‘The Jungle’

Image: Tayside Action for Refugees

It goes without saying the camp known as the Jungle in Calais prompts a lot of different reactions. This is just a small part of my own:

I spend a lot of time writing about the Jungle camp in Calais. Talk about the camp is almost impossible to avoid, particularly if you’re a journalist,and much of it isn’t good.

From reading and writing about the camp for the past few months, I had an impression of it as muddy, miserable, bleak, full of people who can’t wait to ‘break into Britain’ and who mug journalists filming reports.

I knew some things, I knew there were barbershops there, restaurants, even a disco. But it was ridiculous that I had no idea what it was actually like and relying on media reports can be pointless because they all have an agenda.

Sitting in a car, driving to the camp for the first time with two friends and some other volunteers, it’s difficult to shake the worry that you’re only here for ‘disaster tourism’. Like when people go on holiday to Auschwitz, or to Ground Zero.

But why do we go on holiday to places? For most people it’s too see them, reading about other cities and countries isn’t good enough so we want to know what it’s like for ourselves.

For me it’s to gain a sense of reality, and the same goes for ‘disaster’ places. Reading about the camp is fine but it’s almost impossible for us to imagine, by reading, that there is actually a giant muddy camp full of people sitting just across the Channel. That was why I went, to get a sense of the reality. Maybe it is so-called disaster tourism, but by having seen it for myself now I don’t have to rely on other people’s accounts.

I also visit places to try to meet the people who live there, to meet ‘other’ people. Until you talk to someone who lives there, a new city is always intimidating, it always feels like it’s a solid unit and you’re outside of it, for me anyway. It’s another idea that you can’t shake if you’re only impression is in the media. The ‘refugees’ or ‘migrants’ or ‘asylum seekers’; a great wave of people battering against the shores of Britain. They aren’t individuals, because it’s impossible to get an idea of individuality across in a media report. In the media, one person from a group, if involved in a crime, acts for the whole crowd. It’s the crowd that’s intimidating.

We went to the camp first to distribute ‘goody bags’. They’re filled with things like toothpaste and toilet roll. We had a bit of a trial run before leaving the warehouse, to make sure everyone knew their roles and what to expect. Someone was inside the van, two people were handing out bags, one was ‘gate’ to meet people and control the queue at the front, two people either side held hands to form a funnel into the van (my role), and two more people stood further down the queue to check for scuffles.

The people living in the camp are well used to the system. As soon as we pulled up a line formed, weirdly it seemed like a game, with everyone saying ‘Line, line’ and laughing. We’d been told to smile, talk to people, to make sure people didn’t feel ashamed to come to the van and take a bag.

But even so, I was nervous when faced with a long queue of men – in the whole time I maybe saw six women from a distance, and a handful of children – and I was shy to make eye contact and start chatting. A couple of scuffles broke out further down the line, but it was only when people tried to skip the queue. Immediately cries of ‘Line, line’ would start and a volunteer would step in to make sure the system was stuck to.

Reports about the camp often use words like ‘chaotic’. But that’s not what I saw. There are streets, lined with shops and places to eat. Around them are the residential areas, where people have put up tents and built small homes with wooden frames and tarpaulin. In a lawless place people have created a system; with no design, where chaos could reign instead people have built a working town.

I went to Calais with a friend who is writing a play about anarchy, it was on his mind both in the camp and at the warehouse. I think after seeing both the camp and warehouse and how they operate, he’s been forced to change his ideas of what anarchy is and how it functions. Both places operate without rules – beyond the basic health and safety rules in the warehouse. I still couldn’t tell you who was in charge in the warehouse, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a group of people work together so productively.

Within minutes a lorry-load of donations would be cleared, sorted into boxes by a group of people who have never met before, with no one issuing instructions. From talking to other volunteers, no one is a permanent fixture in the warehouse, even those who claim to have been there the longest have only been there a month or so. But after just a couple of hours everyone feels like they’ve learnt the system without being taught it. Human chains passing boxes along formed from nowhere, and as soon as the job was done the chain would dissipate to find something new to do.

