Hugo; a BookTok fad or something more?

VIKTORIA PRACZKO | LITERARY REVIEW EDITOR

“I do believe that it takes a strong dose of alienation to make a good artist or writer in the modern world. You can’t be too well-adjusted and still have anything interesting to say”.

If you read regularly and discuss literature with others then you most likely have been numerously asked about your favourite novel or author. To some, the answer may arise immediately, whilst for others, including myself, the reply takes some time. Only fairly recently did it consolidate itself. One can enjoy an array of texts or admire certain pieces from poets, but how many readers can name an artist that had such a significant impact on their perception of their surroundings and themselves, that now they own nearly everything that artist ever published? Charles Bukowski (19201994) was a German-American novelist, poet, and shortstory writer. He was greatly influenced by the United States, particularly Los Angeles’ contemporary cultural, social, and economic state. Most of his writing captures the dayto-day lives of the American working and lower classes, often exposing the exploitation and the harshness of the 20th century’s reality. Bukowski utilises his daily experiences as a struggling artist, and the backbreaking evening shifts at the post office, to depict the unfairness of society and to give voice to those that are marginalized. By replicating his physical encounters and verbal interactions with fellow alcoholics, the homeless, and prostitutes, he re-ignites their human dimension that many fail to see or simply disregard. Mentioning Bukowski’s name in passing would most likely result in a controversial debate with one side sternly labelling him as an alcoholicwomaniser, and the other as one of his generation’s most tragic figures. Howard Sounes’ biography, Charles Bukowski: Locked in the Arms of a Crazy Life, is based on extensive research in an attempt to ‘revitalise rather than reduce [his] work’ (Independent). Sounes traces back the poet’s activity across America, visiting the bars where he was a regular, including photographs from different stages of his life, and interviewing his relatives and friends. He captures the poet’s essence so effectively that one does not only feel that they knew him personally but momentarily believes that he has been resurrected.

Sounes begins with Bukowski’s birth in Germany and follows him throughout till his very last breath in San Pedro Peninsula Hospital. He vividly paints the image of a young boy being recurrently beaten by his father’s belt for the most minor misdoing and a teenager with one of the worst cases of acne that left scarring for the rest of his life. We witness his struggle for money and him leaving every job behind to pursue the thing that he was the most passionate about: writing. Sounes’ depiction of Bukowski’s painful rise to success allows one to understand a misunderstood individual whose writing can represent love and grief beautifully whilst having a lust for life.

Source: BBC Radio 4

ANNIKA SWANSBURY | CONTENT WRITER

Evelyn Hugo, Daisy Jones, Nina Riva, and Carrie Soto are not the clique of popular girls from your nightmares, but the four leading ladies of Taylor Jenkins Reid’s intertwined novels. Each is very different, each unlucky in love, and each connected to one another by the reoccurring character of Mick Riva. The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo was first published in 2017 and since has become vastly popular thanks to online communities on platforms like TikTok, allowing it and one of its sister novels, Daisy Jones and the Six, to be adapted into movies.

Evelyn Hugo follows young journalist Monique Grant as she interviews the long-time Hollywood starlet about her infamous love affairs, and her career spanning since the studios ruled Tinseltown. Throughout the novel, we meet the various husbands of the titular character; the good, the bad, the famous, and the infamous, and learn a little more about Evelyn along the way. While we get a slightly glamourised version of Hollywood from Reid, there are also less picture-perfect moments woven into the narrative too. When reading about Evelyn starring as Jo March in an adaption of Little Women, Reid makes you wonder whether the actresses who starred in the 2019 adaptation had similar rivalries behind the scenes. This also sparks the question of how many of today’s star-studded romances are simply to maintain an image, like many of Evelyn’s marriages. It is in the opening chapters that Reid sets up the plot in a fairly conventional manner, introducing characters who have something to reveal later on and have plenty of room to grow in the span of the novel. However, the twists she throws our way go beyond what could be expected. The novel does not start as an inherently queer romance, but it ends that way. Celia St. James and Evelyn Hugo might be introduced as bitter rivals, fighting for awards and the attention of the press, but the tangible spark that Reid creates between them eventually softens to doting affection. The major reveal involves Evelyn Hugo, Monique, and Monique’s father, ultimately elevating the novel away from a typical cheesy romance. After all, this book falls somewhere between cheap holiday romance novels you might pick up at an airport, and something more substantial. Reid’s construction of the ending heavily contributes towards this, giving Evelyn’s character an essence of moral greyness that goes beyond the cold and proud exterior she presents to the press. Reid’s characterisation of Evelyn makes you question whether you ever really liked her character, or if she was simply doing what she does best: acting her way through the interviews with Monique. This is a novel that from the surface may seem like nothing special, another love story with a twist but to some, it is more than that. Evelyn Hugo is bittersweet and heart-breaking at the same time; you cannot help but devour it.

