Their Eyes Were Watching God - Zora Neale Hurston, 1937.

Perhaps the most famous product of the inter-war black artistic movement that came to be known as the Harlem Renaissance, Zora Neale Hurston’s account of a woman’s pursuit of happiness over the course of twenty years and three marriages provides the modern day reader with a telling insight into a black, and female, existence in a segregated America.

We are often told that the first rule of creative writing is to write about what you know. The similarities between the author and her protagonist, Janie Crawford, are striking. Hurston herself grew up in the all-black Floridian town of Eatonville, whose founding is recounted in the novel, and the plot’s chronology roughly matches that of her own age and lifetime. Racism is unsurprisingly inherently present in Their Eyes Were Watching God, however it is in Hurston’s observations on the place of black women in early twentieth-century America which deserve the greatest admiration. Janie’s loss of innocence and quest for happiness through two failed marriages forms a plot culminating in the factual Okeechobee hurricane of 1928, leading to tragedy, but ultimately contentment for our heroine, who succeeds in breaking the typecasts that had previously been cemented for the black woman in literature; overbearing matriarch or slut.*

Hurston’s phonetic spelling of her characters’ speech lends the novel an intrinsic credibility for which the author deserves to be lauded. Such nuances of spoken communication that are expressed in her dialogue are predominantly limited to a black, southern-USA context; however any initial comprehension difficulties to such alien language that may be encountered are soon overcome by the authority and standing this gives the text. The result this method has had on Nobel Prize winning author Toni Morrison is evident, and Zora Neale Hurston’s place in African American literary history is testament to the timeless splendour of Their Eyes Were Watching God.



*According to Sherley Anne Williams

Deerhunter - Halcyon Digest, 2010.

Deerhunter are nothing if not productive. Last month’s Halcyon Digest was the Atlanta-based psychedelic foursome’s sixth major release in as many years; not surprising considering principal songwriter Bradford Cox’s battle with Marfan syndrome, shortening his life expectancy, and perhaps a wish to release the most material possible. More explicitly than in previous work, Cox’s illness is disturbingly prevalent lyrically in Halcyon Digest, lamenting in Basement Scene his aversion to growing old, while Memory Boy and Desire Lines express a vehement repulsion of solitude. However, album closer He Would Have Laughed (this year’s Nothing Ever Happened, Deerhunter fans) documents the boredom associated with ageing and perhaps an acceptance of his position.

Had Coldplay written major hit Clocks after spending their youth listening to My Bloody Valentine rather than U2, then first single Revival might have been the result; guitarist Lockett Pundt produces the band’s most agreeable pop melody yet, however he really comes to the fore in self-penned Desire Lines. Beginning in the same vein as the current American surf pop scene advocated by Best Coast and Wavves, the album’s seven-minute centrepiece eventually culminates with Deerhunter’s trademark hypnotism. Stand-out Helicopter is the band at their thunderous best, as waves of warped guitar drone to a climatic crescendo of Cox’s longing whines concerning loss of company and a minimal existence, from the peculiar viewpoint of a fictional Russian prostitute.

For all their somewhat downbeat lyrics, and colossal, engulfing, none-too-uplifting production, Halcyon Digest stands true as Deerhunter’s most life-affirming work yet. Saxophones and mandolins are delightfully unexpected additions to the band’s perpetually overwhelming sound, which was in danger of becoming monotonous and overbearing had it not been tweaked and improved over the course of their relentless output, which hopefully will not be capped anytime soon.

Oroonoko - Aphra Behn, 1688.

“All women together ought to let flowers fall upon the tomb of Aphra Behn...for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds.”
Virginia Woolf

Oroonoko, Aphra Behn’s most studied novel, was particularly revolutionary; while its publication in 1688 is widely heralded as the birth of the English novel, a black protagonist and female author are surely the more staggering aspects of Behn’s glorious portrait of an African prince enslaved and disparaging representation of white supremacy in the quickly expanding British empire.

African tribal prince Oroonoko, who the author claimed to exist, is unanimously adored by all that meet him. Behn ceaselessly praises the man’s physique, appearance, character and heart throughout, and it is such attributes which highlight the injustice of his fate, as he and his maiden lover Imoinda are captured as slaves by British traders from Surinam in a radical account of the barbarism of slavery.

