YUSU have conceded that the Union-owned Langwith Bar has been forced to open in January 2009, three months later than originally planned.

The University’s decision not to embark on necessary asbestos removal work in the bar, which was slated to commence trading at the start of the upcoming academic year, has ended hopes that YUSU pressure and student support for the bar would engineer an October opening.

Matt Burton, YUSU Services and Finance Officer, who has lead plans for the Union-owned venue, expressed his disappointment at the decision, but praised the support of students who campaigned for a October opening.

“Whilst I am disappointed that we aren’t able to open in October, I’m happy to say that the campaign was a real success in that it showed the University how important the bar is to students. We are more determined than ever to make a January 2009 opening work really well,” Burton said.

“I’m keeping positive - this is really something great we’ve done and we’ve broken the current monopoly on campus of commercial services with regards to catering and bars. It gives us extra time to make sure we get things done right and extra time to plan a really comprehensive events planner for the term,” added Burton.

However, in a statement on behalf of the Langwith JCRC, Vice-Chair Chris O’Brien said: “I was bitterly disappointed to hear that the University were not prepared to aid YUSU in developing York’s first student-run venue in time for October 2008. Personally, I think it’s another example of the University showing a distinct lack of respect to the students and, once again, neglecting the satisfaction of its populace.

Members of Langwith JCRC have expressed worries that their Freshers’ Week programme will be jeapordised by a lack of a central venue, following the closure of the University-run Langwith Bar earlier this year.

“As we will not be open in October, this presents some issues for Langwith particularly, but we are in constant talks with the Langwith JCRC to find solutions to work through the Autumn term, ready for a big launch in January,” said Burton.

It is believed that the asbestos removal will not begin until after the second week of the Autumn Term, to allow for Langwith Freshers’ Week events.

Burton, along with Langwith JCRC Chair Zach Pepper and YUSU Policy and Campaigns Officer Tom Langrish, had organised protests against the University when the intial annoucement of a delayed opening was made.

An estimated 200 students dressed in boiler suits took part in two protests outside Heslington Hall, designed to pressure Vice-Chancellor Brian Cantor into overturning the intial decision.

As a result, YUSU Officers were invited to attend a meeting with University Registrar Sally Neocosmos, who had earlier stated that “the strength of feelings among students about various issues has been noted.”

Burton, however, revealed that while the University “explored other potential options” during the meeting, January 2009 was deemed to be the best opening time. YUSU were also provided with a Project Manager to oversee the bar opening.

The University were forced to delay the asbestos removal due to a large number of existing maintenance projects that had already been earmarked for completion during the summer break.

But the opening night of A Clockwork Orange shocked more that it meant to. Alex Forsyth, playing the lead role of Alex, was hospitalised after the suicide-attempt scene went wrong. He had enthusiastically head-butted a wall and the audience were led early from the theatre, some members confused as to whether this was all part of the act.

Happily though, Forsyth recovered in time for the next day’s sold-out performance.

A Clockwork Orange is best known as Stanley Kubrick’s film classic, although it was first Anthony Burgess’s 1962 novel. The stage version was also written by Burgess to “pre-empt other perversions with an authoritative rendering of my own” – after the film was banned in Britain, it naturally gathered a cult, amateur following.

Quickly, this performance was apparently far from amateur. Led in through the back entrance of the York Studio Theatre, the audience were warned about the violent content by Wright – just in case we had missed the posters outside.

A knock on the door, and we walked in to cries of “What’s it going to be then, eh?” – a question which I’m sure the audience were asking themselves as they were manhandled into their seats. The breaking up of audience groups lent a tone of menace to the gloomy room, smiles soon wiped off faces by the droogish ensemble.

Belt Up succeeded throughout the play with their spectacular dance-like fights, the first of which lasted – full cast on-stage – for around 6 minutes. Mark McDaid and Forsyth pushed themselves to convincing ultra-violence, but most impressive was when the whole ensemble fought on the packed stage, ducking and weaving to somehow avoid collision.

The cast clambered around the audience for the entire performance, causing embarrassment as they sniffed hair, stole glasses and even caused one poor spectator to vomit out of revulsion (one suspects this was a triumph!).

Disconcertingly, the play came to two abrupt stops for intervals. The cast approached the audience out of character, asking if we had their hats, gloves or a mirror so they could redo their face-paint. It was effective, I thought, though some thought it indulgent.

Forsyth was exceptionally convincing as Alex. It might be considered ambitious to compare him to Malcolm McDowell, but even that comparison is favourable. He brought a feigned naivety to the role emphasising, perhaps more than McDowell, Alex’s age – only fifteen.
His confidently middle-class nadsat was as convincing as McDowell’s northern version and a wonderfully corrupt grin as the Chaplain (Geoff Gedroyc) read his biblical notes was a joy to watch.

