Event Review: "Life and Death in Pompeii and Herculaneum"

What were the two final days of the inhabitants of Pompeii and Herculaneum like? What is the "Boxer Pose"? What was the most common profession in these buried cities? In an exclusive one-time-only screening that took place in Prague's Světozor cinema on the 19th of September, all of these questions and were answered in a special documentary about the British Museum's unique exhibition named "Life and Death in Pompeii and Herculaneum". 

I am a frequent cinema-goer and I have been honestly astonished by the high attendance at this event - and also by the fact that people of all ages have come here, wearing formal suits, dresses, heels, ties... The event in combination with the humorous, yet professional interviews and narratives given by Peter Snow and Bettany Hughes (and other specialists in the field of history or archaeology) doubtlessly had class. As for the documentary itself, it was so superbly done that at one point, I realized I was consumed so much by all the stories, explanations and discussions that I almost forgot where I was, who with... It was just intriguing.

However, it was only saddening to grow to like the inhabitants of these two Ancient Roman cities and then realize that you cannot do anything to stop the fatal eruption of Mt. Vesuvius and therefore save the people... Instead, you are most probably morally divided between feelings of pity and enjoyment caused by seeing all those magnificent objects that were once part of the daily lives of people that were cooked alive by volcanic pyroclastic flows. This emotional engagement from the audience and visitors doubtlessly leaves a lasting impression that stays with you long after you leave the exhibition or cinema hall.

It is impossible to not be impressed by the exhibition, the stories or the passion of the people behind the project. For me at least though, it is a little tormenting to know that only about 1/4th of Herculaneum and 1/3rd of Pomepii have been excavated to this day... It is as if one is reading a very compelling book that the (still living) author decided to leave unfinished... Only this tale is 1, 600 years old and archaeologists and scientists are the writers and until they excavate the rest of the buried cities, the stories of Pomepii and Herculaneum are incomplete and our minds are left to wonder and dream.

- Anna Hupcejová

Note: If you would like to read more about the event, take a look at the official page of the event: 
http://www.britishmuseum.org/whats_on/exhibitions/pompeii_and_herculaneum/pompeii_live.aspx. 

Review: "The Best Offer"

“The Best Offer” is the newest film written and directed by Giuseppe Tornatore – and if you ask me, I think of it as the (after a long time first) ‘movie definitely worth seeing’. Geoffrey Rush’s performance as the elderly art auctioneer Virgil Oldman in combination with the movie's cross-genre nature makes it one entertaining spectacle that will keep your eyes and mind glued to the screen from the first to final scene.

The life and career of Virgin Oldman is, to an extent, an enviable one for it is based on selling and collecting beautiful paintings and is filled with high gourmet experiences and fine literature. However, the lack of love gives the character a sort of emotional emptiness – hence explaining his almost obsessive devotion to a mysterious heiress/client, who in the end turns out (just like the rest of his ‘friends’) to be a fraud. It is heart-breaking to see a man, once self-sufficient and content, to be suddenly left alone with his haunting thoughts and tormenting memories – and the unexpectedness of this climax makes it all a more memorable story. Putting plot aside; taking place in high and wealthy social circles, it is impossible to not sigh out of pure amazement at the - luckily plentiful! - shots of abandoned, yet atmospheric European villas, posh restaurant interiors (including one in Prague) or Virgil’s collection of famous female portraits, hidden in the modern-day Narnia wardrobe: a code-locked room behind a shelved closet with leather gloves.

In short, it is basically a happy-end story of romance gone unexpectedly dramatic with hints of subtle Agatha Christie-like mystery that will make you leave the cinema in a sense of bewilderment, thinking “How could I have not seen that coming?” Apart from being visually pleasing, the movie is most definitely going to make you want to see it again and collect in a Sherlock Holmes fashion all clues that lead to the final crime… And until you do, this review is my best offer in helping you solve the mysteries of the plot.

- Anna Hupcejová

Welcome to Scotland/Fàilte gu Alba!