Aphra Behn is known to have worked as a spy under King Charles II, however debate rages as to whether she actually visited the South American colony. While her descriptions of tropical landscape and indigenous people are generally accurate, minor descrepancies are suggested. The majority of Europeans named in the novel were named as true contemporaneous figures, a somewhat peculiar example of poetic license to use if Behn had not travelled extensively, as few Western characters escape positively. One Englishman who escapes without condemnation in Oroonoko is George Marten, a loyal Cromwellian, while Royalist colonists appear malevolent and sadistic. Behn herself was a famously militant supporter of the monarchy, thus her coupling of tyrannical brutality with political ideology unquestionably not in line with her own seems bizarre.

A sentimentalised love story which established amatory fiction as a precursor to the modern novel, or a cruel reminder of British colonial cruelty in a time of social and scientific turbulence? Oroonoko is unquestionably, and, most importantly, a valuable representation of each.

Looking Backward - Edward Bellamy, 1888.

Edward Bellamy’s fantasy of a socialist utopia outlined in Looking Backward is, with hindsight, ambitious and a little naive, however his depth of research and impassioned critique of contemporaneous America provide much food for thought on our current economic system.

A political manifesto thinly veiled, though admittedly the romantic sub-plot entertains thoroughly, in fiction, Bellamy’s best-known work details the journey of a wealthy though not immoral man from Boston in 1887 to the same city at the dawn of the 21st century via a deep, 112 year long, sleep. Private enterprise has disappeared in the USA of 2000 where every man and woman from the age of 21 until 45 serves the “industrial army” in some way or form, as the state, the sole capitalist, provides for them, in complete equality. Crime and injustice are unheard of, as is, seemingly by consequence, unhappiness. The author reveals this fantasy through the lengthy conversations of his protagonist, accidental time traveller Julian West, and his newfound friend Dr. Leete, whose amiable family give the 19th century Bostonian all he requires following his obvious shock.

Bellamy’s recurring amazement throughout Looking Backward is directed at his fellow man, who it seems to him must merely co-operate with each other rather than compete in order to find true happiness. He reserves blame for this though, insisting instead that it is a mistake, a blunder of gigantic proportions that has set mankind on this path; when every man has a family to feed, it is not with malicious intent that he steals the bread from another’s grasp.

The novel’s publication led to the spawning of many socialist clubs devoted to propagating the author’s ideas, however, although Bellamy foresaw credit cards, covered shopping malls and the widespread use of the radio in Looking Backward, it is, alas, with regret that his more general world plan was not more effectively realised.

The Comedy of Errors - William Shakespeare, 1594.

Dir. Rebecca Gatward
London Globe Theatre, Wednesday 1st September 2010.

Often dismissed as his most light-hearted and trivial play, and therefore one of those least worth intellectual study, The Comedy of Errors proves over four centuries since its debut, that when writing purely for entertainment and not artistic merit, Shakespeare was very adept at entertaining the masses.
Testament to this is the wonderful Globe Theatre on London's South Bank. For a mere £5 one can stand in the "pit" and watch the world's best Shakespearian actors just metres away. On a warm September night this is most inviting, as the seasons change perhaps not, but who is to say that darker tragedies such as Hamlet and King Lear might be enhanced by a less inviting atmosphere.

In an RSC cast assembled by many faces recognisable through constant bit parts in Midsomer Murders, Lewis, Casualty and the like, a child-like enthusiasm for the slapstick humour of the late sixteenth century was executed perfectly. The play concerns a master and a servant, who arrive in Ephesus to face their identical twins, long since separated, who are also master and serf. Farcical scenes ensue, with Shakespeare's iron grip on the lexiconical playfulness of the English language proving sidesplitting to a modern day audience as it would have been when the bard himself was in the arena.

However, the masterstroke of the performance is the decision to cast only one actor each in the part of both twins, with the removal of a pair of spectacles the only clue to which sibling is being portrayed. The self-awareness and parody evident in the final scenes when it is necessary to have both twins on stage concurrently, with a most simple and playful device taking centre stage. The best night out you'll find for £5 anywhere in the country.

The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet - David Mitchell, 2010.