A minor criticism overall would be the costumes, which could have been more adventurous. The face-paint was effective, but the black gym-suits didn’t seem to live up to Burgess’s psychedelic fashion, even if they did make the fight scenes easier.

Ultimately, however, this production was a success. It shocked and stirred the audience but did not distract them from Burgess’s tale, which is ultimately about free-will. In perhaps the most disturbing scene, Dr Brodsky (Will Poskett) played with the audience’s arms, as if they were levers on his machine. The surreal Ludoviko film played out as Beethoven’s Ninth roared and Alex wept and gagged at the back of the stage. The rest of the cast mingled in the audience, retching themselves. We were violently immersed in A Clockwork Orange. And it worked.

On paper, The Incredible Hulk incites commentary on varied, complex issues: the interplay of ego and id in the male mind, reprimands against nuclear warfare as well as post 9/11 ideas of civic disorder and the destruction of urban landscapes. All these ideas, though, find their tumult constructed around a giant green man, and outside the safety of comic book pages, their exploration would seem ridiculous. In this spirit, the film gladly explores an approximation of bugger all and isn’t even too entertaining in the process.

Demonstrations of lessons learnt from Ang Lee’s maligned attempt are loud and abrasive: Lee’s novel approach to making a blockbuster - only interrupting the back story when the scenery is beautiful enough to require screen-time - is disregarded, with Leterrier preferring a quick montage. The film tries to further assume a separate identity when Banner (Norton) tosses away a pair of purple pants synonymous with the TV show. Its roots are treated as a great, obvious shame when in fact Lee’s film was generously bland rather than appalling, and any picture that has muscular semi-nudity is liable to be accused of campery. Clearly, the intention here was to revive a franchise, but it’s not really good enough to do that in the way Batman Begins did, so the only identity it’s left with is ‘Studio’s June Tentpole’, with all that entails, including getting rid of plausibility: “Fuck verisimilitude: we’ve got Attitude!” and a script that never goes beyond those old standards of, “Get them looking for a white man in that factory” and a British character saying the word “softball”.

So much time is spent putting a new saddle on a dead mule that, in telling you what the film’s philosophy is as a film, notions of character development are largely abolished. Tim Roth’s villain is introduced in the first 30 seconds as being a British marine that snarls, and these lazy tropes are maintained for the duration, albeit cloaked for the latter part of the movie in a fish-lizard CGI bazaar. The angle of Betty Ross’ (Liv Tyler) mother is twatted into and out of the movie in the space of two lines of dialogue. A sense of who these characters are is so important in this movie, because a read of Wendy Ide’s viperish review of Transformers and a look at The Incredible Hulk’s trailer will tell you everything you need to know about the film: upon transforming into the mongrel-blooded monster, Tim Roth forgets to bring along his penis, while Banner’s multiple emphases on needing stretchy pants reassures that Hulk isn’t going to be so flippantly androgynous. “Any last words?” says Roth. “Hulk. Smash.” And there you go.

Such gorilla-isms, of course, go against what the film tries to establish in the preceding hour and a half; the image of a Hulk able to experience human emotions, of having an ever-increasing sense of control over his actions. Accuracy now clearly at the forefront of the writer’s mind, cluttered Brazilian slums are expertly negotiated by large vehicles and Hulk is unable to jump or run quickly during the first half, a skill he pulls of magnificently when fighting a monster that goes at a bit of a pace.

The protagonist is played by the unlikely match of Edward Norton, who has quietly managed to not appear in a really good film since he did a host of them in the mid to late 90s. His performance is certainly competent, though perhaps William Hurt and Tim Roth perform such brutal eviscerations on their own reputations that he is given too much credit. It is reminiscent, strangely, of Reese Witherspoon’s early teen features, in which the pleasure was all derived from watching her bludgeon the rest of her cohort (Sarah Michelle Gellar, Selma Blair etc.) off the screen with even the mildest facial contortion. Norton, though, really is above involving himself in franchises like The Italian Job and Red Dragon, which are obviously past their peak.

The Incredible Hulk occupies a middle ground where finding positives is difficult. This is a shame, as it isn’t a dreadful experience, and neither, for a movie burdened with the need to make a substantial amount of money after Lee’s failure, is it horribly cynical. It’s not too long, and it’s innocuous without being visual Rohypnol. A sequel is suggested at the end, and whilst there are (hastily shovelled-in) plot strands that could provide another decent film, that’s all it would ever be: a fair plot, nicely realised.

I write essays incorporating reams of feminist criticism all the time, because postcolonial and linguistic perspectives require a bit too much effort and other approaches leave me a bit nonplussed. My very first lecture encouraged me to “Stand up if you’re a feminist”, because even men can be feminists. I felt quite uncomfortable. Can I be a feminist? Well no, I can’t. Because I will never be able to be pregnant, have a period and I don’t see the urge to self-define as a woman arising too soon, so according to the narrow band of firebrand manifestos I’ve read, I’m rendered unqualified. Oh crap.