It was one of the boring spring afternoons when one begins to think about their plans for the summer holiday more intensively than on any other day. I can’t remember the exact time and place when it was said by my boyfriend, but the intention of the sentence was clear: “Láďa is going to visit Scotland with his travel agency this summer.” Firstly, I don´t believe that there is anybody who really doesn’t like travelling. Secondly, I don´t believe that there is anybody who would not want to go to this area, induced from the amount of enthusiastically expressed sounds of aaah’s and ohhh’s when I mentioned this destination. Thirdly, I study English, dude, so visiting English-speaking countries should be nothing but my daily bread and public duty. So from that moment on, we knew what we were going to do during the first sixteen days in August.

All over the world there are hundreds of travel agencies, offering you a smooth and comfortable way how to spend your holiday. All inclusive or just with breakfast, with everyday entertainment, near the sea, luxurious… Láďa´s Euthanasia (the name of the travel agency) is unique and nothing of this kind. He is a traveller - an important difference from the tourist! Mountains and wild nature belong to his main passions, so you can go with him for shorter weekend trips to the Alps or for longer trips to Iceland, north of Norway, Greenland, South America or Madeira. No people, no cities, no traces of civilisation, cooking with your supplies, sleeping in a tent, staying in harmony with the countryside, hiking with your backpack, in the rain, snow, frost or burning sun. This is exactly what I and my boyfriend longed for.

Do you need anything special when you want to survive in Scotland? Good waterproof boots, a waterproof jacket and anything else that can be waterproof. It rains a lot there; and if not, it drizzles or you can experience rain-showers. Here, the Sun lives in a different place! If you like your knees, buy hiking poles, they can help you a lot when crossing hundreds of marshes and moors... And when I say hundreds, I really mean hundreds. Have you heard about the midges? Not yet? Well, nothing can spoil your perfect experience from the historic castles, big lakes and beautiful countryside more than these little annoying insects! Before the rain, when there is no wind, in the morning and in the evening, thousands of them can spend their free time with you. Don´t bring any repellents or mosquito nets from the Czech Republic, they are useless. All you have to do is to buy an oil body spray Skin So Soft from Avon and the mosquito net made specially for the midges in Scotland (it has smaller holes) or a special spray called Smidge on the internet and pray that it would work. The Avon spray makes you laugh, right? Well, it has something among its ingredients that can repel these little bastards, more or less. And as a bonus, your skin will be smooth and hydrated during your stay there. Anyway, most of the time you are forced to stay at the beginning and ending of a day in your tent and I highly recommend long sleeves. Because if not, they (the midges, that is) can bite you in the flesh and you can be sure that although you may not like souvenirs, the photographs of the midges’ pinches definitely belong to something you are going to show to your relatives.

More useful tips: Do not call the Scottish “English” - you may really offend them. Forget your knowledge of English; you will not understand their language even if you succeeded in the Mr. Volín’s exam. They pronounce a consonant “r” really strongly and have a wide scale of different vocabulary. In case you do not understand them at all and get desperate, keep calm - they may speak Gaelic. This language is mainly in the Hebrids islands still vivid and you can often see there the names in both languages – on the islands, it’s Gaelic first. But most of all, enjoy the splendid varieties of countryside which is so different from its English neighbour!

Our two microbuses set off the journey on a late Friday afternoon and arrived at our first destination on Saturday evening - prepare that it can the long, long, long journey can take all day and night. But with backpacks and food for the 16 days, you have to pay a fee for the next luggage if you choose to travel by plane, so this a bus is the best choice. I entertained myself with the Lonely Planet guide of Scotland (the guys in the newsroom really know what they do!), in which there are plenty of useful information about the possible trips and adventures, but also recommended restaurants and hostels, history of Scotland, its culture, politics, economics, simply everything that one should know if they want to travel there. It is not possible to visit all of/in Scotland for the first time, so as you can see from the map below, we focused mainly on the islands and the West Highlands. West Highland Way is, by the way, one of the named and most famous and visited paths throughout Scotland. The best way is to lead your journey through Glasgow to the town of Fort William, which is a starting point to the Scottish mountains. Speaking of which, on the way there we went through the Glencoe valley. Does it ring a bell to you? Yes, exactly, the sadly famous Massacre of Glencoe on the 13th of February 1692, where thirty-eight MacDonalds from the  MacDonald of Glencoe clan were killed by the guests who had accepted their hospitality, on the grounds that the MacDonalds had not been prompt in pledging allegiance to the new monarchs, William and Mary – it was our first and not last meeting with the Scottish rich history. 