It might sound odd, but I’ve come back to London with a sense of goodness and optimism about people. People in the camp and people in the warehouse are working together for a common good and – despite the obvious hardships for the people living in the camp – it’s been a while since I’ve been somewhere that felt so positive.

Jurassic World

I took myself on a hot date to see Jurassic World yesterday, and spent most of the film – aside from the bits where the dinosaurs were great – thinking about what it tells us about gender, because like a lot of people I seem to not be able to see any film at the moment without thinking about how it approaches gender.

A woman runs the park. Tick. But it becomes pretty immediately apparent that although she’s clearly smart enough to have risen to such a high-up role before what, 35?, she spends all her time being told by the men in the film to calm down and relax, despite the fact she spends her life keeping the 20,000 people who visit the park safe from all the dinosaurs. Admittedly, there is a bit of a failing there (spoiler). And there’s a bit where she insists she doesn’t want kids, but you can bet that’ll be fixed by the end of the film.

And there’s a really funny bit where she readies herself for fighting dinosaurs by ripping open her shirt and tying it into a cute cowboy bow – you go, girl.

Look out for the sexy slit in her skirt that appears almost as soon as the shit hits the fan with the dinosaurs.

But it doesn’t go easier on how the men are presented. One drives through the forest actually fighting the bad guys with his gang of raptors no less. He’s the alpha. You can tell because he says he is. It’s in the dialogue. Men are just for fighting dinosaurs, and being told to change their shirts because they smell.

But it’s okay, Frozen fans. Once again the (spoiler) girl saves the day in the end. Just when you thought all she was good for was managing to run away from a t-rex in high heels.

I think the Hollywood film industry has got to the point where it’s pretty much sucked dry the idea of woman starting off stupid and hilariously incompetent, only to prove she’s useful for something by the end of the film. Maybe it should start on the idea of a woman being competent when the film begins. Too much to ask?

The best bit is the gloriously Tilikum-esque creature that lives in the giant SeaWorld bit of the park. Imagine how many staff would have to die in training that before they admit it probably shouldn’t be kept in captivity.

 

short story one

It was not long after the death of his first wife that Michael began to believe in his own immortality.

After all, he reasoned, what better proof do we need of the possibility of eternal life than the sudden and very untimely death of a loved one.

While it may seem like a paradoxical situation to be in, he was of the opinion that if he had succeeded in not being killed in just such a completely random and utterly accidental sort of way up until this point – and he had already existed for an approximate thirty years – then the chances were that he would live forever.

One day while out walking, he suddenly became aware that he had been carefully following a caterpillar for some time. It was large, larger than the average, and a deep leaf-green. With a large pale spike protruding from its back end.

He supposed it was some kind of warning to a predator. But for all he knew it was an invitation.

Either way, it was a slow moving creature that was taking all the time in the world to get from its departure point to its destination and was taking no mind of the fact that it was being followed.

Life was long for the caterpillar, despite its days being numbered.

The caterpillar was inspiring in its determination that its short life would be long and fulfilling, under no pressure for haste and hardly noticing the fleeing days as they drifted past.

He would no longer believe that death was coming for him, and would pay no notice to the warning that life was too short for bad food, or bad television or bad weather. Because life was not short, he decided, if he paid it no attention.

This incredibly brave woman has spoken out to bring her rapists to justice

Originally published in the Olive Press – currently running a campaign ‘Smash the Spiking’. The campaign has three aims: more statistics, better policing, clearer advice.

A year after she was brutally assaulted after being drugged in an Albir bar, in Alicante province, Goril Hvidsten has waived her right to anonymity in an attempt to warn other potential victims.

“If this has happened to me, and it has happened to other people I know, who knows how many other countless victims there are,” Goril, age, told the Olive Press.

“What about the girls who aren’t in their 40s and aren’t strong enough to go to the police, that are suffering in silence.”