Source: Wikipedia

SEB GARDINER | CONTENT WRITER

Source: The Guardian

Readers familiar with Annie Ernaux know that the majority of her work is deeply personal; with over nearly five decades of writing, she has narrated her marriage, affairs, young life, abortion, cancer, and family deaths. Her work, sociological as well as autobiographical, has all been written from her residency in a Parisian suburb. Exteriors is a short collection of journal entries that separates itself vastly from these other works. Each entry, from a couple of lines to a whole page long, forms an outline of seven years of Ernaux’s life, in her late 40s. The journal format is used brilliantly, and, for a publication that stands apart from her others, also works fantastically. The stories published before and after Exteriors concern a heart wrought in all-consuming passion, and reflection on a traumatic memory, (Simple Passions, Shame), so it is only briefly that we have access to this new style, one where Ernaux is not trapped in reflecting on the past but is documenting her life as and when she sees it. It is comfortable in the immediate present. The collection is concerned with living on the fringe of a society. Ernaux, residing and writing from a suburb of Paris, lives just outside of the rush and noise of the capital. By casually noticing and writing about people she notices but does not know, Ernaux shows us an example of her leaving her past behind, an experiment where she does not just detach herself from her previous experiences, but from the people around her as well.

It is an extremely humble collection of entries, as Ernaux perhaps shows her distrust in memory, and the importance of focusing on the present. Each detailed account leaves us wondering of our own reaction, should we find ourselves in a similar, normal position as her. A young man trims his nails on public transport, a cat is run over in the road, a trolley is abandoned in a field; we are shown the outside of these events, the apparent, but are then suddenly given a new journal entry to think on. By not developing these scenes, Ernaux forces us to stay in the present with what we know, and not get lost with imagining how it happened. Exteriors contributes to a vast, diverse collection of work that won Ernaux the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2022, but remains an ecstatic, singular text that reflects on itself, and Ernaux past work, as it breaks free from obsessing over the past.

EMILIE WILLIAMS | CONTENT WRITER

“Until there is no longer the possibility of sadness, of isolation, there can be no gravity. We all float by, rootless, taking clumsy astronaut steps and calling it progress”.