Other memories from the past are famous castles. Scotland without them wouldn’t be Scotland, so our first must-see place was Eilean Donan Castle - according to the guide and people, it is the most famous and beautiful one. Well, crowds of tourists and buses forced us to flee to the Isle of Skye. The largest and most northerly large island in the Inner Hebrides of Scotland radiate from a mountainous centre dominated by the Cuillins Hills (Picture below). 

Our first three-day hike took place there, the rocky slopes provided some of the most dramatic mountain sceneries in the country. Apart from that, we also experienced common Scottish weather - cloudy, windy and with the temperatures around 15 degrees Celsius, in comparison to the Czech Republic, which was hit by the heat at that time around 30 degrees and more! If you happen to be there, do not forget to taste local variety of beers from the Skye Brewery. From the Cuilins Hills we moved to the northernmost peninsula of the Isle of Skye, Trotternish, where we have been hiking for two days. It contains one of Skye's most famous landmarks: the Old Man of Storr, an isolated rocky pinnacle. 

The next aim of our journey was to discover also the Outer Hebrides and (to be more exact) Scalpay. This island, which‘s population is only around 300 people, is home to many Gaelic singers and psalm presenters. Then we travelled to Harris and Lewis, together forming the largest of the Outer Hebridean Islands. Why go there? To see the Blackhouse Museum, a village reconstruction of the traditional thatched houses peculiar to the Highlands and islands, to learn how the famous Harris Tweed is made at the Lewis Loom Centre in Stornoway on Lewis, experience the unique Callannish Standing Stones, which date back to around 3000 BC. We also reached the Great Bernera, being on the north-west coast of Lewis and linked to it by a road bridge, and also Butt of Lewis (don´t giggle, it is its real name!). It was a splendid combination of beaches, sea and mountains, and on the top of it all, having seen seals and dolphins in their natural habitat turned this area into one of my most favourite places in the world. Our last days in Scotland were spent in Glen Affric - the area south-west of the village of Cannich back in the Highland region of Scotland, some 15 miles (24 km) to the west of Loch Ness. It is often described as the most beautiful glen (valley) in Scotland, has milder weather and contains one of the largest ancient Caledonian pinewoods in Scotland as well as lochs, moorland and mountains.

We mostly slept near the loch (lake) or at least a stream, which was much clearer than in the Czech Republic - it was possible to drink water from it. Between the islands, we travelled by ferries. We saw hardly anybody on the islands and only little people in the highlands. And we enjoyed it a lot. A brief summary: Driving on the left is cool. Driving on the left on the British roundabouts is not so cool. Driving in miles can be sometimes confusing. Seals are friends, midges are enemies. The prices of food are rather good, at least lower than in Norway. And sorry, but I have no photo of me and the Scottish with a kilt and as you may know already, this is a must... So, see you next time in Scotland!

- Adéla Lavičková

The Bus

That bloody little thing appearing as if mocking human attempts to compose the golden sentence; a thousand black bleeping lines of robotic middle fingers. And after a sufficient amount of frustration under which we chafe on and on, one fine day I or you decide to go out and procure some of that adventurous and enlightening ‘living’ all those hippies have deified and defiled in the process. Well sir, I tell you, I am interested in more than mere experience of the true human condition; the enquiry at hand requires a lot more than a sophisticated analysis of those puny sacks of cowardly faeces that possess the impunity to dare to cry for inalienable rights—Those sentimental gits. A company in possession of any society at all, of any decency or taste whatsoever, must decry such a vulgar enquiry.

What we’re interested in, Reginald my dear boy, is the world of Ideals; ancient heroism and old legends that manifest that which has been strived for but never achieved. However, reckoning this turn of the argument, sliding into the nostalgic and self-dwarfing endeavours of the disappointed fellows who always look for greatness above and behind, never around, I am obliged to take over this farce and instil some new flavour for Christ’s sake.   

‘What is God?‘ she asked me with a challenge bubbling in her smile.

‘Us sitting here waiting for a bus. That guy over there staggering on his way home. My cat. The way you smile. That is God.’ I answered rather hastily so as to demonstrate that I wasn’t that drunk as I’d seemed to be. That was the purpose of that question: to find out how hammered I was.

