To anyone who actually reads my blog....
I have now moved to a different site so please come and visit me at http://morwennaconiam.wordpress.com
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Age Before Beauty?
In today's Guardian, Joan Bakewell writes of the discrimination she perceives against older women in broadcast media. You can read the article here. http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/sep/03/television.discriminationatwork
It reminded me of an interview a fellow reporter did when I worked on a local paper in the South West. She had interviewed a locally well-known female newsreader. (I won't mention her name as the lady in question has also worked on national networks in recent years.) About an hour after she'd filed the copy, the news editor came over looking quizzical. "Jules", he said. "It's all good, but, where's the age?".
I was a bit taken a back. Such an amateur mistake. Even I, at that time an intern of only a few weeks, would have been mortified to have done it this was one of the most experienced reporters in the office. But there was an explanation. Female presenters are not welcome in serious television broadcasting once they reach a certain age.
My colleague had not included the news reader's name in the interview because the woman was afraid it would end her career. In fact the interviewee had confessed her employers thought her to be ten years younger than she was.
She had told the reporter that she had not deliberately lied to the broadcasting company, but had failed to correct another's error when her looks were deceptively youthful. She did not want responsibility for the fiction being published, so fearful of the truth, she asked that it be omitted all together.
This points clearly to an environment where sexist age-discrimination is part of the establishment. The presenter's concern was not that she would be discriminated against because of her actual looks, but that her age would make her an unwise choice in the minds of those who still think of female presenters as a visual marketing tool. It suggests a form of ageism which has evolved beyond individual chauvinist instincts into unstated formality.
It reminded me of an interview a fellow reporter did when I worked on a local paper in the South West. She had interviewed a locally well-known female newsreader. (I won't mention her name as the lady in question has also worked on national networks in recent years.) About an hour after she'd filed the copy, the news editor came over looking quizzical. "Jules", he said. "It's all good, but, where's the age?".
I was a bit taken a back. Such an amateur mistake. Even I, at that time an intern of only a few weeks, would have been mortified to have done it this was one of the most experienced reporters in the office. But there was an explanation. Female presenters are not welcome in serious television broadcasting once they reach a certain age.
My colleague had not included the news reader's name in the interview because the woman was afraid it would end her career. In fact the interviewee had confessed her employers thought her to be ten years younger than she was.
She had told the reporter that she had not deliberately lied to the broadcasting company, but had failed to correct another's error when her looks were deceptively youthful. She did not want responsibility for the fiction being published, so fearful of the truth, she asked that it be omitted all together.
This points clearly to an environment where sexist age-discrimination is part of the establishment. The presenter's concern was not that she would be discriminated against because of her actual looks, but that her age would make her an unwise choice in the minds of those who still think of female presenters as a visual marketing tool. It suggests a form of ageism which has evolved beyond individual chauvinist instincts into unstated formality.
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Spying in the Cube-icle
Having listened to my friends extolling its virtues throughout the years I was away at university, last night I finally made a visit to Bristol's microplex, 'The Cube'.
Tucked discretely down an alley in Kingsdown above the BRI, the venue certainly didn't disappoint. The orangey beamed low ceilings and half-staircases created an environment resting somewhere between a quirky European backpackers' hostel (the sort with sofa throws, free tea and cheap beer/ 'herbs') and a scout hut. It all felt very homely until I went into the ladies loos and found a peep-hole cut out of the side of my cubicle. I can only assume that The Cube once really was a scout hut and they haven't got around to filling it in yet. Either that or its meant to be a kind of voyeuristic extension of the viewing experience. (Sorry. Not for me. I'll be taking a tea-towel to hang up next time I go.)
Peep-shows excluded, the private members cinema (it costs £1 to join) boasts a daily changing programme of films from around the world along with a range of themed screenings, gigs and exhibitions. There's also a lounge and student style bar serving up an eclectic range of drinks and snacks which range from cocktails dashed together out of plastic bottles to yummy deserts and wasabi peas. There's also a programme of special events. This summer sees The Cube Summer Garden, a series of outdoor screenings featuring French and Japanese cinema which you can take with tea and cake.