Goril was at a nightclub when she was approached by three men, two Spaniards and a Romanian, all of whom were working as taxi drivers.

“I had only had two beers so I was far from drunk. But suddenly I was completely out of control. I don’t remember much from the next seven hours, but I do have some very clear moments from that night.

“I remember walking outside to a taxi rank, and I remember feeling safe because I was sure that the taxi driver would realise there was something wrong here.

“But then one of the three guys walked to the driver’s side and got in, and I realised it was his taxi.

“You’re always told to get a taxi home after a night out because that’s the safest way. But it was these men that attacked me.

“They drove me to the Romanian’s apartment. It felt like we drove for a really long time, but I didn’t know what was going on.

“And then I remember being raped by three men. It was like this was routine for them. They were so relaxed and seemed like they had done this before, like it was an everyday thing.

“One of the Spanish men left early because he had to go back to driving his taxi.

“It was so brutal that I was bruised and scarred all over, and they crushed three of my front teeth.

“And then it was over. One of them said ‘Okay, you can go now’ and kicked me out.”

Goril reported the crime to the police in Altea five days after the assault, and has picked her attackers out of identity parades on three different occasions.

The bar-owner showed CCTV footage of Goril talking to the men inside the bar to other taxi drivers in the area, and one identified the Romanian as his own brother.

All three men have admitted to having sex with Goril, but deny the charges of drugging and raping her.

“But the doctors say I must have been drugged because of the violence I endured. They said it wouldn’t have been possible unless I was drugged.”

Medical reports from the Hospital Comarcal conclude that Goril was drugged with Escolapamine, otherwise known as burundanga, previously reported on in the exclusive Olive Press investigation into drink-spiking in Spain.

The drug is powerful, fast-acting and notoriously difficult to administer as it does not need to be ingested but merely inhaled.

“He had it on his finer and he just reached over and put it under my nose, and I was under his spell for seven hours. It was very easy, and it was only a few seconds before it had taken effect.

“It was terrible. I was so drugged that I don’t remember much, but in the moment, I just remember them telling me to do things and I did because it seemed normal.

“I didn’t think, this isn’t right or question why I was doing any of it. They could have made me do anything. If they had asked me to jump out of the window I would have done it.”

Despite numerous identity parades, the confessions of all three men and a preliminary hearing in March in front of a Benidorm judge, there is still no court case pending.

“Everything just takes so long. I only want answers and no one can give me them. I have a Spanish lawyer and he’s trying to help me, but it’s just the system here. There are so many excuses.

“They have investigated everything there is to investigate. How much longer can they delay it?”

What’s in a name? Spain’s little town called ‘Jew Killer’

Originally published in The Olive Press.

WHAT began as a hopeful campaign in a tiny northern village in Spain has taken on huge significance under the eager eyes of a global audience.

Castrillo Matajudios – or Jew Killer Camp – hit the limelight when Mayor Lorenzo Rodriguez Perez decided it was time for a name change referendum.

And as the 56 elderly residents placed their votes, the world looked on.

“We had no idea that this would be something that would gain worldwide attention,” said the mayor, who warned he would resign if his proposal was rejected.

Yet journalists flocked to the village in Castilla y Leon to witness the outcome of the vote for themselves.

With a result of 29 votes in favour to 19 against, the residents decided to abandon the 400-year-old name of Matajudios, and with it a small part of Spain’s more violent past.

And across this nation, town and family names stand as symbols of its incredible history, from bloodthirsty dictator Franco and the slaughtering of ethnic minorities, to Muslim fiefdoms and Moorish rule.

A dark past for Jews

The name Matajudios is a remnant of the dark history of Judaism in Spain. A history that includes centuries of expulsion, forced conversions, massacres, pogroms and the infamous Spanish Inquisition.

It may seem strange for a village with such an anti-Semitic name, but Matajudios’ coat of arms and flag both bear the Star of David – hinting at its complicated Jewish history.

“We can’t carry a name that suggests we kill Jewish people when we are completely the opposite,” explained the Mayor.

