Show and Tell: the ethical issues behind documentary films

Originally published in The Oxonian Globalist

Alexandra Sutton explores the ethical issues behind humanitarian documentaries, and questions their ability to facilitate change

Whose voice are we hearing? Photo by Jonathan Smith.

The humanitarian documentary is a double-edged sword of communication and narrative. It serves both to inform and to raise awareness, but it does so through a medium which is necessarily subjective, emotionally manipulative and most importantly, aesthetically produced. So, when it comes to documentaries which focus on human rights issues and campaigns, there appears to be a serious ethical problem in their nature. This problem then forces the question – what do these documentaries actually achieve?

The dichotomy between communication and narrative can be broadly broken down into the idea of “show and tell”. Do these documentaries show us problems, or do they tell us about them? The answer is almost inevitably “tell” – the most powerful documentaries tend to be ideological in their foundations, not only alerting people to serious human rights issues, but exploring the reasons behind them and positing the possibilities for change. This is by no means a bad thing – whether a documentary is led by one strong voice, or features a panel of insightful talking heads, it is often enlightening to have problems which may seem initially very alien relayed to you by those who know the subject.

Although it is arguable that ideology should be the motivating force behind documentary, that argument is contigent upon what we believe the documentary can and should achieve. For example, the basic concept of a documentary would be “to document”, to simply chronicle information and then relay it, leaving room for personal interpretation and reflection. However, humanitarian documentaries, which are heavily stylised and persuasively emotive, aim to create food for thought without actually leaving any room to taste it. A notorious exemplar of this is Invisible Children’s much debated Kony 2012 short film. With its heartbreaking images and moving soundtrack, it struck a chord with the public (not unlike charity adverts) and immediately went viral, before being quickly denounced as flawed, partially false and worryingly evocative of militant propaganda.

Why then were so many people taken in by it? Perhaps it was the aesthetic qualities of the video, perhaps it was the rush of virtual activism (or “slacktivism”, if you will), or the extremely simplified message of Good vs. Evil. However, the most revealing form of persuasion was actually the most unsettling: Kony 2012 made people feel good. Much of the appeal is inherently self-centred – it told us that we could achieve great things by doing very little, that we were an empowered generation of connected social media activists, and crucially, that we in the liberal West had the power to solve the problems of everyone else. It was all about us.

The assumption that documentaries are actually all about the viewer isn’t necessarily wholly negative; learning about and attempting to understand human rights issues requires empathy as well as sympathy. It’s just that the documentaries rarely present situations that we can even attempt to empathise with. As soon as we start trying to, the films risk becoming ethically flawed, and frequently Western-centric – both in terms of moral values and presentation.

For example, recent documentaries such as Girl Rising and Half the Sky – both about women’s rights in India, Pakistan and Africa, amongst other countries – relay personal, first person narratives through the medium of celebrity monologues or interviews. Girl Rising calls for female education and empowerment, but good intentions are dampened by the film’s execution – liberties are taken with the girl’s stories, and their voices are essentially drowned out by a Western imposition of morality, and the famous faces we implicitly trust to deliver said moral judgment. The difficulty with this imposition is that it requires us place a value judgement on cultural norms. In these documentaries, the general solutions are wound up with Westernisation, suggesting that countries should not only assimilate our societal structures, but assimilate the cultural values that go along with them. The question is, where does this end? What happens in countries where religion and state are one and the same? In this respect, the documentary can become overtly political, and once again lose sight of the nuances in these issues, and in each nation. Obviously, there are elements of Western society that are objectively beneficial, and among these education is chief. However, human rights issues cannot be diluted into abstract “pillars of society”; these ideals are fundamentally subjective as culture and morality are not easily separated.

Half the Sky is similarly concerning, in which several Hollywood women meet female victims of persecution and attempt to relate to them. The actresses epitomise the flaws in these kinds of films – the interviews blur into psuedo-docu-drama, and in the attempt to connect with the women, the film ends up alienating them even further. Their very real histories of oppression and trauma are glossed into a simplified story female troubles the world over.

However, idealistic though it may be, behind the majority of these films are people who are intending to achieve something positive. In many cases this goes beyond raising awareness, to actually facilitating change. For example, They Go to Die, a film about the links between tuberculosis and the South African mining industry, led to an All Party Parliamentary meeting in the UK to discuss the issue, and the film received a Global Health Award. The person behind the documentary, Jonathan Smith, was not a filmmaker, but rather a student of the Yale School of Public Health. Smith approached the issue by using his academic background of health and social policy, but rather than letting social theory dominate the film, he let the victims of the mining industry explain the issues themselves. Equally, the award-winning documentary on sexual assault in the US military, The Invisible War, led to an almost immediate directive ordering all sexual harassment cases to be handled by senior officers, issued by Secretary of Defence, Leon Panetta. According to the New York Times, the film has been credited with both encouraging victims to come forward, and galvanising procedural changes within the military itself.

Documentaries such as these appear to operate on both a deeply personal level, whilst effectively working to make definitive change. Although they may be a rarity, it is certainly encouraging. Despite the fact that humanitarian documentaries can be extremely flawed in their composition, the argument ultimately boils down to the way we perceive change. Is change restricted to formal, legislative action, or can it also refer to a change in attitude? Raising awareness is the germ of change, even if that change is a gradated one, beginning with a person who watches a documentary at home, and is inspired to seek out answers by themselves. However simplistic it may seem, any narrative that at least raises a few questions, or sparks interest in a previously unknown topic, can only be a positive thing. When the glossy veil of film is stripped away, the human rights issues at their core still remain – as long as we become aware of that, the documentary may still have the power to make a difference.

Hunting for Humour, Rape Jokes and Reginald D.

Reginald D. Hunter has been accused of many ‘isms’, but with increasing success and several awards to his (now household) name, he appears to be thriving off the attention. Indeed, his current tour, “In the Midst of Crackers”, kicks off with a few jokes about recent criticism, including allegations of anti-Semitism, and ubiquitous quibbles about use of the N-word.  Halfway through his set at the Pleasance Grand Theatre, Edinburgh, I flattered myself in fearing that I may turn out to be the opening joke in his next show—the grumpy feminist who accused him of misogyny.

I somewhat missed the boat with Hunter’s rise to notoriety, catching only snippets of his shows on television, and hearing rave reviews from many sources—even my boyfriend’s grandmother is a fan. So, I went along to see him with an open mind, confident in the knowledge that he’d be a suitable inaugural Fringe experience—interesting, intelligent, and the only artist I’d spend more than a tenner on all week.