David Mitchell, during an interview, once asked himself the question,
“Would I have become the same writer if I’d spent the last six years in London, or Cape Town, or Moose Jaw, or on an oil rig or in the circus?”
with reference to the time he spent in Japan after graduating from Kent University. Considering that four of his five novels are based predominantly around Japan and East Asia, the answer, as he himself is probably aware, is a resounding ‘no’. And it is for this time spent teaching English in the Orient that we must be thankful. While Mitchell’s previous novel, Black Swan Green, was nothing to complain about, the early 1980s Worcestershire setting of the author’s youth lacked the mythical mysticism, and ability as a storyteller, of his other works. The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet is a gratifying return to his unique method that has made him one of the most exciting writers of his generation.

The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet recalls the Kansei-era Japan of the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth centuries, a world closed to foreign influence, where Christianity is a crime and honour and deference the highly-valued virtues. In this mysterious land there is but one nook of occidental influence, the man-made island of Dejima, off the Nagasaki coast, the trading post of the Dutch East India company, where the only Europeans in Japan must live, and never cross to the mainland. De Zoet falls in love with a Japanese midwife (Mitchell himself is married to a Japanese woman), however her sudden disappearance provides the Dutch clerk with the grounds to discover the dark occurrences happening behind Japanese officials’ shady dealings, and their ambiguous moral codes, twisted into rationality by misread Buddhist teachings. Mitchell intersperses his chapters regarding De Zoet’s unattainable love with others pertaining to the downfall of the Dutch East India company, and the onset of the British on Dejima, as her vast nineteenth century global empire began to take shape.

The sheer research Mitchell must have put in to write The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet is staggering. A firm knowledge of Japanese tradition and lifestyle is evident from Mitchell’s previous novels Ghostwritten and number9dream, however the secretive nature of Japan two centuries ago is akin to writing a accurate encyclopaedia today of Kim Jong-Il’s North Korea. Coupled with this, the author’s child-like imagination is unparalleled in contemporary English literature; such metaphor and similie regularly causes the reader to stop and re-read out of utter delight, whilst the page or so of rhyming description at the start of one of De Zoet’s later chapters is fresh, unexpected and exceptionally beautiful.

David Mitchell's fifth novel is one which will ensnare all but the most closed minds, a lengthened fable which posterity will hopefully treasure in both university libraries and children’s bedside tables for years to come.

The Child In Time - Ian McEwan, 1987.

The tragic event that overshadows children’s author Stephen Lewis’ life throughout The Child In Time is that which occurred two years prior, the protagonist and his three year-old daughter were at a supermarket when she was snatched, never to be seen again. What follows is not only an account of his complex grief and a fractious relationship with his wife, but a study of the very concept of time and its limitations, set against the backdrop of a somewhat alternative contemporaneous society in a bleak Britain facing extreme weather, nuclear war and leadership by an unnamed Prime Minister akin to Thatcher.

From the beginning of the novel McEwan leads the reader to believe that his title refers to the missing child, the would-be five year-old Kate. Stephen sees in all other children aspects of her and imagines how she would appear knowing full well that is more than likely she is no longer alive. Therefore it raises the question of whether time is a fixed dimension in which Kate had existed, but no longer does, or is time transient, and possible to revisit?

However, one’s thoughts tend to shift to Stephen himself being The Child In Time after an unexplained, brief hallucination of his parents before his birth; he finds himself discussing the concept of time with physicist friend Thelma, while her politician husband and fellow friend to Stephen, Charles, finds himself having a nervous breakdown. This crisis being a depression into childhood; Stephen discovers his friend behaving like a pre-pubescent boy- a man searching desperately for a simple, juvenile existence, a desire to return to a time already passed, if you like.

Ian McEwan writes in captivating prose; his ability to define life-shattering events in an implicitly concise and accurate manner bear resemblance to the opening chapter of his 1997 novel, Enduring Love. The author’s evident scientific interest and knowledge is as involving here as it was to be with both Enduring Love’s study of de Clerambault’s syndrome, and Saturday’s (2005) complex descriptions of neuroscience.

As elegant as any of McEwan’s work, The Child In Time develops the theory that time is immaterial, yet also immemorial and perpetually immune to any human attempts at interference, influence, and perhaps even, comprehension.

Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises - Earnest Hemingway, 1926.