“This is a community that actually sprang from Jewish roots and its descendants are the descendants of Jewish people.”

The village – originally Mota Judios, or Hill of Jews – was founded in 1035 by a group of Jews fleeing a nearby pogrom – a mass slaughter.

As a result it was predominantly Jewish for more than 400 years.

But in 1492 Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand expelled the Jews from Spain, and for this prosperous Jewish town the threat of religious persecution was overwhelming.

Following the expulsion, the history of the village’s name becomes a mystery.

One argument, put forward by archeologist Angel Palomino says that the name was changed to Matajudios in 1623, but by Jews who had stayed and converted to Catholicism.

“The descendants of the Jews changed the name so as to portray themselves as the most anti-Semitic people possible at a time when Spain was the most Catholic monarchy of Europe,” argues Palomino.

But Mayor Lorenzo Rodriguez Perez believes the name was less deliberate.

“In the 16th and 17th century, there was so much pressure on converted Jews and someone changed one letter around the 16th century and the name stuck,” he explains.

Others believe with one letter difference, it was simply a slip of the pen.

Either way, for Mayor Lorenzo Rodriguez Perez the name change is more than just a change of title. It represents a change of attitude, of perspective, and the start of a new phase in Spain’s Jewish history.

He now hopes to restore the village’s old Jewish quarter, to search for the remains of the synagogue and other buried evidence of the original settlement, and to work out which local family names were originally Jewish – including, probably, his own.

Valley of the Moor Killers

Many voices have risen in dissent of the Matajudios referendum, with a strong argument being that Spain is simply full of potentially offensive names.

“What’s next?” asked one Matajudios resident. “Are we going to change every name in the country that might offend someone?”

The town of Valle de Matamoros – the Valley of Moor Killers – in western Spain announced last month that it has no intention of changing its name.

“We have never thought of altering it. It is a historic name here – you are born with it and you live with it,” a local official announced.

What’s more, more than 3,200 Spaniards are reported to have Matamoros as a surname.

Dr David Levey, a lecturer in language and linguistics at Cadiz University, argues that these names are so deeply ingrained in Spain’s history that many Spaniards aren’t really aware of the connection.

“If they say the word Matamoros, they don’t make any association with killing Arab people. And I believe it is the same with Matajudios,” he says.

Franco’s legacy

Between 1939 and 1975, General Francisco Franco was an oppressive force in Spain and his memory lives on in town names with the epithet ‘Caudillo’ – meaning leader.

For many, any recognition of this evil dictator was hugely offensive, and in 2009 vast numbers of these tributes were erased from public view.

Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero passed a law calling for all symbols of Franco to be removed, and plaques, statues and monuments were destroyed. Along with them went a number of place and street names.

Most recently Boadilla del Monte, a town near Madrid, scrapped a reference to Franco in the name of its main street, the Avenida del Generalisimo.

It is now fittingly named in honour of Adolfo Suarez – the prime minister who championed democracy in Spain following Franco’s death – who died in March this year.

Other examples of name changes include: Ribadelago de Franco in Castilla y Leon – now known as Ribadelago Nuevo; Bardena del Caudillo in Zaragoza – known as Bardenas since 2008; and Gevora del Caudillo in Badajoz, known as Gevora since 2011.

But many villages have had to keep their names, for practical reasons rather than moral or political.

The village of Bembezar del Caudillo, in the southern province of Cordoba, briefly became ‘Bembezar’. The idea was soon abandoned, however, because ‘it created a lot of confusion with the post’, according to a town hall official.

Oriental origins

It is not only violence and persecution that have impacted place names in Spain.

Arabic place names are common too – particularly along the eastern coast and Andalucia – from the Moorish governance of Spain, at various times between 711 and 1492.

Axarquia comes from the Arabic Ash-sharquia, meaning the oriental region. While Almeria is either from Al Meraya, meaning the watchtower, or from al-Mirayah, meaning the mirror.

Jaen, from Jayyan, means crossroads of caravans, and Algeciras is from Al Jazeera Al Khadra, meaning the green island.