Apart from the few slight discomforts (the hole in the loo and some of the most excruciating wooden seats any scout or guide could have possibly sat upon) , the only real damper on our evening, was the unannounced switching of the film. We thought we were going to see the French Moroccan 'Couscous', but instead found ourselves presented with Bertolucci's 'The Non-Conformist'. This wouldn't have been the most unwelcome of surprises - it is an excellent film - but given that we had, only a few months ago, tracked down a screening at another of Bristol's arts cinemas, it was largely due to laziness that we sat through the Italian classic again.
Communication is something The Cube could perhaps do with working on - that and an effort to sort out a few technical problems with their projectors (which I think may have explained the switch), but it would be a shame if this venue ever loses it's secret club-like feel. The prices are low (£2 for all on Tuesdays) which make a few unexpected occurrences acceptable and make me sure I will be visiting again.
Tucked discretely down an alley in Kingsdown above the BRI, the venue certainly didn't disappoint. The orangey beamed low ceilings and half-staircases created an environment resting somewhere between a quirky European backpackers' hostel (the sort with sofa throws, free tea and cheap beer/ 'herbs') and a scout hut. It all felt very homely until I went into the ladies loos and found a peep-hole cut out of the side of my cubicle. I can only assume that The Cube once really was a scout hut and they haven't got around to filling it in yet. Either that or its meant to be a kind of voyeuristic extension of the viewing experience. (Sorry. Not for me. I'll be taking a tea-towel to hang up next time I go.)
Peep-shows excluded, the private members cinema (it costs £1 to join) boasts a daily changing programme of films from around the world along with a range of themed screenings, gigs and exhibitions. There's also a lounge and student style bar serving up an eclectic range of drinks and snacks which range from cocktails dashed together out of plastic bottles to yummy deserts and wasabi peas. There's also a programme of special events. This summer sees The Cube Summer Garden, a series of outdoor screenings featuring French and Japanese cinema which you can take with tea and cake.
Apart from the few slight discomforts (the hole in the loo and some of the most excruciating wooden seats any scout or guide could have possibly sat upon) , the only real damper on our evening, was the unannounced switching of the film. We thought we were going to see the French Moroccan 'Couscous', but instead found ourselves presented with Bertolucci's 'The Non-Conformist'. This wouldn't have been the most unwelcome of surprises - it is an excellent film - but given that we had, only a few months ago, tracked down a screening at another of Bristol's arts cinemas, it was largely due to laziness that we sat through the Italian classic again.
Communication is something The Cube could perhaps do with working on - that and an effort to sort out a few technical problems with their projectors (which I think may have explained the switch), but it would be a shame if this venue ever loses it's secret club-like feel. The prices are low (£2 for all on Tuesdays) which make a few unexpected occurrences acceptable and make me sure I will be visiting again.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Weston Super-Memories
As I logged on this morning I was immediately greeted by the sight of Weston Super-Mare pier ablaze. It took a few seconds to register. As a girl from Bristol, this was an important part of my childhood going up in smoke.
Sentimental as it sounds, I found myself unable to fight off the memories of wind-splatted ice-creams, donkey rides and sandcastles which resembled nothing similar to any form of human habitation. It was the place of seaside cliches, sandy sandwiches included, and the place I learned how to play with other children in a way which didn't provoke them to dig at my toes with a spade. (Sand-filled toe cuts are possibly one of the most cringe worthy forms of abuse, comparable only to enforced paper cuts before a cookery class involving lemons.)
This was the same story for many of my friends and, I'm sure, many other children from the urban South West. I went to a school in Bristol, but many times throughout the 1990s the whole year-load of us would get packed on a coach and driven to the town - usually in the pissing rain. It was here that the pier really came into its own. There was the hall of mirrors in which everyone could get lost, look fat, thin or just generally hideous. There were the machines where we seemed to waste infinite amounts of money getting 'old' pennies in return for our legally tenderable allowances. Then there was a 'moderately scary' ghost train which some of us may have decided to 'spice up' by adorning the route with our own 'superior' poltergeists and cranky witches. Afterwards, fish and Chips followed by disgustingly pink candyfloss always seemed a sensible antidote to the dodgems, but we soon learnt it was just a recipe for being sick at the nearby Sea Life Centre or, better still, on the coach journey home.