It is a generally accepted opinion that Ernest Hemingway was one of the finest authors ever to have lived. His most well known work, The Old Man and The Sea, is often mentioned in discussions as to the true ‘great American novel’, but while other such contenders by writers as renowned as Steinbeck and Fitzgerald are set in their homeland, Hemingway’s tells of one Cuban man’s struggle with the Caribbean sea, and life itself. 1927’s Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises was a forerunner of the aforementioned, and similarly was set overseas, in post-WWI France and Spain; Hemingway was to return to the Mediterranean in his work two years later, with A Farewell to Arms, a First World War tale of an American in Italy. Likewise, Fiesta is the story of an expatriate, Jake, and his hopeless love for beauty Brett, amid the Parisian, Pernod-sipping upper-classes, and his 'afición' for bullfighting in the dry, dusty streets of Pamplona, during the titular fiesta weeks in northern Spain.

34 year-old Brett is a compulsive adulterer, claiming (admittedly, believably) to be in love with Jake, while having open affairs with numerous men, all seemingly friends, all seemingly content with this arrangement, bar one, Jew Robert Cohn, disliked much by all characters, somewhat pitied by the reader. Instead it is Brett’s fiancé Mike who proves disdainful, a man who cannot hold his drink and regularly attacks boxer Cohn. The group of socialites consume vast quantities of alcohol throughout the novel, and never appear to work, despite their varying desgrees of financial stability.

Hemingway presents the ferocious bull running and fighting scenes of Pamplona with an unrestrained passion of the pastime, while heart warming descriptions of the Navarre countryside and its welcoming inhabitants serve to highlight the contrast between such a docile, simple existence, and the blood-stained sport that its proponents so adore. The Spaniards' subsistence and its perceived authenticity make the licentious Parisian elite seem shallow and false in the face of more genuine livings.

With his excellent command of the sparse prose and economic structures for which he was known, and a specificity unparalleled in literature, Hemingway manages to make atmosphere, ardour and infatuation teem throughout Fiesta, which may just come to be seen his masterpiece.

Less Than Zero - Bret Easton Ellis, 1985.

“This is one of the most disturbing novels I’ve read in a long time”

-Michiko Kakutani
From the original review in the The New York Times, June 1985.




Bret Easton Ellis’ debut novel, Less Than Zero, introduces themes and styles that were to become key components of his unique literary style; affluence, nihilism, violence, offbeat sexual liberties and most importantly, the compelling way in which he is able to recount the aforementioned in an off-hand, indifferent manner as if everyday life contains such extremes.

The novel’s protagonist, eighteen year-old Clay, known only by his forename, has returned to Los Angeles after his first semester at university in New Hampshire. The young student begins to pick up his Californian life where he had left off; a cocaine-fuelled, party-filled movie star existence, however he is disillusioned by his friends’ reckless behaviour, relentless vanity and an increasingly dark search for new means of hedonism that by the end of the novel reveals themselves sickening and undefendable. It is, however , Clay’s inability, and lack of desire, to condemn the actions of his those he spends time with, that proves to be the most disturbing characteristic of this novel, not the fact that such vile happenings exist.

The first of four events that disturbs our protagonist is an anorexic female friend of his injecting heroin, whilst simultaneously laughing and crying, and being filmed by a crowd of onlookers at a party. It is needless to go into more detail regarding such events which can only be given justice in prose via the pen of an author as renowned as Easton Ellis, but the last such occurrence that shocks Clay is a scene that rivals that of American Psycho which needs only be referred to as ‘the one with the rat’ in order to cement its notoriety.

Similarly to American Pyscho, the further one reads into the novel, the more repelling the details of the plot become, as Easton Ellis forces the reader to think of the perils of the mega rich; a complete breakdown of all relationships within the family, a boredom which can only be conquered by the use of increasingly more grotesque forms of stimulation, and ultimately, a lack of anything to lose, which proves to be the key reason why Less Than Zero’s characters carry out their actions, and ultimately justify them.
If you want something, you can have it.
If you want something, you will have it.

I hate to say "I told you so..."

Although I have always fully embraced the idea of any festival which covers as much as possible of the broad artistic spectrum, I never genuinely believed I would leave a music festival with my highlights being American alt-comic Emo Phillips and possibly the greatest living English writer, Sebastian Faulks. While there is nothing better to do when in the grasp of a particularly vengeful hangover than relax in a cool tent listening to intellectual columnists or a plethora of fresh comedians whose names I will surely never recall unless they make the big time, I generally go to a music festival with the expectation that it will be that medium which will leave me with the happiest memories.