To be fair to Mr Hunter, he had the audience hanging on his every word, speaking interestingly on family life, honesty and male fantasies. Retrospectively however, the set was peppered with warning signs of the impending descent into what I felt was an incoherent and ignorant commentary on feminism, rape and sexualisation. Hunter spoke about his own infidelities and the needs of women with an amiable style that hid an inherent disrespect, telling us how he’d cheated in most relationships. After making a joke about Bernard Manning’s bigotry, he preceded to morph into a more articulate, more intelligent, and thus far more dangerous version of him.

Discussing rape jokes, a salient issue at the Fringe and in the media, Hunter said the following: “rape jokes [are] one of the few safe ways you can push back”. In Hunter’s opinion, it is important that comedians openly discuss issues such as sexism and racism, and I respect him for that. However, Hunter also riffed off the idea that an audience member hearing a rape joke will not immediately decide to go out and commit the offence. Sexism and misogyny aside, the comment was just ignorant. Of course that probably wouldn’t happen, but rape jokes are a huge part of the systematic trivialisation of rape—if we can joke about it, it can’t be that bad, right?

Unlike Frankie Boyle or Jimmy Carr, with their ironically predictable shock tactics , Hunter is praised for an provocative style that actually provokes something – discussion. On top of that, his style is ruminative and  treacherously charming, and as he admits, his rich drawl has a “tonal quality” that “makes everything [he says] sound like it’s true.” Of course it often isn’t, and admirably he acknowledges that. However, during a Fringe festival which saw a feminist comic take the Foster’s prize, an incredibly harrowing play performed by  Indian rape victims, and a whole string of women “shouting back”, Hunter’s musings were more than uncomfortable, they were outdated and uninformed.

More than that, his suggestion that “pseudo-feminists” were claiming rape as a wholly female issue (followed by a tasteless joke about male rape on navy boats) ignores the fact that modern feminism is about equality, and that rape is a human issue. For a man who warmly slips into philosophical musings on “oneness”, the last five minutes of his show were uncharacteristic, and delivered with a far darker tone than his material earlier in the set.

His final offence was perhaps his worst, and epitomises why he is so unsettling. In a joke about a friend’s “sexual desperation”, he alluded, albeit briefly, to the sexual appeal of scantily clad women and the way in which men react to them. The joke drew us in, encouraging us to laugh at the friend who felt compelled to shout “WOMEN!” whenever he saw them, but the implication that men need to control themselves around the opposite sex was uncomfortably close to the idea of  female sexual responsibility. Leaving the theatre I was offended and angry, and found it frustratingly difficult to explain why.

Hunter’s greatest skill lies in his comedic ability to make you question your boundaries, your sensibilities and yourself. Opening the show with a response to critics forces you to question your own reactions, lest you too become one of the easily offended, politically correct types who don’t ‘get it.’ Before writing this I got in touch with Hunter, who was very lovely and happy to respond. He wrote:

‘I’m genuinely disappointed to know that my rant “seemed” misogynist to you. It wasn’t. Nor am I, ma’am.’

His surety made me question my own reaction even more, but I suppose that is the point of comedy such as this – to create questions. In truth, I am not sure I would label Hunter a misogynist, but in each brief allusion, joke or nugget he made a slight contribution to a culture of misogyny that I, among many others, no longer have time for. I’m disappointed too, Reginald.

Originally published by Bad Housekeeping. 

Singers who can't sing and cultural (s)expectations

Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Nick Cave, Joe Strummer, and Shane McGowan have something in common. They are the distinctive voices 20th century music: raspy, gravelly, soulful, familiar, they can each be recognised after a only a few notes, and we love them for it. They have interesting voices. But, interesting covers all manner of sins, doesn't it? In this case, it's a sort of euphemism. It means, amazing and wonderful and striking, but let's face it, it also highlights the fact that none of these singers are exactly pitch perfect.

Now, I'm not saying that every musician must be tuneful - singing is a very personal thing, voices can be loved or hated, and many of the chaps I just listed are bluesy storytellers, whose voices preach like performance poets, much like modern hip-hop artists. However, there does seem to be a bit of a double standard when it comes to female artists and the quality of their voices.

We have our soul singers, Dusty Springfield, Etta James and the gang, we have pop princesses like young Miley and Taylor Swift, or folksy alternatives such as Laura Marling, amongst many, many others. The difference is, the majority of successful, mainstream female artists are just, well, in tune - at least to my untrained ear. They may have unusual styles and be distinctive, they may not all sound like Disney princesses, some of them may be autotuned (Britney, I'm looking at you here) but it's extremely rare to find a famous female singer who corresponds with the rough and ready boys club. 

Perhaps its a self-perpetuating thing. Liam Gallagher loved The Beatles, and teenage busker-boys the world over love to play Wonderwall in return for spare change and the hearts of teenage gals. If I had a pound for every indie boy I've seen mumble gruffly into a microphone, I'd be able to buy myself an auto-tune machine. 

Obviously, this isn't a catch all theory. Every now and again we get a lady-singer with a weird and wonderful anti-voice. Janis Joplin sounded like sandpaper, steel and whisky, Patti Smith like an ethereal-but-angry-Cate-Blanchett-as-Galadriel-style-wonder-woman, and Karen O, well, she takes the stage like some kind of amplified banshee goddess. These women are iconic and they are interesting, but most notably, they are marginal. You're far less likely to see a young girl take the stage at a local music night professing herself to be the new Bjork, than you are to see a gangly four-piece lad-band attempt to harmonise the latest Arctic Monkey's track. NB: A strong accent does not necessarily a solid performance make. 

An exception to this rule, as ever, is the punk scene. Bands such as Los Campesinos!, Sonic Boom 6 and the US noise-group Sleigh Bells feature female singers whose voices are completely tuneless, and it completely doesn't matter. Their voices texture the music - it just wouldn't be the same with a sickly sweet pitch perfect voice. 

However, the double standard still remains in prominent solo artists - women are expected to have either powerful voices, or sweet voices - anything less and they'll edit yo' tuneless ass. Maybe it's a relic of an angelic-voice ideal, maybe people believe that girls really can charm birds from trees with their vocal chords, or maybe, just maybe, it is yet another example of cultural (s)expectation. It's a shame really - I quite like my dulcet tones. 

Top 5 Singers Who Can't Sing

1) Bob Dylan

2) Janis Joplin

3) Los Campesinos! 

4) Tom Waits

5) And finally, Phoebe Buffay. The bad singers' singer. 