It became a bit of a joke, especially once we were teenagers and resented any form of organised fun in general. Weston Sludge-and-Mud was the name given by those of my friends who lived in the area. But what it gave us was an inexpensive taste of freedom which almost everyone could enjoy. The pier provided a bit of history (we were never allowed to go unaware of its Victorian heritage) combined with a genuine opportunity to have fun close to home. At the age of ten we were allowed to run fairly free and were given our first real responsibility for getting back to the coach on time. I suppose in reality if the teachers were at one end of the pier, providing we didn't decide to jump off and swim for it (there were no risk assessment forms in those days), there wasn't really anywhere for us to go. Stay too late on the dodgems and Mrs Denham would soon be chasing you around the circuit.
I can only hope that Michelle and Kerry Michael make good their promise to restore the pier to its former glory so that future generations of children can enjoy its timeless escape from city life - and the wonderful Weston weather.
Sentimental as it sounds, I found myself unable to fight off the memories of wind-splatted ice-creams, donkey rides and sandcastles which resembled nothing similar to any form of human habitation. It was the place of seaside cliches, sandy sandwiches included, and the place I learned how to play with other children in a way which didn't provoke them to dig at my toes with a spade. (Sand-filled toe cuts are possibly one of the most cringe worthy forms of abuse, comparable only to enforced paper cuts before a cookery class involving lemons.)
This was the same story for many of my friends and, I'm sure, many other children from the urban South West. I went to a school in Bristol, but many times throughout the 1990s the whole year-load of us would get packed on a coach and driven to the town - usually in the pissing rain. It was here that the pier really came into its own. There was the hall of mirrors in which everyone could get lost, look fat, thin or just generally hideous. There were the machines where we seemed to waste infinite amounts of money getting 'old' pennies in return for our legally tenderable allowances. Then there was a 'moderately scary' ghost train which some of us may have decided to 'spice up' by adorning the route with our own 'superior' poltergeists and cranky witches. Afterwards, fish and Chips followed by disgustingly pink candyfloss always seemed a sensible antidote to the dodgems, but we soon learnt it was just a recipe for being sick at the nearby Sea Life Centre or, better still, on the coach journey home.
It became a bit of a joke, especially once we were teenagers and resented any form of organised fun in general. Weston Sludge-and-Mud was the name given by those of my friends who lived in the area. But what it gave us was an inexpensive taste of freedom which almost everyone could enjoy. The pier provided a bit of history (we were never allowed to go unaware of its Victorian heritage) combined with a genuine opportunity to have fun close to home. At the age of ten we were allowed to run fairly free and were given our first real responsibility for getting back to the coach on time. I suppose in reality if the teachers were at one end of the pier, providing we didn't decide to jump off and swim for it (there were no risk assessment forms in those days), there wasn't really anywhere for us to go. Stay too late on the dodgems and Mrs Denham would soon be chasing you around the circuit.
I can only hope that Michelle and Kerry Michael make good their promise to restore the pier to its former glory so that future generations of children can enjoy its timeless escape from city life - and the wonderful Weston weather.
Saturday, 26 July 2008
Friday, 25 July 2008
Environmentally friendly theatre
On buying a ticket at The Alma Tavern Theatre in Bristol this evening, I was presented with a laminated plastic ticket and asked to hand it back on the way out. Why hasn't anyone had this idea before? Not only does it have the obvious advantage of not condemning a truck-load of trees to the box office, but it also means it doesn't knock around in a handbag for three months afterwards. The only downside is now I don't have anything to wrap unwanted chewing-gum in when that inevitable decomposition begins to take place just after the interval.
Short Cuts to Edinburgh - The Alma Tavern Theatre
The two fringe-length shows preparing to travel up to Edinburgh fared well in front of an intimate Bristol audience. No one seemed too perturbed by the heat or stickiness in the tiny pub theatre which is always testiment to a reasonable show.