I am not going to go into detail as to why Latitude 2010 was a disappointment; let’s just say it is, broadly speaking, for the reasons mentioned in my first post What Attitude? (09/03/2010). The inexplicable and highly regrettable attempted rapes on the site were of course atrocious, but realistically unpreventable, so I will not criticise the festival’s organisers for this. Musically, there were two bands I had expected to be outstanding at this festival; The National and Belle and Sebastian. Both bands need no introduction, and it was the Brooklyn-based quintet who I was able to see first, headlining the Word Arena on Friday night. While waiting for The National to take to the stage, the tightly packed in crowd gossiped amongst themselves regarding their adoration for this criminally, perpetually overlooked band, and my mind was set at ease following the previous few months’ bitterness that it was Florence + the Machine playing the “proper” headline slot that night, at the Obelisk arena.

The band were flawless. I have no complaints with the music, not the set I would have preferred, but even my less-favoured songs were performed in the mind-blowing yet heartbreaking way that only The National can. There is something deeply uncomfortable, however, and ultimately disturbing, when watching frontman, Matt Berninger, get steadily more drunk and subdued while singing lyrics that appear highly personal. Ultimately, when you are so close to the barrier that it is the crowd, and not Matt in his distinctive baritone, that you can hear singing, it does detract somewhat from the performance, however the band are not to blame. Belle and Sebastian, headlining the Obelisk arena on Saturday, were slick, professional and a joy to watch. Interspersing their set of classics with new songs, and a Rolling Stones cover, there were no complaints to be had from anybody, and as brilliant as I had expected them to be.

However, does not a truly great festival experience include expected moments of magic where you don’t expect them? I did not see as many music acts at Latitude 2010 as I have at previous events, but it is rather disappointing to only be satisfied with that which you had already expected to be great. Wild Beasts showed up for one or two songs, the highlight of Paul Heaton’s set was a cover of a song he wrote for previous band The Housemartins in the late 1980s, Crystal Castles were dull and monotonous, The Pains of Being Pure At Heart were plain and simply out of tune, while the less said about indie fodder-with-a-banjo Mumford and Sons the better.

To the positives. Sebastian Faulks, critically acclaimed author of novels such as Birdsong, Engelby and Human Traces spoke with eloquence, intelligence and knowledge as he actively engaged with his audience and gave readings of a few of his books, primarily his newest, the aptly titled Pistache (Pastiche + Piss Take, geddit?), displaying Faulks' comic qualities, as he creates false works of prose and poetry which appear to be the product of famous literary figures in unfamiliar positions. These include Alan Bennett going to war, Jane Austen meeting Patrick Bateman, and Graham Greene attempting to write a novel from a woman’s viewpoint. I fear not giving enough credit to the various comedians who I saw over the weekend, however the majority are not very well known, and I simply cannot recall their names. But the comedy tent is a true standout at Latitude, a place you know you will find something entertaining and (usually) relaxing during the daytime.

Latitude 2010 was as I expected it. A more Radio 1-friendly audience, but with remnants of the same left-of-centre slightly older crowd it has always attracted. However just as I had expected in March, I will not be attending for it’s 6^th “edition” as the organisers like to name it.

See you at the Hay festival 2011.

Brave New World - Aldous Huxley, 1932.

Brave New World, written roughly fifteen years before Orwell’s 1984 and Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, was the first major dystopian novel. Set in a London five hundred years in the future, Huxley warns of a totalitarian life where unhappiness is rare, yet creativity unheard of. Humans are indoctrinated during their sleep from a test tube birth into either Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta or Epsilon models, which then decides whether their position in life will be the most menial factory work, or the most high ranking politicians. It is unthinkable to have only one sexual partner, and a feeling of contentment is perpetuated with the constant consumption of soma, a hallucinogenic drug, of which Huxley’s interest and usage is well known.

The novel specifically focuses on Bernard Marx, an unlikeable and two-faced Alpha social outcast, who everyone presumes had something amiss during his conditioning process as an infant. In trying to impress potential partner Lenina (casual sex is endorsed by the World State) he takes her to a savage reservation in New Mexico, a place where ‘uncivilised’ people are kept; whose appearances and behaviour seem similar to that of Native Americans, or other tribal groups. It is here that John, a ‘Savage’ is found, a child reared, unusually, by his mother, and who has developed an appreciation of the arts that is nonexistent in the ‘civilized’ world.