Writing obituaries - a strange old part time job.

Recently I've been writing obituaries for The Times. Odd, but ridiculously exciting. I got into it after doing an internship in which I landed on the lovely Register desk, home of interest pieces, society announcements and obituaries, not exciting in an obvious way, like, say, Home News, but interesting nonetheless. After a week I was proven completely wrong. Obituaries are amazing. You take the life of a person who, though not always hugely famous, has achieved something wonderful, or quirky, or lasting. They made a mark, and you get a chance to honour that in a 600 word celebration of their life. I am hooked - I get to write creatively, and at the same time it feels like I am doing a nice thing. Plus, continuing it (for a fee) after the (unpaid) internship is helping me save for an adventure.

As The Times have an online subscription fee, I cannot reproduce the obituaries on here, but I'll put the links up in case any of you have forked for out the online edition. I have. Reluctantly. If not, then have a google of some of the people - they really are a pleasure to read about! Currently writing on Sushmita Banerjee and Sunila Abeysekera - both important, influential and inspiring women.


Jim Buck, the first professional dog walker 

Dixie Evans, Marilyn Monroe burlesque dancer 

Margaret Pellegrini, actress 

Leslie Land, garden writer and locavore 

Sathima Bea Benjamin, jazz singer 

Wu Dengming, environmentalist and activist 

Thoughts on Festivals

Festivals are weird, aren't they? On the one hand, they are a beautiful concept; people coming together to share music, take a break from day to day life, meet people and experience a different outlook on things. On the other hand, they are completely bloody stupid; 15,000 people chucked together in a field, laced with an increasing variety of intoxicating substances, poor sanitation and insufficient wet wipes. It's like paying £150, not to mention shaving a few months off your life expectancy, to be kettled.

However, it is this bizarre juxtaposition that makes the festival such a fascinating human ritual. Rarely do you experience a totally heavenly, or a totally hellish weekend. There are glimpses of both, from the euphoria of seeing your favourite band play against the back drop of a sentimental sunset, to watching a stranger be put into the recovery position and left, alone and vulnerable, at the side of the stage. It's unnerving. It's also exhilarating. 

This unique feeling of exhilaration found at certain festivals is also what fuels (and perpetuates) a lot of the madness. At this point I should say that I have been to several smaller, family friendly folk festivals (Shrewsbury and Cropredy, you paragons of goodness) but here I am referring to the larger and slightly wilder institutions such as Leeds, Reading, Latitude, Boomtown and the like. Everyone has their own festival nightmare tale, be it tents on fire, belongings stolen, or in some very sad cases, serious illness and even death. The majority of these incidents, alongside the wonderful experiences, are the results of a series of choices. So, just what is it that makes festival behaviour and the choices we make at them such a seemingly idiosyncratic phenomenon?

Well firstly, it isn't that idiosyncratic. In any large group of people there can be hints of the old mob mentality model - in a highly concentrated festival environment this can either lead to a pseudo-dystopian every-camper-for-themselves nature, or, rather more cheerfully, an inflated sense of camaraderie, company and body glitter all over everything. The way people behave at a festival can usually be traced to everyday human traits, it's just that in an enclosed space, a short time period and an extremely stimulating environment, everything becomes heightened. For example, when I attended Boomtown Fair this year, I was aware of its reputation at "The UK's Maddest City", but I was surprised to realise that the catchy tagline was, if anything, an understatement. It was bloody mental - anarchy exemplified, tucked away in a pleasant Winchester field. Waiting beyond the sniffer-dog-guarded gates was a sensory assault; too much colour, too much noise, too much alcohol and, if the citizens of this festival town were anything to go by, too many drugs, but it sucked you in within seconds and spat you out in an alternate reality.

I think for many people, that's what the modern festival is; a disordered, alternate reality, free of the constraints of everyday society - a diluted 21st century answer to Bacchanalian revelry. It's about more than music, it is about the character you can be come when you're there, and the boundaries you can push that just wouldn't be acceptable anywhere else. Or at least, that is the romanticised ideal. Often there are darker aspects. Amidst the colour and the music and the realm of the "free-spirit" (a part-time role that can be discarded come the next working Monday), you'll find a few people staggering about, a few people lost, and occasionally a few lay on the floor that won't be able to get up again. During this year's Boomtown Fair, me and my pals saw a man collapse during a gig, and though people stood around and helped as much as they could, there was a sense that, well, there was no sense - people had become totally desensitised to some of the more disturbing sights. Half an hour later and the gig was cancelled, the crowds were herded away and an ambulance had carted the man off. I felt a bit weird, but I carried on into the night and had a great old time. I'd gotten over seeing someone have a potentially life-threatening collapse in an hour or two because the rest of the festival was still so exciting. The next day rumours spread, two, three, possibly four dead, bad batch of ketamine, etc. It was an eye-opener to say the least.

It turned out that not all the rumours were false, and that one girl did die at the festival. Obviously, it could have happened in a variety of other situations, but it gets you thinking. Are more risks taken? Do people behave differently? On the whole, I would say yes. From opportunistic theft, to risk of injury, to dressing more outlandishly, people are affected by the environment. There are seemingly less consequences and almost no visible authority, and people thrive off it. Now, this isn't a morality tale and I'm not suggesting that festivals are completely unsafe. In many ways the change in character can often be liberating, exciting and above has the appeal of being temporary. Indeed for many people the festival experience genuinely is a way of life, and catching a glimpse of that every summer is a wonderful thing.

For me, the festival will always be an intoxicating vignette; vibrant, immersive, but above all fleeting. I have had some of my most important experiences, conversations and memories at festivals, and I genuinely don't think they would have happened were it not for the particular chemistry of that environment. For better or worse, it is something to see, so for all the behavioural analysis one can muster, I think the best thing to do is take a step back now and then, talk about it, think about it, then get back in the mud and the music and the dirty, glorious nature of it all. On reflection, I'll be doing just that. 

All Quiet on the Blogging Front

Just a quick message to account for the recent hiatus on this blog!*

Many manner of busy things happened, including an internship at The Times, an adventure at a festival, plays up at the Edinburgh Fringe and the beginning of a rather odd hobby writing obituaries, meaning I haven't had much time to write here. Equally I have been writing for other publications, bits and pieces for The Times obits (seriously it's really interesting) and a discussion of something I saw at the Fringe for The Skinny. 

BUT! All of these things have inspired lots of ideas and potential things to write about, so I'll be ranting and rambling again in no time.

Ta!