I tried to buy into feminism to give myself some foundation of belief (other than the well-trodden paths of being pro-basic human rights blah blah). Secondary school ruined God for me, because if you partook in the assembly prayers you were lower than a rat’s turd, and I don’t really get politics – I say I’m Labour because it’s less embarrassing than saying you’re Tory, and less desperate than being Lib Dem. Claire Hazelgrove (Lab) is a good deal more cuddly than the face of campus conservatism.

Bemoaning my lack of belief in anything is my new chat-up line, replacing “I don’t do Management”, and it’s a great deal less successful. I’d really like a romantic squeeze just before the end of term so I can justifiably not play ‘Fuck a Fresher’. Suddenly, horse molars and spiffingly combed hair don’t seem that bad if it means a summer jolly to a country pile. People have tried to help out. “Oh. You have to meet my friend. They’re dry and dress a bit weird like you”. Bad move. If they introduce me to someone reasonable, I take it as a competition, smashing them with serial character assassinations. Other times, I wonder whether a Rebecca Sealfon-esque academic trollop is what they see as a suitable match. Fixing yourself someone passable takes time that I don’t have.

A female friend of mine at LSE only goes for white guys with double-barrelled names and whoever just got an internship at Goldman Sachs. Another was religious in her attendance of Liverpool Football Club’s youth academy football matches, and the legend developed that whoever scored the most on any given occasion could be found at the gum clinic the next day. This is feminism: with hard work and drive, all clever women have the right to find a husband that isn’t a pleb.

“I have often seen an actor laugh off the stage, but I don’t remember ever having seen one weep.”

In an email sent to Nouse, the member of the Development and Alumni Relations Office, who wishes to remain anonymous, criticised the treatment of people wishing to enter or exit the Hall during the protest.

“When I planned to pop out for my lunch, I was greeted by porters/security guards (with ear pieces) at every door. I usually leave the building through one of the back doors but was told by the porter that staff were not allowed in or out of the building through that door. Another member of staff hoping to stand outside to smoke was told he was not allowed,” they stated.

“I was not allowed to return to the main entrance through the side door nearest Derwent because, according to the porters at the door, I had no way of identifying myself as a member of staff - staff at York have no ID cards! Other people entering through those doors were questioned before being allowed in. Evidently students would not be allowed in the building. I was told I had to walk around the building back to the main entrance to get back to my office,” the member of staff continued.

“I’m really concerned about the treatment visitors to the university may have had during this time. Imagine how a prospective student or a donor to the university might have felt upon being questioned by a security guard at the front door of the ‘main’ university building! And I’m concerned that, given how non-accessible Heslington Hall is anyway, disabled visitors, staff or
students may have found it difficult to get in or out of the building during that time if they all had to enter through the front door,” they added.

The member of staff admitted that they may have “looked too much like a student,” to have been granted access immediately. They added that they were intending to lodge an official complaint against the University.

During the protest, which was attended by around 50 students campaigning for an October opening of the new YUSU Langwith bar, many protesters remarked on the presence of porters on all the Hall’s entrances.

A second protest against the University has taken place outside of Heslington Hall.

The protesters, who are campaigning for an October opening of the new YUSU-owned Langwith Bar, gathered on the lawn behind the Hall and used drums and a loudhailer to attract the attention of University staff inside.

“Our aim is to make sure the Vice-Chancellor and other university staff know how much an October opening for the bar means to York students,” said Tom Langrish, YUSU Policy and Campaigns Officer, and leader of the protest.

Langrish lead chants of “What do we want? YUSU Bar! When do we want it? October!” Around 50 students assembled for the protest.

YUSU President Anne-Marie Canning and Langwith JCRC Chair Zach Pepper had earlier been granted access to the Hall to meet University Registrar Sally Neocosmos for a meeting with regards to the University’s stance on the opening schedule of the bar. All other protesters were prevented entry by porters on all entrances.

The protest comes just five days after a group of 150 protesters gathered outside of the Hall following the decision by University Vice-Chancellor Brian Cantor not to attend a scheduled meeting on campus development. Following that protest, Neocosmos agreed to meet with student leaders to discuss the situation.

The outcome of their meeting is currently unknown.

Earlier, YUSU President-elect Tom Scott had fired a cannon from Central Hall to launch the protest. He later thanked security staff for their co-operation with his “Anne-Marie Cannon”.

Imagine, for a moment, a circus. Imagine the whip-wielding lion-tamers, the lycra bound acrobats, and the grotesquely made-up clowns. Picture them all in a large field, alternately running and tripping between brightly striped tents. Add unpredictable weather. This is what the average English festival is like.

