because I believe that Brexit spells economic disaster which will hit the poorest hardest, isolation from a wider community which I consider myself a part of, and the probable eventual break-up of the UK. But aside from the actual outcome of the referendum, I am sad at the deep divisions that the campaign process uncovered, exploited and exacerbated; the "tribalization and polarization of Britain, a bruising clash of two narratives that pitted London against the regions, Scotland against England, the young against the elderly, and the lower middle-class against the metropolitan elites" (Austen Ivereigh writing for ABC Religion and Ethics ). I am appalled at the hostility, mistrust, deceit and turmoil; the upsurge in racist abuse and the reflection that it is only the outward manifestation of something pre-existent, erstwhile latent. Even if the departure goes ah...

I used to watch a lot of films. We married in a liminal age; a time when people still rented DVDs, but selected them online and had them home-delivered like a very slow and ultimately inedible pizza. As frugal students we made meticulous use of our LoveFilm account, steaming through as many acknowledged must-sees of the cinema world as the speed of Royal Mail allowed. But I got old; fidgety; conscious of the finity of hours and more greedy to create than to consume. I'd like to say that I preserve my sapped appetite for screen time for the cream of the cinema crop. That I ponder over the Watershed program in careful search of a foreign language arthouse opus worthy of my next quarterly big screen pilgrimage. That I attend in solemn state supplied with fine red wine and an elegant Moleskine notebook in which to neatly print my cannily-observed remarks for later contemplation. But the sad truth is that my selection criteria has descended to "whatever's free on Amazon ...

Mr W. and myself have been unanimous, this week, in our delight at the long-awaited start of the season. We have not, however, been quite so unanimous as to the which of the said season. He seems to think it is the Premier League lays rightful claim to our delight; I'm pretty sure it is the Great British Bake Off . However, my attempts to reason with him have fallen on deaf ears. "I honestly don't understand what's gotten everybody so ridiculously hyped," he marvels disdainfully. "It's not even real." Well, he's right about the hype. My Facebook newsfeed is testament to that. And it doesn't seem to be peculiar to my online peers: 9.3 million tuned in for the opener; 2 million more than the equivalent figures for last year. The Telegraph even provided a live text update  of the first episode, football match-style, for people (I guess?) who were unavoidably away from their TV screens between the hours of 8 and 9 last Wednesday evening b...

In early March, the builders finally returned our door keys at the end of a "four week job" that started in November ... We'd got them in to fit us a new bathroom, before the old one rotted or important bits snapped off or water, water everywhere or some other hypnogogic horror realised itself before our eyes. And also to stop it raining in our kitchen because, well, that particular original feature was starting to seem rather worn. And they did an admirable job and charmingly to boot, and there are many very sound (but miserable and boring) reasons why it took so exhaustingly much longer than estimated, so we would confidently pass their contact details on to anybody looking for a builder. But ... it was a long "four weeks" ... to have people around all the time when I'm so greedy for solitude; to have plastic sheeting three-quarters through the house; to have a functionless cave where the amenities used to be (downstairs toilet + gym membership = much...

Just when mum and dad thought they could safely stop worrying about my little sister leading me astray, said rebellious sibling gets me into Buffy -- a program most decidedly  not featured in the authorised version of the Radio Times when we were growing up. I guess I've long-since graduated from the target demographic. Still, I can easily see why it got so successful. It has everything a high-school horror comedy romance drama series should: the jocks, the geeks, the cheerleaders, the teachers who are out to get you (slash eat you) ... undead overlords, seductive arthropods ... friendship, unrequited love, parental run-ins, the older (but only by a couple-a hundred years, though) guy ... peer pressure, bullying, internet demons ( not the 'background process' type) ... the general, over-arching challenges of trying to balance a social life around schoolwork around slaying ... Sure is a tough gig being the Chosen One: [Buffy defeats vampire/demon/human-animal hybr...