She looked complimented, though slightly upset that I proved her wrong, sort of.

In the end, it wasn’t all that bad. Charles manoeuvring his slender gloomy body among the swarming crowds, as was his daily objective: don’t allow contact. Shiny shoes clapping in a massive thud thud thud all around him. Surrounding mutter and spatter of pale, soulless countenances countenancing the illicit conduct, dirt bags of rubbish embellishing the pavement blotted with pools of green-dark-blue water; Marshes ahead around and behind, what kind of an evil monster of a god would approve... that means that there are only sensations and ideas and matter. Oh sweet tasty matter. Writhing slopes of smoke coming from the boiling pools of moss and gross unrefined products; a city, he thought, it was an insult to live in. By whom? Does it matter?

What a moronic beginning to any piece of literary work of myriads of possible natures—What pretty little things?! Oh how lovely! One just craves to melt and dissolve in a pool of pink boiling popsicles Now find me a pen.

A pen? A computer? A notebook? A book? A kindle? Wrong is what feels wrong, dreading to forsake. Possibilities teaming with abundance of ebullient chances, however silly this might sound Oh shut it! This is not literary language, this is:

As Lady Brown descended the stairs, an astounding spectacle of late summer Alps mirrored its splendour in her eyes as she fixed her gaze upon a boy, a plump lad that is.

The bus finally arrived.

‘What? What are we talking about? When does the bus go again?’

‘Like, you see, we’re all in love with everything we do and think every little success of ours brilliant... But we aren’t... You know?! It’s not about you and it’s not even about me... Right?’

‘Yeah sure, whatever, the bus dude!’

Jimmy was impatient for he was dead tired and the last thing his exhausted body wanted to endure was yet another of Reginald’s drunken philosophical rants. He knew it would come to this. He didn’t mind really. Reginald fulfilled his purpose in keeping him company the night he would decide. He truly listened at least, a rare quality these days.  And he had cash which is a bloody miracle. Finally the bus arrived!

‘So see you soon mate,’ said Reginald as he galloped smugly towards the cab spot.

Jimmy looked about him in a vain hope for an empty seat but instead he got the regular ensemble of what appeared to be the embodiment of the wish to get back home and crawl up in the warmth like a cuddly snake. Gripping a suspiciously humid bar Jimmy was struck hard by the reality of absent headphones.

‘Did I left them home? Or at the pub? Why would I pull them out at the pub?’

And then he saw her. Tall, beautiful and asking for a ticket.

‘Fuck!’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Oh, did I say that out loud? I’m so sorry.’

So are you on the bus or off the bus?

He fingered his wallet in perplexed panic. The bus was just about to stop to unload some of the sleepy heroes of the night. He hasn’t ever run away from a ticket inspector. He’s always talked his way out of the predicament, somehow. But this time he was too tired to pull something of that calibre. And who the hell would expect an inspection on a night bus. Should he run then? Was it worth it? How much would be the ticket? He had no time. The alarm announcing that the door was closing bellowed its cacophonic tune.  What would Hume do? As he darted out of the bus he caught a glimpse of a pair of bewildered eyes.

After a 200 meter sprint he found out he didn’t have to do so – nobody was after him. His pulse calmed.

‘Where the hell am I?’

After recognizing that he’s travelled only one stop away from where he had boarded the bus and that another one wouldn’t arrive sooner than in an hour thoughts of despair flooded his liquored-up mind.

‘I might not be the biggest star in the whole wide world,’ he recollected Reginald’s rant, ‘but I bloody am one of the hungriest tired brittle chaps around, Goddamn: the things I’d do for bread and bed.’

A tea that didn’t quite make it, how original: waiting on her, on another of those ‘absorbing girls’ that you can’t have unless you either act like an asshole or wait for a miracle. The author is abounding with patience—that is not the issue, Reginald, my dear boy. The source of our troubles is our inability to find what is it that we’re both, meaning you and me, craving in this brief pitiful miserable thing called fun night. Nobody can tell you more; most will advise to pursue the green, some may shyly suggest the possibility of a probability of a right path but you either feel it, you make an educated guess about it, or you just buy her a drink like a Man and forget about all the lengthy insecurities/frustrations; you forget about all the disappointment that has nearly drowned the life itself within you. No. Fucking no. I shall be ignorantly aware and live on strive on getting drunk gettin’ stoned getting high getting spaced out of my bloody brains easing into the mellowest chillacity a bro has ever zonked into; shred the sweetest foam, slide into the tightest .. naaah, that’s dirty and we don’t want that, Reginald, my dear boy. What we want is a piece of Literature, you know, L-L-L-Literature with a Grand ‘L’, otherwise nobody’s going to spare a glance.