P.S. I do Twitter a bit - @suttonspeak

*Not sure I need to inform passers-by of this, but if you come across my blog then tough beans, you've read it now.

Bradley Manning, Nigella Lawson and my Mum

This is a super speedy off the cuff blog post about something my Mum said the other day. Groundbreaking stuff! It was a fairly innocuous comment, but it left me with some questions. Whilst flicking through the newspaper, she came across a photo of a pre-divorce Nigella Lawson looking pretty glum. To be fair to Mum, Nigella looked extremely world weary, with a furrowed brow and teary eyes. Then came the comment:

"Oh, look at Nigella's sad face," said Mum.

This would have been a perfectly acceptable comment, were it not for the picture of Bradley Manning on the opposite page. Manning looked haggard, thin, ill even, staring into nowhere and awaiting a predicted sentence of around 136 years. The juxtaposition of the two lives (sensitive work by The Daily Mail, as ever) is almost farcical. Both images arguably depict lives falling apart, but the difference in context is almost unimaginable. A divorce, and a whole life taken away in the name of 'justice'. Despite that, for my Mum, it was Nigella's expression that drew out an expression of sympathy. I was outraged, and spouted an ill-advised holier-than-thou remark about the fact that she seemed to care about something that, to me, wasn't important. I couldn't understand how the sheer tragedy of Manning's story had been bypassed for a gritty paparazzi shot of a celeb.

Once I stopped being so melodramatic, I realised that the whole thing was just an example of the way in which everyone feels sympathy and sadness differently - a relatively simplistic epiphany, really. Mum clearly had much more sympathy, even empathy, with a woman her age having a difficult time over marital or familial issues, not unlike many people my Mum may know, or be friends with. It's nigh on impossible to empathise with someone who is probably going to be in prison for the rest of his life, sentenced with a number of years impossible to complete. The situation almost becomes abstract, so far away from anything the average person normally encounters, and involving systems well beyond my understanding at least. It's reminiscent of Stalin's much quoted words about deaths and statistics. Manning will essentially a death sentence - he has certainly already lost a chunk of his life, but the attachment of a potential 136 years to his charge is almost unimaginable. Many of us will have witnessed a messy divorce, few of us will understand the consequences of the Bradley Manning trial, or the alleged "cruel, inhuman and degrading treatment" he suffered during his year in solitary confinement. 

I feel bad for Nigella, obviously, but I can't really explain what I feel for Bradley Manning. Perhaps I reacted emotively to his image out of a sense of obligation - I've followed the case, I disagree vehemently with his treatment, I feel a strong sense of injustice. However, I think it is more than that. I cannot understand how someone in his position must be feeling, but a photo of anyone in his situation is enough to inspire some educated guesswork - lonely, afraid, tired. We've probably never had cause to feel like Manning does, but any level of basic human empathy Without the context of their stories, both images could easily evoke these emotions, and in the case of me and Mum, they did. I suppose that means it all comes down to what you know, what you believe and what you experience. I'm fairly sure that Mum feels bad about Manning, but she's well within her rights to think of Nigella first, even if I berate her from my high horse for doing so. Sympathy is relative, and empathy unpredictable. And I am still confused by Mum.

Bradley Manning
Credit: Daily Mail















Nigella Lawson
Credit: Daily Mail

'Life and Style', and the myth of women's journalism

For all the lefty-liberal and progressive qualities of The Guardian, there is one element of its online design that seems oddly archaic, and a little unsettling. In the grand scheme of women's rights it isn't exactly at the forefront of our problems, but nevertheless it strikes me as odd, and got me thinking. My question is this: why, oh why, is the women's section of the newspaper tucked away in 'Life and Style'? 

'Life and Style' is a weirdly nebulous part of any news or magazine publication, generally containing high quality photographs of the latest fashionable pan-something dish, pseudo-scientific articles on whether vitamins actually work, and passionate arguments for why this new style of yoga really will change your life. The sections tend to be a mix of tips and trends, with a pinch of celeb gossip and the occasional link to dating sites and the like. I don't mean to describe these features pejoratively; they form light reading in most newspapers and they are what they are. It's just that they don't exactly fall under hard hitting news, unlike a lot of the pieces that are featured in the 'Women' sub-section. The Guardian tabs (see below) arguably suggest that the Women sub-section contains articles that are only as important as those of 'Fashion' or 'Food', or if we were to be really fussy (and why shouldn't we be) suggest that they are less important, due to their placing. Just as Culture and Sport come after the News on the main page, Women come after other more significant sections. 

It should be said at this point that a) I love The Guardian, and b) it's certainly not the only publication guilty of struggling to find an apt place for a women's section. Although The Telegraph place their Women section alongside the other main sections of the newspaper, the frankly hilarious page title "Wonder Women" is suggestive of an ideal readership of multi-tasking, stiletto wearing power Mums shouting "I can have it all!", baby monitor in one hand and Blackberry in the other. That may have been a bit of a tirade, but it's more than a little patronising, and Theresa May was staring from under the headlines at me during writing so I was immediately ticked off. In comparison to the Daily Mail's 'Femail', both The Telegraph and The Guardian are positively saintly in their representation of women - at least both contain comment pieces on the most important women's issues of the moment, i.e. online sexism, female campaigns. As we can see in the snapshot below, the Femail section contains a huge advert for WeightWatchers (you are too fat, Femail readers), an article about Gwyneth Paltrow, and the new trend of nipple surgery. 

At least The Guardian do not automatically assume that its female readers will be interested in babies and weddings, or for that matter, assume that readers of the opposite gender will not. The Mail however seem to be using their Femail section to perpetuate and encode a stereotype of womanhood that many female journalists are explicitly fighting against. 

It is perhaps not the paper that's the problem, but the idea of a "women's section" to begin with - a place for female journalism, directed at female readers. Criticising a space for women to share their views and read about issues affecting them may sound a little counter-intuitive, but the fact is, this kind of marginalisation is outdated. Thirty years ago a women's section would have been a breakthrough in the media, and rightly so, but surely we are now living in an age where women's news is mainstream news, the subjects important to everyone regardless of gender. For example, within The Guardian's women section is a subsection for feminism - a movement now commonly regarded to be the business of anyone who cares for equal rights, no matter what sex they are or which gender they identify with. 