The costume adopted by those in attendance, therefore, must be fitting for such an event. In place of the lion-tamers are the trussed and corseted goths. Usually a group of girls with far too much flesh on show, desirable items of clothing including neon netting ra-ra skirts, ripped fishnet tights, impractically small pants, and some form of handwear. Whilst perfectly harmless, beware the crack of the whip: you may find yourself catching sight of far more than you want.

The acrobats walk a fine line. Too many colours and glow-wear run the risk of falling into the “nu-rave” net. Vision-inducing leggings are the mainstay of this group, best teamed with a slightly less luminescent baggy T-shirt and Ray-Bans. Even in the dark. Some sort of rope around the head finishes this outfit off. Shoelaces are preferable, but actual headscarves are acceptable if nothing else is available. Think zany. Cold? Wear socks tucked into your leggings in ballet pumps. Old? Moth-eaten charity shop cardigans fit surprisingly well into this category. Anything goes, just so long as it’s colourful, and you wear it with a certain amount of irony and pride.

Lastly, watch out for the clowns. They may look normal from far away, but up close their heavily layered make-up may shock and horrify. A thick, slightly off-skin tone foundation is added to lashings of mascara and bronzer. Kate Moss style shorts (high-waisted tight denim with artfully distressed hems) give a vintage look. Simple cotton vests in the muted shades of beige or cream are best, and have the added bonus of offsetting a (bottled) tan. Wellington boots should be worn, but only if they are in the authentic countryside hues of ‘Daddy-bought-me-a-pony’ green. Try Hunter.

In the midst of all this chaos, there are a few key pieces essential for maximum festival pleasure.

The over-the-shoulder bag is practical and versatile, and the smaller the better. For those with a penchant for the retro, this is probably the only arena where bum-bags are truly acceptable. Glued to your hips and with more pockets than you could shake a candy floss stick at, go for one in battered leather or with an eighties pattern.

Footwear, largely dictated by weather, can make or break your experience. Pack flip-flops, which are light and take up little room, for good weather. Pack boots, of any description, for not so good weather. Wellies are of course superior in this field, but those leather boots will serve the purpose too. Once the mud-bath begins, it is strongly advisable to just stay in your boots. Trust me, you won’t want to put them back on once you get them off.

Socks, closely linked with footwear, should not be underestimated. The longer the better, so that they can be used as both a style-statement and as leg-warmers.

Finally, layers. Take how many days long the festival is, and multiply it by four. That is how many tops you need. Pack anything thin, interesting and soft on the skin. Tube-tops, vests, t-shirts, leotards, unitards, long-sleeved tops, crop-tops, shirts, cardigans and jumpers: pack them all. Layering is the secret to an ever-evolving and versatile look throughout the festival. It is also the secret to keeping warm when British weather kicks in, or when night-time falls.

The great thing about festivals is that, although there will be people trying to emulate one look or another, there is also a complete and utter lack of judgement of whatever you do end up wearing. So run wild, and most of all, enjoy the spectacle.

Step 1: Face
Keep the face’s base matte with MAC Studio Fix foundation, which works by absorbing oils into the skin. Add a little Talc for good coverage which still allows the skin to breathe.

Step 2: Cheeks
Stick with a natural colour like Rimmel’s Mono Plush - Pink Rose; a silky smooth blusher powder that won’t break the bank either.

Step 3: Eyes
For statement eye makeup you need hard lines - only achievable by using a black liquid eyeliner. Apply to the inner and outer eyelids and finish with a flying flick. Give eyelashes extra volume with multiple applications. The key to this look is offsetting the punky eye make-up with ridiculous amounts of glitter. gives shimmer and sparkle and is what will put you in the limelight. Any Barry M products are great for glitter, but to avoid the mess; try Urban Decay’s Silver Glitter Gel which comes with a brush for easier application.

Step 4: Lips
To maintain the circus feel, lips should be vivid and bright. No one does colour like MAC, so use a bright coral-red lipstick like Lady Danger to be bang on the trend. If this is too much for you, try skipping the glitter on the brows and using it on the lips instead. A simple sweep of Barry M glitter lip paint in a shade of choice should do the trick.

Step 5: Hair
Candyfloss hair is all over the catwalks this summer, so chuck out the straighteners and get backcombing! Start with a voloumising shampoo and conditioner - I recommend Paul Mitchell - and follow with a forceful blow-drying using a stiff round brush. For further volume try Aussie Dual Personality Texturing and Conditioning Gel Spray.

Every year a huge fuss is made over the Central St Martins graduate show, but some feel it has lost its sparkle due to students concentrating on commercial viability and intricacy of skill in order to secure the most prestigious jobs. Last year’s grads from Westminster, though, were far more experimental, and earned deserved plaudits. Look out for Wai-Yee Wong, Louise Taylor and Linn Holm in particular.

