The inside of the UN Climate Summit in New York last week was a strange place. I arrived expecting to spend the day hearing sombre heads of state outline what their nations would be doing to tackle climate change. I didn't expect to end the day watching a performance by British pop hit, circa 2005, Natasha Bedingfield.
Their 'evidence' that evolution didn't happen is based on a book of fiction, and consists of a belief that God planted dinosaur bones in the earth in order to test our faith. Like the climate change deniers, they also have a small amount of professors, scientists and experts who all claim that their beliefs are credible.
Emma's set out the direction we need to head in, but in order to genuinely permeate our society's consciousness on the gender issue for good, we need to re-tune our media's frame of reference. Just think how many girls came to know of Emma's addressing the UN via an article dominated by images of her outfit...
The question is, where has he gone? These words don't come easy, but Martin Scorsese, at this current juncture in cinematic history, has disappeared. Once a maestro film-maker who advocated anarchy of the soul - see De Niro's Johnny Boy in Mean Streets or Joe Pesci in GoodFellas - Scorsese delighted in holding up a mirror to America's underbelly, and he did so with that most subversive of narrative tools: humour.
'The Wolf of Wall Street' is, by many standards, a good film. Sure, it follows all of the predictable plot beats that any given "money and drugs in the Eighties" flick entails, but it makes up for its lack of narrative surprises with its strong central performances and highly stylised depictions of excess.