Any name that begins with Ben-, from the Arabic Bani, means son of. For example, Benahavis, Benalmadena and Benalua, all of which were once Muslim fiefdoms. And the signifier ‘Frontera’ is used for towns along the old border of the Kingdom of Granada.

Jerez de la Frontera and Arcos de la Frontera, in modern-day Cadiz province, were the site of many border skirmishes, as the Muslim dynasty relentlessly fought off its enemies.

Even the name Andalucia comes from the Arabic name Al Andalus – the medieval Islamic state that occupied most of what are today Spain, Portugal, Andorra and part of southern France.

Spain’s history is an intricate web of different cultures and nationalities, and each one has left its mark.

The question is how we treat these names now.

Are they scars on the landscape, offensive and painful memories of violence? Or are they a vital part of Spain’s identity, that to change would be to deny history?

Who could have guessed that the humble village of Castrillo Matajudios would launch a debate of such national significance?

More pictures from Morocco/Ceuta

Sub-Saharan migrants in Ceuta, near the CETI

Fouzi, Nabil, ‘Mohammed’ and ‘Isa’ at the CETI

View of Spanish enclave Ceuta from Morocco

Nabil, his sand bottles and tools, and his photos of his home in Algeria

View of the CETI through the fences

Jebel Musa – dead woman mountain

Clandestine photo of the border between Morocco and Ceuta

No freedom for migrants in Europe

(Originally published in The Olive Press)

THE ragged Moroccan town of Binionis lies in the shadows of ‘Jebel Musa’ mountain, known as the ‘Dead Woman’, just a stone’s throw from the Spanish enclave of Ceuta and the freedom of Europe.

From here in the small, ramshackle settlement, nestled safely in the curves of the Dead Woman’s waistline, I can track the migrants’ hazardous journey in one panoramic view, from mountain peak down to the border and the rocky shores of Ceuta.

Camps are scattered around the mountain’s slopes, built by migrants fleeing their home countries, all of whom are willing to risk death to get onto European soil.

Naser Kayas is a 26-year-old Moroccan who has lived in the shadows of Jebel Musa his whole life.

He tells me that just a month ago the slopes where we stand were buzzing with the daily trials of life on a mountain – hoarding firewood, scavenging food – but after a large-scale attempt on the border the makeshift tents lie dormant, waiting for a fresh intake.

The previous inhabitants have vanished. The lucky ones into Ceuta, the others – the vast majority – have retreated further into the Moroccan Rif mountains to try again another day.

Nobody knows exactly where they have gone, or when they will come back. Like a great deal of the migrants’ plight, the facts are shrouded in mystery.

It is this lack of official statistics – and research – that makes this issue of such importance.

What is certain though, is that this scene is being repeated across the mountains that frame the twin Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla, where a ‘human avalanche’ of African migrants waits.

In the past few months alone thousands of migrants from across Africa have bottlenecked at the enclaves, as the only two land borders with Europe.

But as a peninsula, Ceuta’s expansive shoreline offers another, more viable, way in. Many of the migrants who make it into Ceuta swim, or come by boat.

But this route is fraught with danger.

In the dead of night, strong currents and a viciously rocky coastline have claimed hundreds (even possibly thousands) of lives in the last 20 years.

At least 14 people drowned in February, trying to swim from Morocco to Ceuta at the El Tarajal beach.

In what sparked a huge political scandal, survivors blamed the deaths on the border guards, who allegedly fired rubber bullets and tear gas into the sea to deter the swimmers. An investigation is on-going.

Just days later, driven by the news that Spanish police had been banned from using rubber bullets and rumours that the border fences would soon be reinforced, another 700 sub-Saharans attempted the crossing on land.

This cycle of attempted mass invasions in both enclaves continues to this day.

 

Security around the border is understandably tight. And just to take an unpermitted photo I had to climb a steep hill to a point looking down on the high metal fences, to avoid the three police cars waiting below.