Meg Wolitzer’s 1982 debut novel, Sleepwalking, deals with the difficulties of overcoming teenage obsessions and their effects on friendships. The novel takes place during autumn on the fictional campus of Swarthmore University, where three college students named “the death girls” (Naomi, Claire, and Laura) bond over their shared morbid obsession with the work and suicides of three poets. Naomi idolises Sylvia Plath, Laura adores Anne Sexton, and the protagonist Claire is infatuated with Wolitzer’s fictional poet named Lucy Asher. The “death girls” gather at night in their dorm rooms and read the works of their favourite poets to each other. However, when Claire meets fellow student Julian, she is forced to confront the nature of her obsession with Asher and her identity as a "death girl" through extreme means. She invades Asher’s family home and figuratively takes her place in hopes to learn more about the poet’s life. The novel explores the difficulties that result from growing beyond assigned identities when you have isolated yourself. Claire comes to understand her identity as a young woman beyond her role as a “death girl”, at the cost of letting go of what has provided her with a sense of comfort for many years. As Claire sees Asher’s parents continue to grieve the death of their daughter, the reader witnesses all three characters struggle to learn how to say goodbye to their beloved late Lucy. “What about the other side of letting go, the side that stuck closest to the words themselves? When you really let go, you were saying goodbye forever. No one ever wanted to talk about that aspect; it was universally considered too painful”. The obsession the “death girls” have with their favourite poets demonstrates the plight of young adults who cling to what they identify with. Claire feels a sense of affinity with Asher as she conveys thoughts and ideas that Claire feels unable to conjure up herself: “Lucy Asher wrote about everything I had ever thought about, […] and she voiced these thoughts in an entirely new way”. Wolitzer’s writing is effortlessly poetic, intricate, and meditative. Although the narrative arc is simple, Wolitzer makes up for it through her descriptive power and profound characters. Wolitzer’s descriptions of scenes and the presentation of her characters’ inner thoughts transport the reader into the world of her novel. The atmosphere of the novel captures the charm of 1980’s indie films that centre around teenage tribulations such as Dead Poets Society and Heathers. The autumnal ambience and university setting creates a comforting backdrop to the struggles of the characters. For her first novel, Sleepwalking is a testament to Wolitzer’s successful career and imaginative genius. The dark atmospheric story could be summarised as an angsty meditation on grief which is easy to read and perfect for the autumn months.

Source: @thebreakfastbooks, Instagram

HARRISON PITTS | CONTENT WRITER

Despite usually being drawn towards horror novels, I decided that for the November issue I will write on Bernard Framer’s vintage murder mystery, Death of a Bookseller. Whilst Farmer’s jovial topic is somewhat light, it takes us on a journey into the unexpectedly vicious and cutthroat world of the rare book trade. Instead of the “harmless past-time of old dodderers” you or I may have imagined it to be, the occupation is populated by all manner of covetous souls. The characters range from small-time “runners” to monomaniacal bookshop owners to violent romantics with a penchant for grievous bodily harm. Each and all risking life and limb, vying to secure first editions of Henty, Keats and the like at a bargain, no matter the method. However, when someone takes it past the seemingly ritual occurrences of theft and threat with a runner being found with a knife driven through his chest in his very own library, the rare book trade is wracked with suspicion, intrigue, and morbid opportunism.

Source: Ayman Yusuf, Unsplash

Sargent Wigan enters the scene looking to solve the murder of his newfound friend who, despite only knowing for around six pages, has solidified himself in his, and our, hearts as a person worth avenging. Nevertheless, the case proves tougher than expected and with Wigan’s seemingly insurmountable inability to uncover any new evidence, an eldritch explanation begins to seem more and more likely. Rumours of a spectral, headless bat haunting the streets begin to grow, and besides, was our murdered man not found dead with a demon-summoning tome clutched tight in his bloodied hands? While the reveal of the mystery may not be the highlight of the book, the time spent with Wigan and his charmingly unlikely assistants as they trudge through hopelessness to revelation and back again is. Ultimately, Wigan’s relationship with others makes it an intriguing, satisfying, and at times heart-breaking, read with surprising amounts of humour in parts. The comically dramatic interactions between the principal ‘bookrunners’ are backed up with terminology and a level of knowledge that transforms the dialogue from melodrama into something you could imagine overhearing in the crowded basement of a local bookshop. Farmer’s own experiences as both a policeman and a bookseller also lend this book an air of accuracy and intimacy that could be scarcely gained otherwise. All and all, if you can get over the obvious pitfalls of a story written by a white man in the fifties, it’s a deeply enjoyable bibliomystery with a selfishly charming gallery of less-thanmoral booksellers. As such it is no wonder that Farmer’s Death of a Bookseller found itself in the coveted spot of 100th book in the British Library’s Crime Classics series, one aiming to bring underappreciated tales from half-forgotten authors (such as this one) to readers in the 21st Century.

DEVESH SOOD | MANAGING EDITOR

(While there are no spoilers in this article, I strongly recommend reading it knowing as little as possible).