To be fair to The Guardian their stories can be tagged under any section, as former Guardian IA Martin Belam kindly pointed out to me, and there is a subsection for women under News. However, the branch of Life and Style still sends out a bad message. Although it may initially seem strange when newspapers and magazines don't have a women's section, it actually means that stories which could be interpreted as by females and for females have actually been assimilated into the mainstream sections and editorials to which they belong. Before writing this piece I (being a complete wannabe journo-geek) asked feminist author and writer Laurie Penny for her opinion on the matter, to which she gave a crackingly succinct response, noting that these type of sections cover 

"'Women's-issues journalism' or, as I like to call it, 'journalism'."

And therein lies the whole point of this issue - there is no such thing as women's journalism. Indeed, articles such as the many recent ones on Twitter abuse, misogyny and campaigns such as No More Page Three are of as much importance to men as they are to women, and in many cases are supported by men as well as women. These issues are universal, and so maybe newspapers should consider treating them as such.

Malala Yousafzai: the 16 year old girl fighting for education

Roughly nine months ago, I wrote a piece about the attempted murder of Pakistani schoolgirl Malala Yousafzai. She was shot at on her way to school by Taliban militants because of her campaign for girls' education and was subsequently flown to Britain for emergency surgery and rehabilitation. Despite her undisputed bravery and dedicated fight for social justice, Malala's future was uncertain. Unable to return to Pakistan for fear of a repeated attack but unlikely to give up her battle, the question remained - could Malala change a nation?

Yesterday, on her 16th birthday, Malala gave a speech at the United Nations that firmly answered that question. "The terrorists thought that they would change my aims and stop my ambitions," she said, "but nothing changed in my life, except this: weakness, fear and hopelessness died. Strength, power and courage was born." Less than a year after undergoing brain surgery, relocating to the United Kingdom and dealing with the repercussions of an assassination attempt, Malala stood amongst world leaders and her peers to let them know that her campaign was not over, and that just as before, education is her chief concern. "One child, one teacher, one pen and one book can change the world. Education is the only solution. Education first."

Schools in Pakistan continue to exist in peril; establishments all over the country are under constant pressure from the Taliban - the threat of violence then discourages parents from sending their children to school, which perpetuates the association of education with fear. Just under a month ago in Quetta, 14 girls were killed by a bus explosion on their way to university, with militants then laying siege to the hospital that the wounded were being treated in. Though Malala has become the face of Pakistani female education rights, it is clear now that her story is one of many incidents of terror and murder throughout the country. The culture of fear is so strong that it has even forced some members of Malala's own community to distance themselves from the girl, out of concern that their children will suffer from similar attacks. However, Malala herself aspires to be the voice for those who do not have one, and it appears that no amount of adversity or threat will change that.

In her address at the UN, Malala focused not only on education in Pakistan, but the provision and implementation of educational policy worldwide. A Unesco and Save the Children studyreleased to coincide with the speech shows that 57 million children are currently out of school, and that attempts to rectify this incredible number have come to a "virtual standstill." Unsurprisingly, half of the primary school aged children out of school live in conflict affected countries. This correlation was noted by Malala in her speech, as she stated, "We are really tired of these wars." The simple collective pronoun spoke for every child forced to grow up in a war zone, every girl denied rights because of her gender, and every child facing hundreds of different wars on a daily basis. This wasn't just a speech about free education for all, but rather a message to all world leaders - strategic policies must change if we are ever to protect children against violence and conflict, let alone offer them the education they are entitled to.

The battle for a basic right to education is a simple wish made daunting by the prospect of cultural, financial and political opposition. Despite this, Malala's petition to UN Secretary General Ban-Ki Moon asks that "the United Nations General Assembly fund new teachers, schools, books and recommit to getting every girl and boy in school by December 2015." It's an ambitious goal - 44% of the uneducated children in conflict zones are from sub-Saharan Africa, and 14% are from the Arab states. If the recent incidents in Egypt, Libya and Syria, and the ongoing conflict in the Middle East are anything to go by, Malala and her supporters will be facing an uphill struggle. In addition to the political issues, there is also the cultural opposition which is arguably far more difficult to remedy. Practices such as early-marriage and frequent gender violence are some of the key preventatives to women receiving an education - it is estimated that women represent two thirds of the 775 million illiterates in the world.

These numbers are intimidating, the task seemingly impossible, but at the helm of the campaign we have a 16 year old girl whose experiences speak of both intimidation and impossibility. This is just the beginning of one of the most important worldwide campaigns at present. In my first article on Malala, I questioned whether the attack would "spur her on", or whether it would convince her of the danger in her task. The following words taken from her speech are perhaps the only way to answer that question: "The Taliban thought the bullet would silence us, but they failed."

This article was originally published in the Cherwell's online edition.

It's not just a TV show, it's a project!

Despite the amazing availability of television online, at locations both legal and illegal, the box set is making a comeback. The Guardian recently launched a ‘Box Set Club’, and sales keep rising: from the nostalgia of rewatching old Frasier seasons to the excitement of a spanky American drama you’d otherwise have to track down on an obscure Sky channel, we can’t get enough. We want TV on our own terms, and we’re bored of squinting into our undersized laptop screens. Enter the DVD.

In my mind, television is the purest form of procrastination. It is the truest, harking back to an age when we didn’t even know what procrastination was, we just knew that the natural thing to do when returning from school was switch on the kids channel and be sucked in to that unnaturally shiny world.Now, with the advent of iPlayer, 4oD and other on-demand resources, we can watch snippets of television whenever we like. A Peep Show here, an episode of Africa there; it all add sup. However, there is an alternative to procrastaTV which feels oddly guiltless, and that my friends, is the box set.

Buying a box set is like the procrastinator’s version of putting a downpayment on a Ford Focus. It is a commitment, you have made an investment, and sitting watching 40 hours ofWest Wing suddenly has a greater meaning. You have a project, much like taking up a new hobby or completing your degree.It is pre-meditated viewing, designed for those who missed something the first time round, those who’ve read an insightful article about the moral integrity of [insert-gritty-drama-here] or for those who insist on blogging a review of every single episode.

It is no coincidence that their popularity is on the up during a time of Big Important Dramas. They are often American, extremely well crafted and they just look bloody cool. As do their boxes. Whoever thought of spreading out the logo of a show across several DVDs was a genius. It means I have to complete the set. I have to have every series of House.

American drama in particular has dominated in recent years, and its continued success can be seen in the recent revival of shows such as The Sopranos, Six Feet Under and The West Wing on Sky Atlantic. They are still being talked about, compared to, sourced from, and thus people continue to buy them years after their airing. One of the reasons shiny American drama like The Wire is so engaging is that it’s completely alienating. With highly paced colloquial language, grit-cop jargon and no flashbacks or catch-ups, you’re required be completely engaged for five whole series. These slow-burning, novelistic dramas require a satisfying sort of dedication, meaning the payoff is far greater at the end. It takes a while, but on the upside my inner voice is now that of a Baltimore drug dealer.