DODGY KEEPER - Harry Mottram
A one-man show depicting the hopes and shattered dreams of a struggling part-time goalie. The main action is athletically performed by Mottram himself, assisted only by a projected film which provides a welcomed injection of variety and context. The monologue anxiously rattles through hang-ups over gambling, drinking, ageing and relationships and the combination of prose and verse progresses with impressive fluidity. Mottram carries the play well, seamlessly switching between characters to complete conversations with colleagues and girlfriends. It's only a shame that he comes across as more convincing when he steps into the persona of other characters than when he is in his role of the protagonist. His performance feels just a little too 'nice' to be believable as the rather reckless sorry case the script suggests. One gets the sense that star, once a local goalie, is a little too close to the character to avoid tainting the performance with an element of himself.
CYRIL - Sally-Anne Hayward
Hayward was for the most part very amusing and worked well with the audience. The show focused upon village life and combined modern day observation with the protracted telling of a village-themed fairy tale. In all fairness this is still a work in progress so there has to be some leeway allowed for polishing, but the structure felt a little strained and at times it felt as if she lost the audience's support.
If the theatre rule that nothing should be 'too close' is to be applied to stand-up, then making us feel a little uncomfortable should be nothing to apologise for. Hayward's joke empathising with the murders of Fred West in Gloucester, however, (there really weren't many ways 'i couldn't help wishing he was still there' in reference to the quality of the people to be found there could be interpreted - please do feel free to offer any suggestions) went down like a gibbering dead fish. The recurrent disability jibes, especially relating to those with prosthetic legs also felt a bit unnaturally inserted - presumably for shock value, or due to some kind of phobia.
Hayward's finest talent lies in her real-life social observations. Her commentary upon the grimy realities of the day, covering topics such as parents, ex-boyfriends and depleting pubic hair were far wittier than the fairy-tale she deviated to narrate. Though cleverly conceived, it felt a bit like it belonged more to the realm of the children's books she confessed to having been so inspired by. In a more dramatic setting, it could have perhaps acted as an effective contrast to the intermittent anecdotes, but within the stand-up act, just made the story seem superfluous. It's difficult to create a sense of juxtaposition for an audience when they are presented with one woman talking on a bare stage.
DODGY KEEPER - Harry Mottram
A one-man show depicting the hopes and shattered dreams of a struggling part-time goalie. The main action is athletically performed by Mottram himself, assisted only by a projected film which provides a welcomed injection of variety and context. The monologue anxiously rattles through hang-ups over gambling, drinking, ageing and relationships and the combination of prose and verse progresses with impressive fluidity. Mottram carries the play well, seamlessly switching between characters to complete conversations with colleagues and girlfriends. It's only a shame that he comes across as more convincing when he steps into the persona of other characters than when he is in his role of the protagonist. His performance feels just a little too 'nice' to be believable as the rather reckless sorry case the script suggests. One gets the sense that star, once a local goalie, is a little too close to the character to avoid tainting the performance with an element of himself.
CYRIL - Sally-Anne Hayward
Hayward was for the most part very amusing and worked well with the audience. The show focused upon village life and combined modern day observation with the protracted telling of a village-themed fairy tale. In all fairness this is still a work in progress so there has to be some leeway allowed for polishing, but the structure felt a little strained and at times it felt as if she lost the audience's support.
If the theatre rule that nothing should be 'too close' is to be applied to stand-up, then making us feel a little uncomfortable should be nothing to apologise for. Hayward's joke empathising with the murders of Fred West in Gloucester, however, (there really weren't many ways 'i couldn't help wishing he was still there' in reference to the quality of the people to be found there could be interpreted - please do feel free to offer any suggestions) went down like a gibbering dead fish. The recurrent disability jibes, especially relating to those with prosthetic legs also felt a bit unnaturally inserted - presumably for shock value, or due to some kind of phobia.
Hayward's finest talent lies in her real-life social observations. Her commentary upon the grimy realities of the day, covering topics such as parents, ex-boyfriends and depleting pubic hair were far wittier than the fairy-tale she deviated to narrate. Though cleverly conceived, it felt a bit like it belonged more to the realm of the children's books she confessed to having been so inspired by. In a more dramatic setting, it could have perhaps acted as an effective contrast to the intermittent anecdotes, but within the stand-up act, just made the story seem superfluous. It's difficult to create a sense of juxtaposition for an audience when they are presented with one woman talking on a bare stage.
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