- Jaromír Lelek

Glimpse of A Summer: The Brocante in Hemingway’s Landscape

Udine - Friulian Udin, Slovene Videm, German Weiden and Latin Utinum - is a city and comune in northeastern Italy, in the middle of the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region, located between the Adriatic Sea and the Alps (Alpi Carniche), less than 40 km from the Slovenian border. The city could be easily called “the Bastion of Central Europe” – not even for its location, but primarily for the multilingualism of the whole area. The beloved destination of Ernest Hemingway offers an insight into its historical proportions of the Papa Joseph I.’s era in which the thought of the Tower of Babylon was yet alive.

If you - after passing Udine towards Maniago - overcome a labyrinth of alleys of the last small town at the foot of the Dolomites, you might (when surmounted more or less 300 meters of height) encounter the oldest and the most minuscule village that can only be found on Google Maps. The village is called Frisanco and it is honoured to be the hometown of Roberto Magro - the great clown, director and tutor in an Italian new-circus school in Torino whose visage could be easily confused with Tolkien's Gollum. If you have already googled the Frisanco village, you can probably enumerate the five streets and the hotel in Via Roma... Do you have it? – Now, scroll your view about a centimeter southwest and a certain point in Via della Pace enters your pupil. This point indicates the virtual locus of Robert's birthplace; it is also the place where the festival Brocante was born.

Brocante is a festival of contemporary new-circus shows of artists from around-the-world universities of the new circus. Every year Roberto and his team invite a dozen of artistic groups to rejuvenate the five old streets (that you already know about) in Frisanco and three other villages in the heart of the Dolomites with their playful pageantry. Each night Roberto organizes several motion virtuosos to create a spectacle for the natives of the Usher-like houses and random wanderers of northern countries, sometimes in the square in the midst of flowing fountain, or in the courtyard of the old padre Giulio’s flat, or even below the clearing mountain peaks with fine trickles of the mountain waterfalls.

During the day - that actually begins around five o’clock in the afternoon after a whole-day riposo - you can visit various performances, each magnificent and each placed in one of those unique villages (relicts of former generations) within a radius of several kilometers on foot or by scooter. And when the dark of the night falls and even the oldest native couple appears on the square to see another fantastic show, the villages light up thousands of lamps. And each of them has its correlate in the sky so full of stars that Hemingway would have had to live at least twice as many years to write a poem for each of them – the stars glittering above the beauteous region of Friuli-Venezia Giulia.

- Josefína Formanová

Masquerade

Let's put on our masks. Hooray! It's a masquerade! Put aside your petty tasks Come along, join the parade!

Out there in the streets There is a carnival. But inside our homes, underneath our bed sheets, There awaits a criminal.

But let's just put on our masks Let's pretend it's not there Out there in the streets, there is a carnival. It's everywhere. Behind every mask, there hides a criminal.

But don't you worry. Don't you bother... It's a carnival! Put on your mask.
Go. Back to your tasks.

- Stringbreaker

Birdie

You did not fly that day - you fell down
and I lifted you up, on my palm.
You weakly pecked me, then laid down again.
Repeatedly. I stroked you,
for the first and last time.

I took you upstairs. Weeping,
I carried you gently and asked for help.
You pressed yourself onto my palm some more,
my weeps grew into a cry.

You watched me with those beady eyes
losing strength with every breath
and suddenly: you gave a last outcry,
staring at me directly - "Watch me die."

On the cage floor I laid you
And went to fetch a tissue to clean you
Yet when I came back, you were gone.
Eyes closed, stiff, horizontal,

Gone. My hysteria calms down
as I place you into a plastic bag.
You were only a birdie
but still, a life.

Now only your soulless feathered body remains.

- Augustine Wood

Duckling

Wake up you ugly duckling.
Spread your white wings.
Wake up my dearest darling
Let's do some things.