Trend: Clown

It’s a bit dodgy given the whole Heath Ledger thing, but club kids tired of using black eyeshadow and glasses with the lenses poked out are spending hours mixing face paint and a warped sense of respect for the dead to look like a crazed clown. The signs were there before. Bows are everywhere on the high street these days, Dior Homme did baggy, pleated leather (read clown) pants, and Galliano’s menswear (pictured) had jester influences.

Model: Kevin Flamme

Aged just 16 when he opened a show for the late Yves Saint Laurent, Flamme, native to La Rochelle, has been a favourite of European designers for the past three seasons, getting consistent work with Hermès, and adding high profile bookings with Paul Smith and the ascendant Lanvin to his resumé. A GQ (and Playboy) favourite, Flamme will be everywhere now that his lycée has set him free.

Disaster: Resort Shows

Seen by fashion moguls as a way to exploit the wealthy by offering summer clothes in winter, and seen by the designer as something a bit desultory, resort or cruise collections have unfortunately become big business. Already stretched designers churn out hideous but expensive ensembles that pale in comparison to their spring/summer collections, case in point Chanel. As if to throw a knowing wink to fashion editors, the show was held in Miami, with the models walking around a pool before being entertained by the US synchronised swimming team. Each model an anachronism, each buyer a twat. Coco cries.

After years of speculation, a succession of failed scripts and the hiring of a seemingly endless number of writers, our favourite whip-cracking archaeologist is back at last. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull marks the fourth outing of Harrison Ford’s iconic character, the first installment of the franchise since 1989’s much-praised Last Crusade and the most anticipated release of the summer.

Following that last mammoth hit, bringing Indy back to the big screen has often appeared a more improbable endeavour than the adventures of Dr. Jones himself. George Lucas infamously rejected scores of ‘Indy 4’ screenplays, discarding the efforts of many of Hollywood’s finest in search of a worthy script. Nevertheless, with David Koepp’s screenplay finally being green-lit back in 2006, and Harrison Ford still being alive and well at the ripe old age of 65, Indy has finally returned.

The question on the lips of every cynical viewer is, naturally: was it all worthwhile? Can ‘Indy 4’ reach the dizzying heights of earlier instalments? And does Indiana Jones have any place in amongst the plethora of sharp action flicks grounded in realism? The short answer, ye of little faith, is yes. Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is successful precisely for the reason its predecessors were: as a film it entertains like no other.

From Ford’s opening line, prior to a classic Spielberg action sequence deep in the Nevada desert, it is clear that Lucas and company have struck the right tone. Unadulterated action, adventure and comedy are their targets, and they hit them again and again throughout.
Set in 1957, in the midst of the Cold War, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull finds an older and, occasionally, comically inept Indy battling with both internal and external enemies. Shifting away, alas, from classic foes the Nazis, Lucas has opted for a horde of Soviet Russians to be the villains of this piece. Led by the steely, sword-wielding psychic Irina Spalko (Cate Blanchett, relishing her opportunity for villainy), the Communists are ruthlessly seeking an enigmatic crystal skull, a trinket previously pursued by Jones’ colleague, Harold Oxley (John Hurt on fine mad-professor form).

The arrival of the fiesty Mutt Williams (Shia LaBeouf), along with the return of Indy’s first love Marion Ravenwood (Karen Allen), leads our hero to commit to picking up where Oxley left off: on the trail of the Crystal Skull in Peru. Hairy moments involving snakes and the supernatural soon ensue.

The story has the pace of any previous Indy outing, while the dynamic between Ford, Allen and LaBeouf easily outstrips that between the characters in Temple of Doom. Sure it’s thoroughly over-the-top and at times utterly implausible, but then, we don’t turn to Indiana Jones for realism. We turn to these stories for adventure. So suspend your disbelief, dig out your Indy hat and enjoy his long-awaited return.

Aside from the nice Borat-ism of a film put forward to represent Kazakhstan at the Academy Awards for ‘Best Foreign Language film’ proclaiming women as less important than horses, Mongol is a competent positive portrayal of Genghis Khan’s youth and rise to power.

Funded by German, Russian and Kazakh companies, and using Chinese actors speaking in the Mongolian language (badly, according to Mongolian critics), the film reflects both the diversity of the Khan’s empire and is symbolic of the cultural renaissance in eastern European and Asian cinema.

The rehabilitation of Genghis Khan seems a little strained at times: historical events that demonstrated the protagonist’s brutality are flagrantly skipped in favour of showing him spending some time praying to the Wolf God, and the idea of violence as enacted through strict social protocol being superior to general barbarism is frequently presented.

The portrayal of women, too, is interesting. Though still within binds that enforce marriage at a young age, Temudjin (aka Genghis Khan, Tadanobu Asano) is rescued by his wife, praises her strength of will and, cuckolded by tribal conflict and the capture of his wife, accepts as his own a child that is clearly not his. Temudjin is shown to unite disparate, immoral peoples through autocracy and nepotism.