But making it across the border and into the Spanish enclave is not the end of the migrant’s journey.

Once in Ceuta, assuming they make it across the barbed wire of the viciously guarded border, there is no option but to hand themselves over to the police.

European law prevents asylum-seekers being expelled from Spain before they have been officially documented, so the migrants are taken to the so-called Centre for the Temporary Stay of Immigrants (CETI), in an industrial area of the unusual enclave.

Intent on finding out the truth about what happens when the immigrants finally make it across the border, I spent weeks approaching officials at the centre via emails and phone calls.

First they insisted it was impossible to visit and pointed me towards the Ministry of Employment and Social Security in Madrid to get permission, shielding themselves with bureaucracy.

But after trying to call a number of times and speaking to faceless and unhelpful press officers I realised I needed to simply go and try on the ground.

So last week I took a boat over to Ceuta from Algeciras to see the situation for myself.

After climbing the steep hill to the CETI in the burning African heat, I quickly told the waiting security guards that I had an appointment to visit and permission from Madrid.

Surprisingly they let me in and sent me to the main office, where I was met by a friendly guard who gave me an exclusive, unprecedented insight into the government-run centre.

The people who have come to Spain seeking freedom are trapped here – alarmingly – for as long as two years.

They are waiting for the arrival of papers confirming their asylum that will finally give them access to mainland Spain.

But, as the migrants are all too keen to tell me, most of them have already been waiting an eternity to get them.

I am told there are currently 560 people living in the cramped centre – which opened in March 2000, and was only ever meant to house 512 – although it feels like a lot more.

The guard confirmed that this number can often rise, as by law they have to accommodate all those that arrive.

“Sometimes we just have to jam in extra beds. It’s needs must,” he said.

I was able to get him to confirm that it can take up to two years to process the migrants’ applications and that during this time they sit in stultifying boredom, unable to work or study.

But he explained that they got three meals a day, blankets and a bed, and have access to legal aid (there are two lawyers based at the centre) and good medical care.

However, the guard soon clammed up when I asked questions about how much it all cost and who was paying for it. Ultimately, of course, the Spanish taxpayers.

I was soon asked to leave, but not before I could get a glimpse of dormitory-style rooms, which reveal that every available space is taken up with people and beds.

It is clear that pressures on the accommodation centres in both Spanish enclaves has led to cramped conditions, as they struggle to house the waves of migrants.

The residents spill out into the concrete corridors outside the rooms just to get some space to breathe.

Nabil Saidi, a 62-year-old artist from Algeria is typical of the centre’s residents.

Leaving his wife and five sons in his home country, Nabil has been at the CETI for three months now and has no idea how much longer he will stay behind the high metal fences.

Standing in the courtyard, he keeps touching his head, saying that even now he can’t get used to having short hair.

He tells me it used to be long – past his shoulders – but he had to shave it off to look more like the stranger’s photo in the fake passport that got him across the border into Ceuta, for which he had to pay more than €500.

Nabil fled to Spain after suffering constant persecution at the hands of the police in Algeria, where artists and intellectuals represent a free-thinking that isn’t welcome.

He is also a Berber – a member of the native culture brutally suppressed when the Arabic influence took over Algeria.

Now Nabil grins toothlessly as he proudly shows me his nomadic art gallery, photos stored on his phone until he can find somewhere more permanent.

The videos and photos bring home the reality that this man left a life and family to come here.

He disappears back into the dark recesses of his room and brings back a postcard of his hotel, the family-run business that he had to abandon.

To break up the suffocating boredom in the CETI he goes on missions to the beach to collect small stones, which he grinds up to make different coloured sand to use in his art.

When his friend, Fouzi Kennouche, a 25-year-old who arrived from Algeria by boat six months ago, calls him the ‘Algerian Picasso’ a flash of pride gives me another glimpse of his pink gums.

Fouzi is shy is telling me about his life before coming here, but says that he is desperate to get to Germany and find a job, so he can send money home to support his elderly parents.