Wake up, you grayish essence.
It's your time to blossom!
Be question and answer. Form a full sentence.
Become wholesome!

Wake up you ugly duckling.
I know there's a swan somewhere there
I thought you want to spread your beautiful almighty wings.
But now I see
That you just don't care.

- David Stringbreaker

Review: The National Theatre Live

On the 13th of June, two Prague cinemas - Světozor and Aero - allowed to experience the live broadcast of a show that was performed on the stage of The National Theatre in London. 

The Audience is the new play of Peter Morgan; it is playfully and wittily written and was brilliantly performed. Helen Mirren starred in the main role and we, young actresses, could only sigh and say to ourselves: Will I ever be able to perform like that? The director Stephen Daldry skillfully worked with tempo-rhythm and although the play may  have seemed too conversational and not much dynamical, the audience was held in permanent attention from the beginning to the very end. During the broadcast, both English and Czech subtitles were provided. 

The project of live broadcasting was launched in June 2009 and the shows can be experienced in more then 500 places around the world. The next one is going to be of Shakespeare’s Othello on the 26th of September, so do not hesitate and go see it! Yes, this is a shameless propaganda, but the project is really worth it.

- Magdaléna Hniličková

Note: More information about The Audience on: www.aerofilms.cz/filmy/142-National-Theatre-Live/synopse/.

Review: "Behind the Candelabra"

My decision to go see the new movie staring Michael Douglas and Matt Damon was a random one; it was an impulse, driven by a sudden mood to see a new cinematic piece. Having bought my ticket about ten minutes before the performance, I sat down in the red chamois Světozor seat without any expectations. All I knew was the fact that the movie premiered at this year's Cannes Festival and knew all about the plot as fit into the synopsis in the cinema brochure.  Also, I heard that it will be slightly heated - so it was. Excessively.

If one is to condense the plot of the movie, then one could simply say: it's about the piano virtuoso of the 1970s, Liberace (Michael Douglas) and his young lover, Scott Thurson and the rise and downfall of their few-year-long relationship. It is evident from the very first scene that all is shot in favour of Scott - the audience is immediately informed of his unstable family background (several foster homes, insane mother) and Liberace is shown to be first a saviour, then the promiscuous sinner. Individuals such as myself who do not have any knowledge of psychology can automatically assume that the young blond lad was over-whelmed from the sudden wealth and care he was suddenly experiencing - even if it was all from a man who could be his grandfather. So blinded was Scott by his admiration of Lee that he even fulfilled his lover's demand for him to undergo facial plastic surgery. Eventually, jealousy, unfaithfulness and Scott's cocaine addiction lead to the couple's (rather dramatic) separation and as if it were Karma, Lee dies some time later from AIDS.     

It is without doubt that sexuality is the main driving force of the movie - it is intended to get the audience into the theatre and keep them there. In short, the movie was "hot" - it was full of bed scenes, sexual lines (Scott asks Liberace: "How do you stay hard for so long?" - an advertisement of a penis performance operation from Lee follows), shots of men in tight jeans or glittery swimsuits, sudden jocular crotch-grabbing... It made me feel uncomfortable however, and during such scenes I noticed other people also looking down at their lap in embarrassment or lift their eyebrows. During one specific intimate scene, Liberace tells Scott: "I want to be everything to you, Scott, father, lover, brother, best friend." This made more people in the cinema smirk - no wonder, it is an absurd statement! Especially when Lee became, by law, Scott's father and after their relationship hits ice-level, they separated like a real (married) couple. 

The character of Liberace  is, unlike the empathetic and occasionally over-emotional Scott, portrayed in a negative, yet even mocking light. He is a man who refuses to grow old and who enjoys his share of plastic surgeries (both on himself and Scott), extravagance (Rolls Royce driving him onto the stage, beautiful fur gowns, shiny stone-covered pianos) and luxury (gold jewellery, Versailles-style decorated mansions, sipping champagne in the Jacuzzi) - all of these interests reflect his intellectual shallowness, but of course also his evident success in show-business. He seems to be in a completely different world than, for example, Bob Black, who in the end turns out to be more of a fatherly figure to Scott than Lee, the "Old Queen."