It’s not just the old favourites that are having a boxy renaissance; semirecent shows that you might have missed by a whisker are everywhere at the minute. Super-meta-sitcomCommunity has a huge cult following, appealing to those who like TV and those who are very aware of the fact that they like TV. Equally, shows that haven't even finished, such asBreaking Bad, are being snapped up quicker than crystal  meth on a street corner. 

For me, buying box sets is part of my television-enthusiast vanity complex, the part that knows every character history of House and watches The Wire without subtitles. I’ll be out of a loan before Student Finance can send me one of those annoying texts.

Bartoli and the Beast

Bartoli and the Beast: an easy title for a touchy subject. Yesterday during Marion Bartoli's storming performance in the Wimbledon final, John Inverdale posed the following question:

"Do you think Bartoli's dad told her when she was little: 'You're never going to be a looker, you'll never be a Sharapova, so you have to be scrappy and fight'?"

Well done, Marion. Well done. Against all the odds, ugly as they may have been, you have achieved the impossible! With your scrappy skills and fighting spirit you beat that pretty little blonde thing from Germany and brought home a Grand Slam. Shame though really, Sabine would've looked much better with Djokovic or Murray at the Championship Dinner... Inverdale's comment was sexist and it was ignorant, but what's worse is that this incident is just the tip of the iceberg with regards to attitude towards sportswomen, female presenters, and even the female companions of men in the game. Inverdale's comments were positively generous compared to some of the vitriolic bile on Twitter:

This isn't everyday or 'casual' sexism, it's hate speech. The language is of the animalistic and sexual persuasion associated with female insults, and the trivialisation of violence and rape is truly disturbing. Perhaps the most revealing of them all is the comment by Steve Cremen (fourth on the left) that Bartoli "cannot be the new face of Wimbledon." That's what female tennis players have been reduced to: faces. But an exclusively pretty face, mind. If Marion isn't good enough, who is? Lisicki? In all honesty, Bartoli's pretty blonde opponent is being equally demeaned by these comments. By placing her as the counterpart to Bartoli's beastliness, she becomes a somewhat creepy Tennis Barbie-bot, detracting from the fact that, like Bartoli, she is an extremely talented and extremely pleasant woman. 

It seems astonishing that 40 years on from the Battle of the Sexes between Billie Jean-King and Bobby Riggs, tennis is still tinted with sexism. But in this context, the origins of the issues are not only between the men and women in the tour, but rather the pundits and presenters who are responsible for broadcasting to millions. Inverdale isn't the only Wimbledon bod guilty of patronising women. Just look at the way the ladies of the players' boxes are treated. Well treated may not be the right word - rather they are zoomed in on, played in slow motion and are often to be found "fighting for their men." Andrew Castle is particularly guilty of this, waxing lyrical about the fact that Kim Sears apparently has actual magical powers that affect boyfriend Andy Murray's decisions on court with every flick of the hair. Yes, this is arguably a personal gripe at a fairly innocuous turn of phrase, but it touches at the roots of the wider problem. Inverdale described his comments as being meant in a "nice way", and once people start veiling blatantly sexist remarks under the banner of good old British banter, or jolly ruddy good Wimbledon fun (pass the Pimms), we lose sight of real problem at the heart of female sport. 

There are countless examples of the double standards in tennis, from the camera's focus on players' girlfriends rather than boyfriends, to the constant argument about how much noise women make on court. Unfortunately, these gender binaries are often perpetuated by the players themselves. Recently, Jo-Wilfred Tsonga proved that his science isn't as strong as his serve, suggesting that women aren't as consistent on the tour due to "hormones". Hormones. He may as well have blamed it all on periods. Equally, Gilles Simon complained that women's tennis is less exciting than men's in a public interview, to which Serena Williams retorted:

‘Women's tennis is really awesome. We fought for years with Billie Jean King, to get equal pay ... Maria (Sharapova)'s right – a lot more people are watching her than him. She’s way hotter than he is."

Yeah, girl power, Serena. Gilles may be a bit of a shit but at least Maria's smoking hot. She probably deserved to win Wimbledon, for 6ft blonde women everywhere. For all the "Sharapova's." Here we see the problem is as rooted in the players as it is in the pundits. What exactly is it to be a "Sharapova"? Inverdale succeeds in both dehumanising a champion tennis player, and creating her as the mould for every attractive, leggy non-Bartoli out there. Inverdale's idiocy aside, I'm not sure Bartoli would ever want to be a Sharapova, (currently embroiled in a love rivalry with frenemy Serena Williams instead of powering her way to a Grand Slam title as Marion did so beautifully.) In all the nastiness and superficiality, Bartoli played the match and reacted to the incident with a grace that has nothing to do with looks. Her response to Inverdale encapsulates what is truly at stake in professional tennis:

"It doesn't matter, honestly. I am not blonde, yes. That is a fact. Have I dreamt about having a model contract? No. I'm sorry. But have I dreamed about winning Wimbledon? Absolutely, yes. And to share this moment with my dad was absolutely amazing and I am so proud of it.

There's a lady with her priorities straight and her dignity in tact - that's pretty hot to me.

Only Connect and intellectual snobbery

I love quiz shows, I really do. I love getting the answers right, I love pretending I got the answers right, I love mocking the contestants when they do not get the answers right. Though apparently not as much as Jeremy Paxman and his quizzical brow do. They are a chance to prove one’s unequivocal knowledge of the culture capitals of Europe, or films starring Kevin Bacon; essentially they are a great way to feel like a bit of a clever clogs whilst a wordless word document stares at you from across the room. However, the time of lording my superior knowledge of all things uninteresting over my family and friends whilst they try to enjoy their evening viewing has finally come to an end.

'Only Connect’, the most viewed show on the somewhat haughty and grown up BBC 4, is like an intellectual punch in the face. Scheduled to begin just as University Challenge ends, it maintains the mood of civil Monday night viewing (or in my case, aggressive fact fighting), but forces you to climb several rungs up logic ladder. As opposed to reeling off random facts potentially overhead at a pub quiz, the teams actually have to, well, think about things. The basic format requires the teams to make connections between seemingly random images, words, or pieces of music, meaning you have to be able to link stuff like “things made out of melted guns”, or “tube lines if they were translated as snooker ball colours.” It’s torturous. It’s also genius.