Regardless of the bastardised Mongolian spouted by the actors and the almost comical characterisations of Khan’s enemies, performances are stellar on the whole. The story’s drive doesn’t collapse at any point with the cinematography, as one now expects of Chinese film and of pictures in the historical biography genre, standing out as particularly excellent.

There’s just that feeling, though, that what you’re being offered is simplistic and diluted.

Credited with single-handedly resurrecting the sword and sandal genre for a new generation (and unfortunately paving the way for such pale imitations as Troy and 300), Ridley Scott’s Roman epic was both a box office smash and a critical success, and justifiably so.

Its success lies in Scott’s skillful juggling of compelling Roman politics, timeless underdog heroics and a series of thrilling, visceral action scenes. Russell Crowe leads an outstanding cast in the role for which he will surely be best remembered. As Maximus Decimus Meridius, he gives a performance of tremendous authority, grabbing the character by the neck and vividly realising him as both fearsome and sympathetic. His hardships are painfully felt all the way from his introduction on the battlefield and his Spanish farmstead to the film’s climax in the arena. Indeed, the unexpected finale is one of the most emotionally resonant of any action movie.

It is due to Crowe’s gravitas and acting abilities, and perhaps a little manipulative story-telling, that Maximus is able to remain a human character rather than a simply larger than life hero, which the gladiatorial combat scenes often threaten to make him. From the opening epic battle to an exhilarating fight against both gladiator and tigers, via a brutal chariot race on a scale not seen since Ben Hur, Scott bombards the audience with increasingly intense action. Empowered by Hans Zimmer’s rousing score, these scenes are as exciting and spectacular as a spectator could hope for, and really do place you right in the heart of the colosseum.

Sure to go down as a modern classic, this mammoth tale of honour, betrayal and bravery is film-making at its grandest, and a welcome throw-back to the Hollywood epics of a bygone era.

Though the short film format lends itself naturally to comedy, there were moments of surprising emotional power, in particular Daniel Ward’s The Woman and Kate Shenton’s Modern Grim. The latter is deeply atmospheric, Jamie Wilkes’ narration positively Gandalffish over the unflinchingly (and creatively) graphic violence. The most intriguing plotline came in The Woman, as Sophie – a prostitute played with moving delicacy by Niamh Walsh – tries to abandon her life on the street: the film takes an unexpected turn toward the fantastic as Sophie becomes haunted by a mysterious woman who appears to be her doppelganger. Faced with continuous emotional and physical abuse, her options become increasingly desperate. She resolves to take the stranger’s life for herself. After another shocking twist, the film ends in a satisfyingly balanced pose, leaving several questions tantalisingly unanswered.

Further satisfying poses were feted by the comedy shorts, not least in Jay Foreman’s hilarious music video for “Stealing Food”, a Keatsian ode to ‘gastronomic kleptomania’ that features the zenith of all rhyming couplets: “Food is so much more delicious / If my friends are all suspicious.” Foreman’s comedy acting is clearly on a par with his writing, and his willingness to eat anything in service of comedy is commendable. The next biggest laughs were afforded to Alice Cox’s The 2012 Olympic Logo and its power to change the lives of those who encounter, and James Duckworth’s harassed writer in a music video for his song “Threshold”.

Happily, a DVD of all these films be available from Your:Shop in Week 10.

It is quite possible I just don’t like Chinese food. I have had too many distressing encounters with lukewarm bowls of viscous compost; I am harrowed by apparitions of diced sludge; I have had surfeit of cashew nut. With so many appealing ethnic alternatives (Indian, Japanese, Thai), I had all but given up with this particular national cuisine.

And if Red Chilli might have changed my mind, it didn’t. Crispy Peking duck is the exception, and with a shiver of cucumber and a diminutive ladleful of Hoisin sauce, it is the stuff that dreams are made of (as opposed to all other Chinese specialities, which feature predominantly in nightmares). As two male non-homosexual restaurant critics on an effective ‘date’ to review the restaurant, Will and I were a little self-conscious. We had to bite down hard to order the two-person set menu entitled ‘Courtship’; all the menus were directed at various levels of diner intimacy (‘First date’, ‘True love’). I hardly need add that, as a result, Red Chilli may not be the most felicitous venue for couples at an awkward or ambiguous stage of the relationship, as it might be rather embarrassing if you choose the wrong menu.

Nevertheless, since I have already voiced a partiality towards Peking duck – and it was the most welcome visitor at this carnival of mixed-blessings – I will continue in ascending order of disappointment. The dish that preceded the duck was a starter of assorted breaded, sauced or skewered meats – a commonplace at many Chinese restaurants. These included morsels of prawn toast, chicken satay, dried seaweed, spare ribs and spring rolls. In charity, the first four were all very good. The spring rolls were excremental; and inasmuch as that concerns taste and odour, I mean it literally.