So, I let vent the other day about the way that cinemas sanitise death for a family audience. This got me thinking -- though I just about managed to restrain myself from throwing it all in to one particularly extended and rambling discourse -- about the other aspects of human existence you do and don't expect to see in a 12A. One obvious no-no is, understandably, graphic sex -- cue lots of suggestive cut-aways just at the moment of hand-buttock contact, or of one foot leaving the floor, or of a directional transition towards the horizontal... (Basically, any of the various happenings they warn you about in those start-of-term Christian Union pep talks). But, as with death, sex can be cheapened even while it is not being explicitly depicted -- and that's what I think happens when it's treated as 'no big deal'. Of course it alienates me terribly to say so, because 'no big deal' is, in most cases, the widely agreed-upon standard of healthy sexuality that w...

I wanted it to be  The Avengers  really .  Or that one  the other day with the sardonic raccoon and the slow-witted tree and the mixtapes. It was a bit optimistic, but -- too tired after an intense weekend cocktail of cleaning and serious reading to move or to try to think deeply -- I talked myself into  Captain America: The Winter Soldier . It was ... decent. Some nice thoughtful touches about the Information Age and the tensions between security and freedom, leadership and egalitarianism. And they have managed to make Steve Rogers a far more appealing and nuanced character than the all-American cliché I was apprehending. But ... it lacked the energy of the aforementioned Marvelous ensembles, and I did find myself a little fidgety at having surrendered my mental energies for two straight hours to moving images and noises that were only ... decent. It also re-raised, for me, another, far more significant objection. I am increasingly unimpresse...

Disney's  Frozen  is a powerful allegory about mental illness and the propensity of sufferers to shut down to the outside world ... No, wait, it's a parable about puberty and coming of age, and the temporary distance and awkwardness that it generates between family members ... Oh, or is it about the challenges of bringing up exceptionally gifted children, and the loneliness of mental superiority? ... Of course, it's really  a corrective on the damaging fairytale notions of romantic love ... It's a polemic against reductive and oppressive notions of womanhood, transforming the 2-dimensional Disney Princess into an aspirational fully-rounded smart, feisty and flawed character ... It's a celebration of sexual liberation ... A metaphor for coming out as gay ... An admonitory yarn about climate change ... A sympathetic observation on the discomforts of Raynaud's disease ... In short, it is a very human, very simple, very beautiful (IMO) story which most people c...

The title of this post is guaranteed to make at least one person extremely nervous (should she see it) and any number of others darkly curious...but I confess outright that it is little more than shameless clickbait. I will be introducing a mother-in-law eventually, but not my one (not that I would struggle to find lots of wonderfully positive things to say, but I suspect that she would prefer to be spared even that). I was rather intrigued, the other day, to stumble on the concept of the Bechdel test  -- a set of criteria for assessing gender bias in works of fiction. To pass, a film or book must have 1) at least two women in it, 2) who talk to each other, 3) about something besides a man. The idea (and the name) come from a 1985 comic strip by American cartoonist  Alison Bechdel : a character who has made this the guiding principle for her own cinema-going laments that the last film she was able to see was Alien..."the two women in it talk to each other about ...

sonnet_cxvi_v2_cw2013 Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it finds weetabix-encrusted bowls, Nor bends, when bending to remove socks from the bedroom floor. Oh no! It is an ever-fixèd mark, much like the one left on the wall by that ham-fisted DIY attempt, That looks on tempests, and does not excuse itself from taking out the bins. It is the GPS to every long car journey back from stressful family events, Whose worth's unknown, although for goodness sake, don't leave it on the front seat to get taken. Love's not time's fool, though time-worn jokes may fall within the compass of a scathing glance; Love alters not with lengthy working days and weary weeks, But bears it out, and even finds the energy, come Saturday, to hoover to the edges of the living room. If this be error, and myself accused, Will never writ, nor I his words abused. (cf. an earlier draft ) Bearing with one another doesn't ...