Although he and Nabil only speak French, a 26-year-old Syrian economics student – who insists I call him ‘Mohammad Ali’ – makes an eager translator.

Desperate to finish his studies in Spain, Mohammad understands the need to have their stories told. He reads whatever newspapers he can get a hold of, and knows that their need is going unnoticed by the rest of Europe.

“Help us,” he says, very matter of fact. “People need to know that we are here. We’re trapped here waiting for papers that, as far as we know, could never arrive. We are told we might have to wait for up to two years. That is just not fair.”

But it’s not just men suffering in the cramped, difficult conditions. Women and families live here too. I was shocked to see children peering out at me from behind dormitory doors and kicking stones aimlessly around the yard.

Ceuta residents are also quick to demand that the Spanish government takes greater responsibility for the droves of people arriving in its enclaves.

They certainly seem to have a point. Ceuta is literally being used as a dumping ground for migrants, apparently not wanted in the rest of Europe.

When his papers arrive and he is allowed to leave the CETI, Nabil tells me he hopes to live in Spain permanently, where he wouldn’t be beaten in the street just for being an artist.

“I love this country,” he says warmly. “I love its people and its culture. I want to see Barcelona before I die.”

Recent weeks have witnessed a surge of attempted crossings making it harder and harder for Brussels and the rest of the EU to continue ignoring the Mediterranean countries’ plight.

But political discussions of the migrants’ troubles are gathering pace. Just two weeks ago Foreign Affairs ministers from the seven Mediterranean countries met in Alicante to discuss the ‘burning issue’ of immigration.

Spain, Greece, France, Italy, Portugal, Cyprus and Malta are bearing the brunt of the massive influx of African migrants and are, understandably, demanding more financial help from the rest of the EU.

They insist that this mass influx of immigrants is not just Spain’s problem, but Europe’s.

They are most certainly right.

 

resolutions

1. Write more – stop spending too long thinking about writing something and never writing it.

2. Read more

3. Watch less TV, unless it’s actually good TV.

4. Cook more, but less pasta

5. Browse news sites, not facebook

6. Reply to emails, stop leaving it so long to message people back.

Review: A Midsummer Night’s Dream at The Globe Theatre, for SWLondoner

Review: A Midsummer Night’s Dream @ The Globe Theatre

ICONIC: Shakespeare’s Globe

Posted Tuesday, 10 September, 2013 – 14:38

By Immi Calderwood

Anyone who thinks they have seen enough of ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ should think again with Dominic Dromgoole’s most recent Globe offering.

Performed on Shakespeare’s stage, in Renaissance costume and accompanied by a musical score to match, the description anticipates a ‘Midsummer’ stripped back to Elizabethan basics. But that is far from the truth. Instead, the production achieves a perfect symbiosis of classical and contemporary, forcing even veterans of the play to see its words in a whole new light.

The ‘contemporary’ element derives from merely changing the emphasis of a line or the focus of a scene, through to the decision to actually re-word parts of the script. Rewriting Shakespeare is, of course, a very bold move. Dipping into dangerous territory regarding respect for the words of the Great British Bard. The care with which the adjustments are achieved, however, creates room for the production to breathe: the actors are free to interact with their audience without it jarring, and the audience are treated to laughs that no one expects.

The most praiseworthy aspect of the production is that it achieves its originality whilst retaining the familiar: the conflict between the worlds of court and forest; the metatheatre and self-awareness; and of course the slapstick and the ridiculous.

Key players in the slapstick are the Rude Mechanicals, top of the heap as the real highlight of this production. The antics of the pack, led by Pearce Quigley’s wonderful Bottom – Shakespeare’s joke on theatre critics of the future – take ridiculous to a whole new level. It is through the Mechanicals that the ingenuity of the classical/contemporary combination really comes into its own.

The best-loved moments of the Mechanicals are enhanced by modern twists: a tap-battle between Bottom and Quince (Fergal McElherron), Bottom’s bizarre reference to Martin Luther King, and Flute/Thisbe’s (Christopher Logan) zombie-apocalypse death.

