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.