Everything about this program is clever, sharp and a teensy bit elitist. From the titular E.M Forster reference, to the fact that teams choose their question by selecting a hieroglyph (seriously), no academic is left unruffled. Even the classically stringy introductory music gives everything a sense of seriousness. If-I-get-one-right-I’ll-be-a-better-person-ness. Cleverest of all is the show’s presenter, Victoria Coren. I don’t want to be quizzed by her, I want to be her. The somewhat unnerving lack of a studio audience does not phase this lady, as she embarks on monologues and witticisms, gently mocks the teams (most of whom look like they followed University Challenge when Bamber Gascoigne still presented it), and makes us believe she really did already know the answers to all the questions. To top it all off, she’s a poker player, the sister of Giles Coren and the fiancée of David Mitchell. Just imagine what their dinner parties are like.

So, though quiz show fans may have a more relaxing time watching QI, or a more successful evening watching The Weakest Link, nothing says ‘wild Monday night’ like a quiz show that repeatedly assaults you with stuff you didn‘t know. All it needs now is a drinking game.

Retrospective: Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, Before Midnight

Trilogies are an important part of the film lover's repertoire. They become a feature length blur of ideas and feelings; each installment influences the way the others are interpreted. and together they almost form a cinematic personality. This personality is what generates the bizarre sense of loyalty and connection people have with films - we invest in them and care for them, in exchange for a glimpse of something escapist and idealistic. Culty art-house type trilogies include Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colours series or Satyajit Ray’s Apu films, but for me, the finest of them all has just been decided by the release of the final installment in Richard Linklater's 'Before' trilogy.

In 1995, Ethan Hawke, Julie Delpy and Richard Linklater began what would be a 18 year project, spanning three countries, three films, and influencing countless young romantics with a taste for introspection and a fondness of talking about it. Jesse is your typical young American, full of ideas and brimming with bravado, Celine is a flighty Parisian student, a classic Manic Pixie Dream Girl with a melancholy twist. They meet on a train, engage in pseudo-philosophical verbal acrobatics and spend a day and a night getting lost in Vienna. Their meet-cute is whimsical, their characters seemingly clichéd, and in any other context their patter could be vastly irritating. But somehow, Linklater, Delpy and Hawke have created an environment in which the characters can soulfully filibuster the big questions in life whilst outwardly attempting to answer them, in a way that is charming, tender, and most importantly, interactive.

The intricacy and wonder of the series lies in this attempt at an interactive viewing process. It begins simply; they are young and in love - you want to be young and in love. They wander around Europe spouting extremely interesting and insightful nonsense about the world under a canopy of consistently good weather - you also want this. It is romantic, it is dreamlike, but it is not wholly unrealistic. Who wouldn't want this? On a superficial level, the films allow you to superimpose yourself into the dream. However, it is the acknowledgment of flaw, condition and sheer bloody humanity that make the characters seem so real, so tangible. The characters are a Gatsby-like embodiment of self-performativity - they let you understand them exactly as you want to; each person is moved in a different way, and each viewing inspires different emotion. As the series progresses, the characters grow a little older and a little more weary, with a middle installment of 30-something cynicism, until we reach Before Midnight, which as Linklater suggests is a "harder pill to swallow", where love has become a "brutal kind of beast." The very nature of the films, produced over such a long period of time, necessitates the growth of the characters and the growth of the audience. Equally, the production cultivates the type of obsessive analysis that Jesse and Celine are inclined to themselves - nine years is a long time to wait for the next film, and to attempt to predict its outcome.

I don't want to reveal that outcome, as you should all sit down and watch the trilogy immediately, but I'll happily say that Before Midnight is a beautiful piece of cinema. Like its predecessors it is talky and indulgent, and so appeals to those, like myself, who often feel like talking makes them indulgent, which is something one should probably talk about. What makes them so magical is the way one can go on interpreting them, understanding them, obsessing over them. Shameless attempts to draw out similarities between yourself and the characters are inevitable, but they also inspire some of the best conversation and the best experiences, once you get past the semi-pretension of it all. Linklater has created something intensely personal, and his love of story and talk of all kinds (small, big, poetic...) has spawned a fan-base who have experience their own versions of the tale as a result of that intimacy. I for one can't wait to weep over Before Sunset in my thirties, and re-experience Before Midnight as a gin soaked forty year old. Both create visions of a potential future that for Jesse and Celine began 18 years ago in a serene 80-second unbroken shot, and for us lowly mortals began the first time we peeped at their intimacy.

What Lee Halpin's death should teach us about homelessness

This is an article I published in conjunction with a homelessness discussion event at my university. The event included the excellent short film The Truth About Stanley, and talks from formerly homeless ambassadors of Crisis, which is both a charity and an advocacy group. 

In April this year, 26 year old Lee Halpin was found dead in a derelict hostel. Halpin had been sleeping rough for three nights, and it is believed that he succumbed to hypothermia. However, it wasn’t just the news of a tragic death that caused this story to hit the national press. It transpired that Lee Halpin was not in fact a homeless person, but an aspiring journalist attempting to sleep rough in Newcastle for a week, in order to make a film for the Dispatches’ “Fearless Journalism” competition. The prize was a 12 month internship. Halpin used the platform to raise awareness about the rising homelessness rates, and the repercussions of welfare cuts. “I will sleep rough, scrounge for my food, interact with homeless people and immerse myself in that lifestyle as deeply as I can”, says Halpin in a YouTube video, now seen by over 180,000 people. Halpin’s ambition to raise awareness was a truly admirable one, and in death his message has reached a huge audience. However, this story goes well beyond the death of one man, however tragic. It raises uncomfortable questions about problems at the core of our society; namely the public attitude towards homelessness, and the provision of welfare for the country’s most vulnerable sectors.

Living in Oxford, we are faced with homelessness every day. The disparity in the city is undeniable – Oxford has the highest housing costs outside of London, and the fourth highest homelessness rate. Alongside the number of people sleeping rough on the street there are the “hidden homeless”, those living in hostels, temporary accommodation and shelters. Oxford City Council’s ‘No Second Night Out’ initiative and the excellent work of local charities goes some way to offering immediate help, but with cuts to welfare provision and the impact of the bedroom tax, the problems can only get worse. Crisis report a 31% rise in the average number of people sleeping on the streets per night, and this increase suggests that the £6bn cut to Housing Benefit has eroded the safety net meant to defend the vulnerable against the economic downturn. These figures are genuinely frightening, but the ripple effect of these reforms can only really be understood when we pay attention to each individual we see on the street.