Being floored is a rare and precious experience. Anything that can have you hooked and fascinated, endlessly swirling around your head in the days, weeks, even months after the credits roll is special. The ones that leave you up in the dead of night, seeking answers for its greatest puzzles; it is those films that exemplify cinema in its ultimate form. I do not think I have ever seen a film quite like The Banshees of Inisherin. Why is that? Even after a few weeks, I am still not entirely sure. I had begun writing this article with the goal of unlocking some of its greatest secrets, but in retrospect I think that endeavour would have taken years (and that is being optimistic). So, instead, I will tell you this: The Banshees of Inisherin is incredible. It is a spectacular film, demonstrating everything I love about filmmaking. I was initially excited at the reunion of the In Bruges trio, with auteur Martin McDonagh alongside leading-men Brendan Gleeson, and Colin Farrell, who has had one of the greatest years of his career with The Batman, After Yang, 13 Lives and now Inisherin under his belt. It took me by surprise to find out it was Barry Keoghan and, in particular, Kerry Condon who stole the acting limelight. The Banshees of Inisherin feels completely different to In Bruges; the stakes are low, and the driving force of the story is, debatably, far more comical, though that sense of tragedy remains. The island of Inisherin is fictional, but you would be forgiven for thinking otherwise. The world has been so well realised, having been shot on-location on the Irish coast. Such specific rural presence exudes from the screen. Whether it is the eeriness of dangling puppets inside homes, or the more comical nature of animals roaming free, it all helped to create an immersive world. But it is the tale being told that is key. The story is set in the early 1920’s, with the backdrop of the Irish Civil War, though this really feels like a town out of time. Or rather: alone, isolated from the rest of the world, where nothing exciting happens. Inisherin is not dissimilar to Inishmaan, or Inisheer, and shares the limited expectations of those islands. There is not much to do and there are not many people. This peace is necessary amongst the loneliness. So when Pádraic begins to be shunned by his friend, Colm, his initial confusion ultimately leads down a darker path. The narrative mainstays are established within the first 20 minutes, but the story takes its time to demonstrate the pain caused by these actions. Questions of kindness versus greatness are constantly raised, but there is no real answer. These questions are left circling on the island, as the conflict seems to result in the worst for each party. Reflecting upon the pitiful nature of this feud leaves two apparent avenues, depending on your perspective: either the fractured friendship highlights the tragic aspects of the story, or the darkly comedic. While I am still seeking answers, I am certain every question could be answered just by the Island of Inisherin. Knowing McDonagh’s background as a playwright, the story could plausibly serve the stage just as well but, unlike films such as Fences, Inisherin seems distinctly suited to the silver screen. Without showing the world of Inisherin, I struggle to see how a stage adaption could function effectively. As I continue looking for answers, my jaw continues to drop. The Banshees of Inisherin has well and truly floored me.

Source: @banshees_movie, Instagram

KAYLA TOMLINSON | CONTENT WRITER

Barbarian (2022) is the newest entry to the ever-growing collection of our finest comedy writers turning to horror and creating some of the most innovative and interesting films in the recent years. Zach Cregger’s debut film, Barbarian operates in similar vein as James Wan’s Malignant or Ti West’s X, in that it does not take itself too seriously and finds a way to mix both conventional comedy and horror elements into the plot. The plot focuses upon Tess (Georgina Campbell) who, while in Detroit for a job interview, finds someone else already in her rented Airbnb. This someone else is Keith (Bill Skarsgard). Skarsgard has mastered the awkward creepiness needed to depict Keith for the faux-villain he is.

In the first act, the film plays out as a tense slasher mystery, with the audience wondering Keith’s intentions and if, or rather when, he is going to start hunting Tess. However, only 30 minutes in, there is a sudden change in direction. With the reveal of the hidden basement below the house and what lurks there, Barbarian makes a swift turn into the monster genre, full of the jump-scares and body horror expected. The performances and directing are what sell the film. Barbarian is full of actors who are no amateurs when it comes to the horror genre. Justin Long appears half-way through the film as AJ, a disgraced Hollywood actor who owns the Airbnb that Tess and Keith have been trapped in, and almost completely steals the show as he returns to the genre that he first excelled in. Georgina Campbell is Zach Cregger’s directing is the real standout though. The camera moves fluidly, framing every scene so that the monster is just out of sight, so that the viewer can search in the background for any ghosts or creatures. Cregger’s sudden cut-aways from tense scenes means there is an undercurrent of tension throughout the movie, as the audience is in constant question of what happened to certain characters.