The main, which followed the Peking duck, was served hurriedly. The waiters, many of whom were, by this point, standing around distractedly in the middle of the emptying restaurant, were visibly irked by our protracted stay. The upside, of course, was that service became increasingly snappy and enthusiastic as the evening waned. We were brought sizzling spicy beef, a plate of mercilessly-chopped chicken pieces (replete with lashings of the dreaded cashew nut), a side of fried rice and a centrepiece of boiled tree. We tried, in earnest, to preserve our honour and the chef’s feelings, but had to admit defeat and watch the handsome platter be disassembled and removed.

The soup opener seemed eager to herald a level of disgust which, I am glad to say, was not realised. Tofu is the eighth deadly sin, and the decomposing, aqueous, frogspawn situation it found itself in on this occasion redeemed it not at all. Tofu floats, but just below the surface like a dead trout. I made a valiant assault but, in retrospect, am pleased to say I sent it back to the kitchen virtually untouched.

Red Chilli represents value measured in quantity, not quality. We left sated but not satisfied. On the way home, one of the waiters overtook us on a bicycle.

After spending copious amounts of student loan in Topshop, what more could you ask for than a nice cup of tea, a scone and a healthy stint in a calm, quiet café?

Or let’s go crazy and have a teacake. Any cake in fact; carrot, chocolate, coffee…muffin anyone? Bruks is practically next door to Topshop and, I can honestly say, is my favourite café in York. This is mostly because I think the most relaxing environment to have a hot beverage is surrounded by old people, twittering about their day.

That is exactly what Bruks is, essentially an old people café- but it is this slow paced, friendly warmth that makes it great.
If you’re ever in town at ungodly hour of the morning for whatever random reason, it opens faithfully at first light (well, 7am) with the morning papers.

At lunch time I usually opt for the delicious homemade soup (£3.95), which arrives literally in a matter of milliseconds. The staff are always wonderful and chatty, there really is nothing worse than grumpy service to put a gloomy black cloud over your Earl Grey.

My personal opinion is that the wide range of sandwiches and jacket potatoes are slightly overpriced, at around £4-£5.50; but then I think that has become pretty average.

Honestly, in my day…..

They never tire, do they? Every Saturday some hooligan will put washing-up liquid into the fountain on Parliament Street. It’s an outrage.
But the spectacle is enjoyable. Find a seat and watch mothers squeal as their toddlers plunge into the froth, or amuse yourself as chunks of the stuff are whipped up by the breeze and flung into shoppers’ faces.

There are two ideally placed cafés for this activity: Pret a Manger and O’Briens sandwich bar. Dilemma! In a competition for postmodernity, Pret wins hands down. Here’s their franchise policy: “Franchising – sorry we don’t. Please don’t call us and ask for a franchise because we don’t; we really don’t. We don’t franchise. The fact is, we don’t like to franchise, so we don’t.” Right. Got it. But here is O’Briens: “Is O’Briens first class? Is O’Briens right for me? These are just some questions…” Blah blah, get a grip.

But I decided to go Oirish. I ordered a Shambo with bacon, brie and cranberry. A shambo, I found out, is toasted bread in the shape of a shamrock with herbs – rosemary, I think – baked into the top. It worked well. With a packet of crisps and a superb iced mango drink it was about £6 – not bad at all.

So I might go back next week. And I’ll take some washing up liquid in case the hooligans let me down.

Method:

My granny is a little bit bonkers. Not in the same way as her husband – who thinks he is a Captain in the navy again – but bonkers nonetheless. While he parades around the house shutting the curtains at midday and ordering the dog to stand up straight, she (aged 80) plays tennis and makes delicious wedding cakes.

But she is ‘country’ through and through. Last year I was driving along following her car. Suddenly, she hit a pheasant. It wasn’t quite dead, but wandered vaguely around the road looking dishevelled. Without hesitating, Granny stopped and climbed out of the car. Walking over to the bird, she took off her shoe and hit it, once, on the head. Now it was properly dead. She picked it up, walked over to her car, opened the boot and lobbed the pheasant in. She later fed it to the dog – claiming that road kill is often “remarkably fresh”. Honestly, it’s amazing I’m this normal.

Aside from her pheasant road rage, though, Granny makes a great kedgeree. This dish harks back to British India. It’s basically flaked fish, rice, eggs and butter with a little bit of spice. The Victorians had it for breakfast because the Anglo-Indians liked to eat freshly caught fish – but with the advent of the fridge, I prefer it later on in the day. It could hardly be healthier if it tried and it tastes wonderful. You’ll see.
Make the curry sauce first. Start with the butter, garlic and onion in a small saucepan and cook till everything is soft. Add the curry powder and the fish stock next (a good cube will do). Bring it to the boil and allow it all to reduce by half. Then add the cream and simmer for 20 mins. While this is doing, cook the smoked haddock and hard boil the eggs (for ten minutes). Get someone else to cook the rice in salted water (after they’ve rinsed it in cold water, obviously) as you are clearly quite busy.