Although the passages detailing people, architecture and the simply unimaginable way of life of the year AF 632 (632 years after the first Model-T Ford rolled off the production line) are fascinating, it is only after Huxley introduces the character of the Savage that his satire really begins to bite. Orwell feared that in 1984 books would be banned, however Huxley depicts an even worse situation; a world where books do not even register on the average human’s conscience as they are unneeded, at least in 1984 there existed the ability to learn and rebel. The penultimate chapter is an enlightening debate between the Savage and Mustapha Mond, a world controller, regarding the advantages of a godless and artless society, which is just as engaging now as it was when written in 1932.

In Brave New World Revisited, published in 1958, Huxley concluded that he considered the world was moving faster towards his dystopian premonition than he had thought in the 1930s. Whether this is still the case is open to debate, but although times have changed in the past seventy years, Brave New World remains to serve as a reminder of the very real challenges our forefathers saw facing the world in the years directly preceding the Second World War.

Les Vacances de M. Hulot (UK: Monsieur Hulot's Holiday) - Dir. Jacques Tati, 1953.

Jacques Tati’s seminal second feature film may seem outdated and clichéd as we move into the second decade of the twenty-first century, however this forerunner of modern day slapstick, and successor of pre-war silent comedies still provides us with a great deal of entertainment and both political and social subtexts deeper than its farcical scenes suggest.

The plot centres on the bumbling but well-meaning Monsieur Hulot, played by Tati himself, and his mandatory August holiday at an un-named beach location. While scenes of confused waiters, snapped canoes and terrible table manners may seem commonplace when viewed within the context of highly successful British television farces such as Fawlty Towers and Mr. Bean, it must not be forgotten that Les Vacances de M. Hulot came out in 1953, and was therefore groundbreaking in its treatment of slapstick; its jazz soundtrack for instance will definitely be recognised as having been used in a great number of comedies since.

Tati is spot on with his portrayals of the various class stereotypes who all descend on the same seaside resort in the middle of summer. There is the young leftist (immaculately made up to look like Leon Trotsky, it must be said) incessantly spouting political jargon to a disinterested love interest, the Englishwoman who comes to have a soft spot for Hulot due to his (somewhat peculiar) adeptness at tennis, and the war veteran living in the past. While not malicious in the slightest, none of these characters are particularly likeable, and this draws the viewer towards Tati’s character; who is a bit slow, but forever well-intentioned.

Les Vacances de M. Hulot is no longer the laugh out loud comedy it probably was on its appearance on cinema screens nearly sixty years ago, but the character portrayals and simple humour make this a timeless classic that will be enjoyed for many years to come.

A Single Man - Dir. Tom Ford, 2009.

Tom Ford, making his directorial debut, is clearly a fashion designer. A Single Man is dominated by the aesthetic throughout, from the blemish-free skin of the perfectly toned male bodies to the spectacularly stylised early 1960s Californian home and spotless Mercedes Benz. Constant close up shots of bold blue eyes, dripping wet skin and perfect lips sucking on sexy cigarettes make this film a visual joy to behold, whilst masking the more serious political and social undertones.

Colin Firth plays George Falconer, a university lecturer living in Los Angeles in November 1962, coming to terms with the sudden death of his male partner of sixteen years. In the performance of a lifetime, he struggles with suicidal tendencies and same sex lust, eventually succumbing to the mutual desire of student Kenny Potter, played with surprisingly maturity by Nicholas Hoult, of Skins fame. George’s best friend, and it seems one time love interest, Charley (Julianne Moore), could have stepped out of a mid-sixties Jean-Luc Godard film and the seductive charm of her performance secures Ford’s position as a true aesthete, as if his obsession with the bodies and faces of his characters was not proof enough of his appreciation of beauty. As the impressive surround of 60s high society living is complemented by the luscious sixties pop music, the two characters take part in an intoxicated dance scene akin to that found in Pulp Fiction, creating a true spectacle to behold, and the high point of the film.

However, beneath this facade of perfection, lurks ominous danger. The Cuban missile crisis is mentioned a few times throughout, and there is no hint of subtlety when Firth is lecturing about minorities and the camera settles on two obviously uncomfortably gay students. 1962 was the beginning of accepted homosexuality in the Western world, and it is from this that perhaps hope springs from by the end of the film, with George seemingly satisfied that the next generation will be more free, perhaps not only from the shackles of sexual repression, but from the constant fear of nuclear war.