Percentages and politics aside, homelessness is humanised. Lee Halpin’s investigation hinged upon engaging with homeless people, and experiencing the dangers that they face every day. When we step out of the door and see a person on our street, how do we react? In most cases, we either walk away, or uncomfortably offer our coppers before shuffling off to Tesco. Both acts are quick, even easy, but neither really helpful. Local charities warn against giving money to homeless people, as it can perpetuate substance abuse, or prevent the individual from seeking out institutions that offer more permanent solutions. The act of giving money is often a manifestation of guilt. In the very human desire to form a connection – money is the simplest way to do so.

Of course, the wish to interact is no bad thing, but how inclined is the average person to actually talk to a homeless person? Sadly, I’d say it’s unlikely. Public attitudes towards the homeless are highly disconcerting; presumptions as to the causes of homelessness are easy to make, and extremely reductive. For example, a recent incident in London saw the police confiscate the food and possessions of a group of homeless people. When asked to comment, CI John Fish stated that “the public rely on police to reduce the negative impact of rough sleepers.” These people are not victims; they are not even human. They are a “negative impact.”

What CI Fish neglects to realise is that rough sleepers are the public. Homelessness is not just vagrancy, the lack of a roof, or the violation of squatting laws. It is a condition of isolation, of complete social alienation, and as Crisis put it, it constitutes loss of a “legal and social dimension.” The experience is destructive, difficult to escape, and even harder to recover from. The average age of death for a homeless person is just 47 years old. Lee Halpin was far younger than that, but the sad irony of his story is the fact that we heard of it in the first place. If the body of your average, 47 year old homeless man was discovered in a derelict hostel, would news of it have reached the national newspapers? Would anybody notice, or even care?

It all comes down to that question. Who cares for the homeless, and who is responsible for them? On a day-to-day basis, we are. Get involved with the Oxford Homeless Action Group, with Crisis or Oxford Pathways. If the issue moves you, do something! Halpin wanted to engage with homelessness as a “frontline journalist”, but for what it’s worth, I believe we should all be on the frontline when it comes to this issue. All it takes is a walk down the street and the problem is right there, embodied by every man and woman who sits in a doorway, and on the fringes of society.

NB: Since this article was published I have spoken to several homeless people and  looked further in to the aforementioned "No Second Night Out" policy. The homeless people spoken to commented that the system is extremely flawed, and as such I will be trying to find out more information as to why this is.

Dear Dr Status Update...

A few days ago the BBC ran a news story about Facebook's latest technical glitch. "Millions exposed" as "personal details" were made available on the site, officials apologise, damage limitation, will never happen again, all that jazz. In the grand scheme of things the problem was a minor one, but there's something inescapably ironic (and really quite revealing) about the BBC's choice of words. Exposure of details. Personal exposure. Isn't that exactly what Facebook is? Isn't every newsfeed or timeline a systematic exposure of personal details? You say where you're going, what you're doing and who you're with. More than that, you say what you feel and what you think. By its very nature, even as a basic mode of communication, Facebook necessitates the exposure of personal details.

Before this gets a bit too dramatic/despairing/downright depressing, I should make a confession. A disclaimer, if you will. I have absolutely no control over my Facebook habits, I'm aware that I don't particularly like them but they exist nonetheless. However, Facebook and other social media sites such as Twitter and Instagram are asking  more and more of their users. The world is a increasingly public one and we are inevitably becoming a more public people. Much has been written on the way social media influences our interactions with others, but what does the personal exposure mean for the ways in which we view ourselves?

Social media has moved far beyond communicative purposes. Blogs such as Tumblr, Myspace and somewhat embarrassingly, this Blogspot, offer a chance to create a whole identity and a space where that identity can be projected and its voice can be heard. Status updates have become the modern equivalent of diary entries - a digital record of our activities and opinions, not unlike a written journal. These snippets and fragments of life can seem fairly innocuous; nothing much can be read into "On my way to Nandos", or "BEST NIGHT EVER LAST NIGHT!". However, it's not exactly what is said, but the fact that anything is said at all. To be hyper-cynical/go all Stewart Lee about it, recording your every move in a public forum is akin to creating a kind of contained celebrity - in the mini-world of your Facebook friends, your actions and thoughts are valuable and worthy of record. Even if you have just nipped down the pub with your mates. #nothingspecial.

To avoid this sounding like an ill-advised bout of self-righteousness, I have an example that both encapsulates the idea of a life lived on Facebook, and reveals how easily one can be sucked into it. In a case of mistaken identity, I once added a complete stranger as a 'friend'. She accepted (which itself was weird) and I never got round to deleting her (probably weirder). Three years later and she's become a bizarre stock figure in my cyber-life. I've witnessed the birth of her two children, her relationship woes, her day to day activities and her plans for the future, all of it posted online like a personal scrapbook. It is sheer voyeurism and nosiness; the modern day version of peeping over your neighbours fence, but with far more juicy results. The uncomfortable truth is that a good proportion of us probably have someone like the poor woman who accepted my friend request, or maybe we actually are that person.

An extension of Diary-Facebook is Therapist-Facebook. We're not just asked where we are and what we're doing, but how do we feel and why? If you're having trouble expressing it to Dr Status Update, there are even handy little Myspace relics which depict a variety of emotions.

This attempt to concretise the whole range of human emotion is pretty grim, and symptomatic of the whole problem with Facebook therapy and Facebook diary entries - it forces a complete removal of complexity, subtlety and nuance. More than that, it manufactures introspection whilst paradoxically removing any sort of personal insight, as this most personal process is laid bare for the world to see. And, of course, for them to comment on.

Whatever your opinion on social media, there is surely an undeniable loneliness, even poignancy in the system. It's not a perfect diagnosis, but there are definitely hints of it in even the most normative status updates. Wishing the world "Goodnight.xxx", or letting people know exactly where you are ("Home sweet home!") is like an attempted affirmation of one's place within a network of human connection. It says, "I am here and so are you". There seems to be some value in that, even if it's just a basic indication of the human desire to interact, to take interest, even to be nosy. However, the online attempt to reveal all generally reveals that there isn't in fact that much to reveal in the first place  - such is the hermeneutic circle-jerk produced by any attempt to analyse  Facebook. Ah, so it is.

Articles which influenced this attempt at one- 

"From memory to sexuality, the digital age is changing us completely."

"Internet anonymity is the height of chic."