Many people disregard the allure of the classic writers, seeing them as old, established, and jaded. Yet, in their day, these writers were the revolutionaries, cutting edge writing with cutting edge messages, and I challenge anyone looking at them anew to place themselves in the mindset of the reader of the time - even swap mental genders if you like - and see them as they were intended.
In this post-Snowden age, where privacy it seems is all but dead, a reinterpretation of Orwell's Big Brother and the omnipresent surveillance state certainly has a lot to offer. But this production at the Almeida is over-engineered, with high concept overwhelming the text, creating an inconsistent, uneven show.
Just recovering from painful times, uncertain about the future and with a clear understanding that a new Socio-economical system need to be created to avoid making the same mistake? No, I am not talking about the current times, I am describing how the World felt after the Second World War and how the artists responded to it in the 50's and 60's
Our growing insistence on giving each other prizes is creating a culture that's beginning to seem like Sports Day at a progressive kindergarten, where no child goes home empty-handed, even if they fell over before their race began.
Art theft and forgery have long had sexy celluloid reputations: from Peter O'Toole and Audrey Hepburn frolicking in How to Steal a Million to the Thom...
This evening, on returning home from a gig and after watching some 'Always Sunny In Philadelphia', somewhere around midnight maybe, I decided it was time for bed. I didn't feel like reading though, or watching any TV, or going straight to sleep.
In much the same way as a book by a male author about relationships or 'the domestic' (whatever that means) would never be given a pink cover, neither would it be described as anything other than 'contemporary fiction'. Why can't the same be true for books by women?
Beth took off her clothes and allowed herself to be photographed by her long-time friend and photographer Nadia Mascot for a project they are calling Under The Red Dress. In a bid to educate women about breast cancer. In a bid to start a conversation about how cancer surgeries change your body and the way you feel about yourself.
Tamarind Mem, a Canadian bestseller novel from 1997, written by Indian-born is an infectious and unforgettable story of an extensively engaged childhood, family, identity, culture and its inherent oppression of women, narrated through genius storytelling.
I made Limoges my base for the trip, with its long and rich history there is enough to hold any visitor's attention and there are plenty of restaurants to satisfy the most avid gourmet. Also, despite the fact that our own Black Prince massacred the city's population in 1370, I got a warm and friendly welcome.
Joanne Harris is perhaps best-known for her Whitbread-shortlisted novel Chocolat (which was made into an Oscar-nominated film starring Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp in 2000). While any author would envy the book's success, the title has overshadowed her other work - namely her forays into the fantasy genre.
Think about it. Social communication is affecting a lot more than just your ability to get anything done because you want to tweet just one more time... this is the social society.
Margot Fonteyn was the most famous ballet dancer England ever produced. And she was brought up in Waldeck Road in Ealing, and later in Elm Grove Road by the Common.
Playing the notoriously uncool music critic Lester Bangs in Cameron Crowe's 2000 film Almost Famous, Philip Seymour Hoffman remarks, 'great art is about conflict and pain and guilt and longing'. Found dead, alone, and with a needle of heroin in his arm in his New York apartment this month, the conflict and pain that linked so many of Hoffman's characters began to resonate with the final image of the man himself.
In London work carries on as semi-normal. Certainly the profound and crucial ritual of lunch continues unabated.
I arrived just after the official unveiling of the great novelist last Friday. A flutter of local dignitaries lingered around him. Sun shone on their municipal chains of office. They wore the meek smiles of people who do not know quite what to think. Dickens, the great satirist, would have loved and mocked these awkward burghers in equal measure.