Critics will argue that the constant visuals of beauty are overused and overdone, however with regards to this I draw them to Falconer uttering the film’s final lines, speaking of the various, short instances in his life where he has experienced visions of complete clarity-

“I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.”

Perhaps it is these moments that Ford is trying to prolong, perhaps he is simply attempting to leave on the minds of the audience a visual interpretation of the most precious moments of exquisite beauty in this life.

What attitude?

I have come to the conclusion that Latitude, the Suffolk coast's answer to Glastonbury, but with the family-friendly, and of course inherently middle class air that the nearby seaside resort of Southwold resides in, is, well, doomed. On my first visit, in 2008, the perhaps six or seven largest acts all could take their place as hugely popular, yet somehow more respectable choices than the mainstream festivals. Sigur Ros, Franz Ferdinand and Interpol did not attract the lager-thirsty hoards of teenagers away from home that Reading/Leeds does, nor the even more lager-thirsty hoards of twenty somethings with worse music taste that V Festival does. The crowd were not seasoned festival goers like those residing at Glastonbury, but they did not have the taste for narcotics found at Bestival nor the tolerance for sun and late hours that Benicassim requires.

It was middle of the road, but not in capitals. 'MOR' makes us think of Snow Patrol, Keane, and a plethora of Father's Day compilations endorsed by Top Gear. On the contrary, it was the type of event where things could be a bit edgier (2008 saw Grinderman, The Mars Volta and Frankie Boyle grace the stage), yet still remain on the right side of enjoyable, and ultimately, unique and obscure. However in 2009, perhaps organisers Festival Republic realised things could not go on this way. Obviously Latitude spread by word of mouth, 2008 was the festival's 3rd year after all. So 2009's headliners were, well, strange. The Pet Shop Boys kept the middle aged masses firmly in tow, however Grace Jones surely didn't pull in the punters, and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, although being a terrific act, were perhaps not as big as 2008's incarnation, and ultimately would attract a crowd not often seen at an ideallic East Anglian festival that boasts both Poetry, and Pimm's, tents. But the transition was not quite made towards obscurity, it seemed as if they couldn't make their mind up, with Doves and Editors appealing to if not quite the Radio 1, then definitely the Radio 2 crowd.

However when this year's line up was announced on the 9th March, it was made clear that the organisers had definitely decided. Yes, I'm afraid that Latitude has gone commercial. What we see in the lineup of Latitude '09 is a very badly disguised attempt to push towards not just the mainstream, but mainstream obscurity. Florence and the Machine top the bill on the opening night, an unarguably immensely popular band, but, remember, one who have one album (45 mins of stage time?) and whose most famous song is a cover. Closing the festival are New York afropopstars Vampire Weekend, who again, whilst hardly nobodies, have only just released their sophomore album, and from a personal point of view, a poor one at that. Settling nicely in the middle are twee-pop stalwarts Belle and Sebastian. The sort of band Latitude was born to have headline it must be said, however, what's that? The Radio 1 crowd won't care to listen to a band in their late 30s who are due to bring out their 7th studio album next year? Well we'll just have to have The XX headlining the second stage (The Word Arena) that night, you know, the incredibly dull band du jour currently gracing our airwaves.

The magic hasn't quite been totally lost, though, and there are some gems in the 2010 line up, enough so that I've already parted with my money in exchange for a weekend ticket. However, acts such as The National, Grizzly Bear and Rodrigo y Gabriela must feel cheated that a festival that could once claim to be a genuine alternative to the mainstream has overlooked their deserved larger slots on the bill for fodder such as Empire of The Sun and The Maccabees. Thankfully, such strategy has been formed by the curators that these two extremes often clash on the bill.

Perhaps I'm being too harsh. I mean if the whole music scene is taken as a whole, Florence and the Machine and The XX are bigger than the majority of acts playing the festival. But that's what used to set Latitude apart from other festivals, there would have been some radio-friendly popular indie, but it would have been at Latitude a year before it made Capital Radio's playlist. If it carries on this way, the organisers might aswell relocate over the county border to Essex, rent a plot in Chelmsford and unite in cultural anonymity with the thoroughly insipid V Festival.