Though some may not like the quick shifts from intense horror to comedy, it would be difficult to say that they are not beautifully executed within the film, happening just at the right times and just at the right amount. Overall, Barbarian is a fantastic breakout picture from Cregger and a real breath of fresh air when it comes to the horror genre. If you want to watch it, it is available in cinemas from 28th October, with no current streaming release announced.

Tracy (Reese Witherspoon) is shown as a hardworking, if slightly intense, high school senior who sees winning the election as another way for her to get into a good university. Her zest for achieving puts her at odds with her teacher, Jim McAllister (Matthew Broderick) who dislikes her for both her intensity, and his view that she was responsible for a colleague’s firing. Mr. McAllister encourages a popular jock named Paul Metzler to run against Tracy as a way of providing her with some competition, as well as his own personal vendetta against her. Things get more complicated when Paul’s sister, Tammy, joins the Presidential race as an act of revenge against her ex-girlfriend who begins dating her brother. The absurdity of the situation becomes even more apparent when Tammy admits she does not care about the election and wants to dismantle the student government. Tracy Flick is not a villain. She is a seventeenyear-old who uses her intelligence and drive to push herself to achieve as much as possible. Reese Witherspoon embodies her as a perky perfectionist who has the weight of her future riding on this election. For Tracy, getting into a good university means she can become a successful woman and achieve all the things her single mother wants for her. Her attempts to improve the school and herself are thwarted by a petty middle-aged man who refuses to acknowledge that he is the responsible adult in this situation. Even if she acts snobby or overzealous at times, she is still a teenage girl and one without any power outside her suburban high school. The character of Tracy Flick has been lobbed at female politicians as though it is the worst insult they can imagine: a person who is hypercompetent and eager to achieve. However, nobody remembers the name of the man who tries to bring her down, instead it is the young woman who refuses to quit and continues to work hard in the public consciousness. Election is worth watching not just for the incredible performances, but also to interrogate our own internalised misogyny when it comes to what we think women in politics should be like.

ASHTON KESSLER | CONTENT WRITER

Tracy Flick has become a shorthand reference for ambitious women in politics since Election premiered in 1999. She embodies the stereotypical idea of a woman who excels in the field: cutthroat, overachieving and willing to sleep her way to the top. This misogynistic characterisation still presides today, however, a further examination of both the character and the film paints Tracy in a far more sympathetic light.

Source: @90s.4eva, Instagram

CHARLIE THIRKETTLE | CONTENT WRITER

The late, great Anthony Bourdain once said, “Cooking is a craft, I like to think, and a good cook is a craftsman—not an artist”. While I am not here to argue with one of the most notable chefs of the 20th and 21st century, I do disagree with him. Cooking is art. Expression through food is artistic expression and, in recent years, has proven to be an art form that looks so damn good on both the big and small screen.