Although some moments do feel a little crowbarred – an unfortunate consequence of going for all out laughs- the success of this production is founded on a respect for one of Shakespeare’s greatest works that goes beyond mere reproduction of the original. This is a real achievement: a production that delivers everything best loved about ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ with a very tangible affection, yet is not afraid to make adjustments, offering up something unexpected to its clearly delighted audience.

Photo courtesy of kevinofsydney, with thanks.

 

Review: Carnaby Street at New Wimbledon Theatre, for SWLondoner

Review: Carnaby Street @ New Wimbledon Theatre

TRIBUTE: The song celebrates the 60s

Posted Thursday, 26 September, 2013 – 15:51

By Immi Calderwood

Monday night’s ‘Carnaby Street’ audience was up on its feet and having a boogie by the end of this song and dance spectacular.

The production tells the story of Scousers Penny and Jude as they arrive in London for the first time, having hitchhiked away from home. Jude is a singer/songwriter hoping to find fame and fortune in the Big Smoke, while Penny is madly in love with him and would follow him anywhere. Although Jude has no idea.

Told retrospectively through the eyes of cheeky chap Jack, the show is based on the life of Carl Leighton-Pope, a music agent who has been in the business for over 40 years.

In 1964, however, Leighton-Pope was only starting out on his career, as an 18-year-old out-of-work actor working nights at the infamous Marquee Club on Wardour Street, round the corner from Carnaby Street.

In the 60’s Carnaby Street had attained the fashionable reputation it still holds today. It was a popular destination for both Mods and Hippies, with a number of independent boutiques springing up all along this very desirable strip.

It is this fashionable, ‘in-crowd’ atmosphere that Carnaby Street gets really right. The whole production oozes ‘cool’ and ‘desirable’, as well as the up-and-coming excitement that surrounded the street at the time.

As made evident by the title, the location is absolutely central to the whole show’s spirit: ‘Soho was called the ‘Square Mile’ and that’s where the 60’s really began,” said Leighton-Pope.

The enthusiasm and charisma of the production is tangible. It takes a lot to get a theatre full of the middle-aged former-flower children on its feet, but the bedazzling enjoyment of the whole cast is infectious.

Aimie Atkinson is sensational as timid Scouse girl Penny, awash in a world of mini-skirts and sequins, in a pair of beaten up jeans with a rucksack and sleeping mat. But a quick makeover and a change of attitude and she becomes the epitome of 60’s chic.

Atkinson makes a really excellent job of the transformation, stripping it of any cliché, and bringing out the complexity behind the character. The relationship between Penny and ‘wild thing’ T (Mark Pearce) is the show’s only attempt at tragedy, and without two such strong performers the glimpse of the darker side of the 60’s could have become lost amid the glitz.

Aaron Sidwell plays the Jack-the-lad at the centre of the show, looking fresh-faced and very dapper in his mod get-up. Sidwell is an excellent frontman for the show, striking up immediate rapport with the audience. His asides help blend the first half’s succession of songs together, to help give the slightly fragmented script some continuity.

Sidwell’s onstage companion, newsboy Al (Gregory Clarke) provided a very interesting addition to the production. Although he rarely interacts with other characters, Al proclaims snippets of headlines while striding across the stage, providing some historical depth to the show. Although raising some nostalgic chuckles and nicely juxtaposing historical events with the modern day, the frequency of these moments do trip up the flow of the performance.

Although the narrative becomes very engaging later on, and the characters are endearing, this musical is really all about the music. Leighton-Pope said of his time on Carnaby Street: “Our whole lives were based around music. It told us who we were, who we hung round with, what girls we knew, what dances we did, in fact, our entire lifestyle.”

Carnaby Street is a real celebration of 60’s pop hits, and the audience’s nodding heads and clapping hands were all in tribute to the delight and nostalgia that these classics evoke.

Carnaby Street is at The New Wimbledon Theatre until Sept 28 (inc. Saturday matinée)

Follow us @SW_Londoner