Behind the Candelabra is a men-only show showing the drama high testosterone levels can create as well as is a documentary of excessively-decorated interiors and before-after physical and mental developments of the characters. It is not however all drama; there are moments of light humour present for example through Lee's occasional story-telling or the character of the cosmetic surgeon Dr. Startz (Rob Lowe), whose mission at one point (this set off a second of laughter from the audience) was to remodel Scott's youthful face into the one of young Liberace.  The actors' performances are admirable, though Douglas - for me at least - missed fervidness when speaking, a characteristic that was present in the real Liberace's speeches. 

The movie concludes on a both humorous and expressive note - Liberace (now dead) is presented to be standing on stage, suddenly lifted upwards towards the piano and then singing a last piece (most probably written by Scott) before disappearing out of sight of both the smiling Scott and the audience. To disagree with Liberace, too much of a good thing is not wonderful and I was partially glad when the movie was over, for it was a bit too bling-y and shallow. Nevertheless, I can call it thought-provoking and a decent movie to go and see for 118 minutes on a free evening.

Dear Nothing

Dear Nothing, 


if it even matters 
my cluttering heart 
chatters 
in company of a wounded warrior 
stumbling over his own emperor 
with no place to go 
and no day to change 
working too hard for minimum wage 
masochistically licking the boots 
of his own chronic disease 
keys 
are drowned somewhere in my 
intoxicated kidney 
and me 
fighting for peace 
and bouncing to the rhythms of Sidney - 
yes, that is my apogee 
please 
record this my last farewell 
and dehydrated craving 
for my inner refugee 
who wonders somewhere on the road 
in between 
the repugnance 
and the pleasure of the sublime.

- Margo Kirlan

B O D Y Birthday Bash

It was the 11th of July and the international literary journal B O D Y was celebrating its first full year of existence. The party took form of a series of readings by published poets and writers - and a word here and there by the editors themselves. Repeatedly, the magazine's rather small body (that includes the Faculty of Art's Stephan Delbos!) heartily invited all guests to enjoy the evening. This was unnecessary, as the open bar and the marvellous interior of the Anglo-American University's library in combination with skillfully recited works of the authors, the warm late evening weather and the picturesque Malostranská right around the corner, it was impossible to do otherwise!

Soon after arriving at the library, I recognized a few faces from Armand's Breakfast at Midnight reading (event review here) and, to my joy, a group of people from the Faculty. With wine or Scotch in hand (the repertoire of drinks developed over the evening), the place was bustling with chatter of Prague's English-speaking residents and the special guests of the evening: the writers, most of whom came over specially for the event from Berlin or Los Angeles. The rooms gradually filled up with people and light jazz notes and eventually, the smokers were asked to finish their actions. All were called into the main room - the bash finally began!

After a prologue from the editors, the writers took over the microphone. Milan Děžinský's poetry started off the line-up, with the main feature of his works - usage of words whose phonetics are emphasised - evident both in the original Czech form and in its English translation. The Chinese female writer Yo Yo followed, reading a passage from Ghost Tides in her mother tongue, then the B O D Y's editor Joshua Mensch read the English translation. The author's flamboyant outfit (brown, thick round Lennon glasses and a purple bat-cut dress) was a contrast to the extract that portrayed a traditional Chinese family's aid in a young boy's transition from boy- to manhood. 

The first part of the readings concluded with Natashia Déon's short, yet nonetheless striking depiction of a young slave girl's liberation from mental illness that involved being beaten by her own father. The audience was evidently struck by Déon's utterly-consuming performance, as it took a while for all to wake up back into reality and applaud the writer's art. 

After the break, the audience was transferred into the world of poets. Joshua Weiner read from his new collection of poems, The Figure of a Man Being Swallowed by a Fish, that was available to purchase at the event. I was literally astounded by his recitation; visual verses went hand in hand with Weiner's confident posture and bass voice, one could not be anything but captivated! There was no choice than to listen and visualise the descriptions given.