When all is done stir the ingredients gently together and there’s your kedgeree. It should be quite salty and fairly dry. Like someone with a good wit.

The Grand Tour was the Seventeenth Century equivalent of a gap year: an itinerary of European travel undertaken by young, male members of the British nobility which provided exposure to cultural artefacts, as the culmination of a classical education. Now, visitors to York’s historic centre can expect to be similarly culturally enlightened as a result of The National Gallery’s project of the same name.

Astonishingly realistic reproductions of forty-five pieces from their permanent collection, as well as four from York City Art Gallery’s collection, are adorning the streets of York until the end of September. Renoir’s ‘The Skiff’, Velázquez’s ‘The Rockeby Venus’, Michelangelo’s ‘The Entombment’ and Monet’s ‘Water-Lily Pond’ all feature, each handsomely framed and wittily captioned.

The public reaction has been one of excitement. The day the pictures were hung, crowds blocked the pavement in front of Holbein’s ‘The Ambassadors’ on High Petergate, and a car screeched to an amazed halt outside ‘Christina of Denmark’, by Hans Holbein the Younger, currently hanging on Bootham.

The project has certainly been constructed with a sense of humour. ‘A Grotesque Old Woman’ by Massys hangs between two beauty salons on Grape Lane, the eroticism of Botticelli’s ‘Venus and Mars’ is placed playfully next to Orgasmic Bar and Van Gogh’s ‘Sunflowers’ hangs behind the St Helen’s Square flower sellers.

At the project’s press launch I had a chance to speak to some of the people behind the venture. Natalia Yanez-Exner, from The National Gallery, told me “Our aim is to bring art to people, as opposed to people having to actively seek out art. Hopefully seeing these great works will draw new people into galleries as well.” If the Tour’s overwhelmingly successful London leg is anything to go by, The Grand Tour will succeed in its aim of getting more people visiting art galleries.

Gary Alden, a representative from Hewlett Packard, who provided the technological know-how which made the venture possible, tells me that the machine used to make the reproductions “is essentially a scaled-up version of a normal ink-jet printer, set in super-wide format.”
The paintings are UV- and water-resistant, could withstand outdoor conditions for up to 7 years and are, importantly, graffiti-proof. It is, perhaps, a shame that no contemporary art is included in the collection and that the organisers have not used the opportunity to promote new ways of thinking about art of a more diverse cultural agenda, choosing instead to stick to established European classics. However, viewing these famous images surrounded by bricks, mortar and the bustle of the city is a new and exciting experience in itself.

Premiered in the Minster last Friday, Standing Stones is the latest outing of the renowned Ascendance REP and is designed specifically for cathedral spaces. The performance must therefore be judged partially on its relevance to the setting, something which I felt was notably absent.

The second and third movements were the highlight of the performance and effectively showcased the skill and competence of the individual dancers. At one point, one of the dancers entered on stilts and acted as an unusual prop with the materials her costume factoring in to the choreography which was thoroughly entertaining and evidently well received. Unfortunately, a few tiresome clichés subtracted from the quality of the performance. I fought the urge to roll my eyes when selected audience members were given apples by one of the performers imitating a court jester.

Despite a few high notes, however, the performance in its entirety was decidedly lacklustre. The production aimed to celebrate the “magnificence” and “timeless continuity” of the setting but fell disappointingly short of its target. The choreography failed to capture the scale and grandeur of the setting and felt decidedly unrelated to what was the core inspiration of the project. Standing Stones was entertaining but instead of “celebrating” its surroundings, it appeared embarrassingly inferior in comparison to the architecture which undoubtedly stole the show.

Author of ‘A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian’ and hardy favourite of every book club composed of those that find the Booker shortlist too strenuous and the Whitbread too common, Lewycka again deals with issues of immigration in a comic, sincere tone in her second novel.

The perspective of each character is given, whether in sections written in the first or third person, and the author even gives the dog space in her novel to voice its thoughts. This adds nothing to the novel other than the will to skip these badly-rendered passages - a bit like the patronising interjections in Desperate Housewives, or the speech at the end of Jerry Springer. The novel feels crowded - too many voices, stories and complex issues like human trafficking lead to a tonality that changes too quickly and with little warning.

Lewycka’s wit helps the novel a great deal to form something more cohesive, however, the representation of economic migration though the eyes of different cultures and peoples would always be challenging (with a few stereotypes thrown in - Chinese people going to business school and doing medicine? Ukrainians from Kiev looking down on miners from Donetsk?), the overall portrayal is a lively and entertaining one.