Ratatouille, Burnt and Chef (Jon Favreau’s best film in my opinion), are all examples of captivating stories being told from beyond the pass. However, none have been as intense as the first season of Christopher Storer’s The Bear. Set in contemporary Chicago, The Bear follows Carmy, a legendary chef who has left the world of fine cuisine to return to his hometown to run “The Original Beef”, a sandwich deli left to him by his recently deceased brother Michael. Carmy takes over with one goal: to turn the run-down, derelict sandwich shop into something new, something better. With the help of a few stubborn reprobates, Carmy attempts to transform “The Original Beef” into a maverick within the Chicago food scene. Carmy, played by Jeremey Allen White, is vibrant and engaging. Dealing with the relentless highs and lows of restaurant management, as well as handling the grief of his brother’s suicide, all makes for a beautifully rounded out and multidimensional character. An elegant (and hopefully Emmy Award-winning) performance from White makes Carmy one of the most memorable television characters about right now. However, a protagonist is only as strong as the characters around them. Fortunately, Christopher Storer did not skimp on the rest of the wayward cast working at “The Original Beef”. A colourful array of side characters fills the show with conflict, laughs and hope. One standout being Sydney (Ayo Edebiri). A sous-chef from the American Culinary Institute, Sydney has come to Chicago to work alongside Carmy, and learn the sacred rules of the kitchen. With a breath-taking performance from Edebiri, Sydney’s journey from kitchen runt to respected sous is a highlight of the show. Other characters such as Richie (Ebon Moss-Bachrach), Marcus (Lionel Boyce) and Tina (Liza ColónZayas) all bring their own set of wants, needs, and desires to the kitchen. And, of course, their own series of conflicts.

Richie is certainly the rowdiest of all the characters. Often heard with his colourful language, and seen with a gun, Richie is unique. Whether it be dealing with his family life falling apart, the loss of his best friend Michael, or struggling to change alongside the ever-evolving kitchen, Richie is the conduit for the male audience’s escapism. A struggling man hiding behind a facade in order to protect himself and his manhood.

In an era where mental health recognition amongst men has become a topic of worldwide attention, The Bear’s underlining of “it’s okay to not be okay” sends a message of immense support to a population notorious for keeping their feelings in. Whether its Richie’s family issues, Carmy’s grief, or Michael's suicide, Christopher Storer handles the theme of mental health with dignity and respect. The Bear is a masterclass in storytelling. Its short bite-sized episodes reveal a deceptively charming story of a world not often seen through the lens of realism. Its extreme intensity is perfectly balanced with moments of calm and a plethora of nuanced, touching character anecdotes compels The Bear into the must-watch category. It is certainly a contender for best series of the year.

Source: @thebearfx, Instagram

JETHRO ROBATHAN | FILM EDITOR

Open disclaimer: this review took quite a while to write, simply because it is hard to settle on any lasting impression of Brad Pitt’s latest foray onto the silver screen. I am of course talking about the actionthriller Bullet Train, directed by David Leitch and written by Zak Olkewicz, a morbidly Westernized adaptation of Kotaro Isaka’s novel of the same title. Why morbid, you ask? Largely, due to the cultural and geographic backdrop being treated as a clichéd, touristic filler for cheap laughs; Japanese smart toilets being the squeaky hinge of a “comic” moment springs to mind. The film distinctly plays on Orientalist stereotypes while weakly paddling in the depths of kitschy deadpan-cum-slapstick comedy. It is a shame. Leitch is no stranger to the high-octane, fist-flying fight scenes which hue most (well, all) contemporary action films. He was the producer behind the John Wick trilogy and more recently, Nobody, alongside directing Deadpool 2. For someone so well-versed in successful action flicks, it is more than a little disheartening to find Leitch’s latest gambit falling short of the mark. Pitt finds himself playing the wearied role of a reformed criminal (oxymoronic, I know), codenamed Ladybug, who is a quasi-Zen assassin tainted by relentless bad luck and a stodgy script, derivative of the likes of Guy Ritchie’s Snatch and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Ladybug is just getting back into the criminal ring and is tasked with the seemingly easy job of lifting a briefcase off the Shinkansen (hence the title) between Tokyo and Kyoto. What ensues is the collective imaginings of everything that could go wrong, plus some more. British gangster duo Lemon (Brian Tyree Henry) and Tangerine (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) are show-stealers with lively performances that outdo Pitt’s comparatively linear take on the goofball criminal with a side-gig as a comedian.

Henry, in particular, manages to infuse the right balance of somberness and sarcasm for the script to actually breathe. Faux deaths and a determinism driven by a literal obsession with Thomas the Tank Engine (very onbrand given the context) are actually funny. Perhaps a little overdone towards the end, but I can concede that humour is subjective. The rest of the cast perform well, although there are no standouts.