The follow-up and concluding guest of the night was Yang Lian. Before reading his works in Chinese and then leaving the microphone to Weiner to read (in a consuming manner, as ever) the English translation, Lian gave an overture to the chosen poems. "Butterfly" was a political one, dedicated to Ai Weiwei, the Chinese artist and human rights activist - Lian chose the piece, as it "shows a historical connection of a the communist past, China's present" between his homeland and the Czech Republic. "Kafka" was no exception, as he remembered decades back to some friends of his who rejected to believe that a Kafka Museum is to be built in Prague. The Chinese tongue then flowed through the room, in the end creating silence in the room. Like Déon, Lian's work left a lasting effect on the audience. Soon, silence was replaced by an enthusiastic applause and the readings part of the evening was drawn to a close with a collective thank-you speech from all three of the editors: Joshua Mensch, Stephan Delbos and the ever-vehement Christopher Crawford.  

In high spirits, the writers, guests and editors of the journal entertained themselves in conversation and drink until the late evening hours.... It was all done in the name of B O D Y's once-year anniversary. To put it short, it was a swell birthday bash - it had style and one cannot do else wise now than look forward to this time next year and enjoy everything that the journal will offer (poetry - prose) until then!

Irish Night

On the 22nd of June, I had all exams behind me and the concert I was so looking forward to finally took place. In the evening of that day, I and my friends went to see the Conamara Chaos perform at Balbín's Poetic Pub. The main reason behind my rather big interest to attend the event in the first place was not only the interview we have done with Radvan Markus in May (read here), but also the countless appraisals of his flute-playing that I heard from his Irish language students... And I was not disappointed. 

We arrived at the "poetic pub" before 20h, which was when the concert was to start. Having bought the tickets the previous day (oh, how organised am I!), my friend Lydia already got a small laughing fit after we entered the place when saying: "At the entrance, how you just waved those tickets in Balbín [the owner of the pub]'s face! Like a boss!" So we bought ourselves beers and sat at the head of the long table that almost reached the stage. Even though I didn't see a single face of anyone from our university, I was still pleasantly surprised to see the room full of people. Everyone was enthusiastically clapping to the musicians' tunes, drinking down pints of beer and simply having a good time - just like me and my company.

Each song had a short prologue, done by Radvan Markus, as to inform the audience of the nature or story behind the next musical piece. Some of the songs were solely instrumental, but there were also quite a few ballads and merry songs in Irish or English, all of which were performed by Sinéad Murray. The back of the pub (basically the area with the bar) was occupied by an enthusiastic bunch of young English-speaking people. During the break, they turned out to be Sinéad's fan-club that most probably flew over from Ireland - so you can imagine, there was quite a bit of excess cheering and clapping at the end of most of her performances. Though sometimes obnoxiously loud, they did contribute to the positive atmosphere present in the room... Also, it was quite heart-warming to hear them repeatedly praise our beer: "No wonder all these Czechs get drunk on beer all the time - it's the best!" and so in a short-lived intense moment of nationalistic ecstasy, I finished my pint. 

By the door was a young man in an orange shirt, half-baggy half-tight dark pants and with glasses and long straight hair, who fascinated and entertained not only me and Lydia, but also the rest of the nearby listeners. Simple reason: the lad was dancing all the time - jumping up and down (making the Irish songs suddenly seem perfect for DDR), moving his feet forward and back in a tap-dancing fashion, his arms swinging around his body, mirroring each other. He was so active and joyous, not only did he make me somehow think of a leprechaun (minus the beard and hat), but also made me laugh, especially when Lydia whispered (well, shouted, given the loud acoustics) into my ear: "Can you imagine how tight his ass must be?" He was obviously in a world of his own, yet every once in a while he left the room into the next one, shutting the glass doors behind him - and there he danced some more (sometimes with a partner), clearly enjoying the greater amount of space. Soon enough, he returned back to the main room and skipped and swung his arms some more there.

Hence to conclude, I believe it is a pity that a lot of people missed the event as it was one of those concerts that make one feel both relaxed and positive afterwards. I and my company agreed that the highlight, the "soul" of the event was doubtlessly Radvan Markus and his marvellous flute-playing. Truly! We were astounded by his lightness of performance and his evident enthusiasm for both Irish culture (the stories and history behind the songs) and music (the pieces themselves). As for the singer, Lydia (a musician herself) emphasised the fact that Sinéad sang often off-key, but nonetheless - we all agreed - she had a very friendly and pleasant stage presence. The evening was a wonderful one and if the future holds another Conamara Chaos concert, then I will most definitely be there - and I hope other people from our university will, too.