Nulla dies sine linea

Last month, Leona Lewis was attacked by a fan at a book signing. Tonight, as fans arrive for her first major live performance, security at Hackney's Empire theatre is unrecognisably tight to anyone who has rolled up here for comedy nights in years gone by. Bags are searched; like butch panto fairies, bouncers wave metal detector wands at everyone going in the doors, including small children. Cyclists (well, me) must check in their helmets.

A walk through a metal detector is standard practice at clubs in London boroughs riven by knife crime. Two years ago, a childhood friend of Lewis's was shot dead in nearby Stoke Newington, not far from where Lewis once worked as a receptionist in a chiropody practice. With her big pipes, good looks and drive, local girl Lewis was supposed to have escaped all this, turning her 2006 X Factor victory into a passport to international fame. As she reveals on stage, Lewis was 13 when she first performed at the Empire; that she chose this cherished London venue, now scandalously earmarked for closure, for her first full-length live outing anywhere in the world reflects well on the 24-year-old singer. But it's not a little ironic that Lewis has traded the ugly, mano-a-mano dangers of Hackney for an altogether different calibre of menace: celebrity stalkers.

Tonight, she is among friends. "C'mawwwwn Leona!" shriek the fans as the lights dim. They are in for a treat. This is a stadium-ready show crammed into a pocket-sized venue. The stalls are within an easy bike helmet's lob of the stage, but the production values are stratospheric.

Dry ice cascades down a tiered stage. Half-a-dozen, white-painted male dancers stripped to the waist gyrate mysteriously. A system of screens and projections renders various Lewises larger than life; a full band and two backing singers mean this is no mere celeb PA executed to a tinny backing track. It all begins with a projection of Lewis, masked as though for Venice's carnevale, accompanied by the heavy orientalist pop of "Brave", a new track from her imminent second album, Echo.

Lewis appears in an explosion of ruched black, her dancers looking like Thai engravings brought to life. We might be in the Hackney Empire, but we are further east than the mere East End. All this stagecraft and set design are counterbalanced by Lewis's chatty "How you feeling?" and her effusive thanks, frequently expressed. "Bleeding Love", Lewis's greatest hit, comes early in the set, saving "Chasing Cars", her cover of the Snow Patrol tune, for the end.

Those not signed up to the fan club are entitled to be a bit more quizzical. The thump of the band drowns out Lewis's singing all too often. When you can hear her, Lewis passes all the vocal tests, hitting the top notes and swooping skilfully from human hairdryer to coo on "Happy", the new single. But her intimate husk, more appealing than her full throttle, is too often lost in the band's blare.

For all the slickness on parade at this homecoming, Lewis is really dipping a manicured toe into unfamiliar waters. This free show in a tiny venue in front of an adoring crowd makes a great rehearsal for Lewis's worldwide tour, planned for next year. But why has it taken Lewis this long to play live? She won The X Factor three years ago, an aeon in pop time. It took nearly a year for her debut album, Spirit, to be released. Clearly, Lewis and her mentors (Simon Cowell, Clive Davis, possibly the most renowned talent scout in the US music industry) have been playing a long game. Rather than cashing in on an ephemeral talent show win, Lewis has become a keeper diva. Spirit, released in 2007, was a huge success, selling 6.5m copies worldwide. But still she didn't tour it.

With sales like that, touring probably wasn't economically necessary. The official explanation cites Lewis's punishing promotional schedule, and Lewis wanting more than one album to showcase live. Both are probably true, but you suspect that Lewis's wooden manner might have something to do with it. She doesn't own even this familiar stage. The big league divas are not expected to dance like a Britney might, but Lewis veers between a knock-kneed default mode and some stilted vogueing on "Outta My Head", the night's token up-tempo club track.

You're never really expecting Lewis to ejaculate an "innit", but her transformation from local hopeful to anodyne celeb has been a bit too complete. There is evidence of some actual spirit in her. Lewis reportedly turned down £1m to open a Harrods sale last year because it stocks fur. But this is a characterless, if slick performance. Sadly, she could be any starlet and this could be anywhere.

Kitty Empire, The Observer, 08.11.09

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2009/nov/08/leona-lewis-hackney-empire-review

C'est la Chine qui va à la rencontre de l'Afrique, pour ce premier sommet sino-africain depuis Pékin en 2006, où s'étaient pressés une bonne trentaine de chefs d'État africains. En compagnie du président égyptien, Hosni Moubarak, le premier ministre Wen Jiabao donnera dimanche le coup d'envoi de ce forum qui se tient à Charm el-Cheikh, sur la mer Rouge. Il doit y dévoiler une «feuille de route» pour la coopération jusqu'en 2012.

En moins de dix ans, la relation entre la Chine et l'Afrique a connu un spectaculaire essor. Elle est clairement passée du terrain politique, quand il fallait rivaliser avec Taïwan pour compter les partenaires diplomatiques, au champ économique. Les échanges commerciaux ont décuplé, atteignant 107 milliards de dollars en 2008, en hausse de 45 % sur un an. Ils ont dépassé pour la première fois les échanges avec les États-Unis. Les investissements directs chinois en Afrique ont aussi bondi de 490 millions de dollars en 2003 à 7,8 milliards de dollars l'année dernière.

Investissements massifs

Lors de sa quatrième tournée africaine en février dernier, le président Hu Jintao a souligné qu'il allait à la rencontre d'«amis» et non de simples «fournisseurs». On reproche souvent à la Chine de ne voir en Afrique qu'un vaste sous-sol d'où l'on extrait pétrole et minerais stratégiques. De fait, les importations chinoises sont écrasées par l'or noir (39 milliards sur un montant de 56 milliards de dollars). La Chine répond que partout, et notamment dans des pays d'où les Occidentaux se sont désengagés, elle construit routes, ponts ou centrales électriques. En juillet 2008, un rapport de la Banque mondiale a reconnu que les investissements massifs de la Chine contribuaient à réduire la pauvreté dans des pays délaissés d'Afrique. L'autre reproche est celui du peu de cas fait des droits de l'homme. Pékin vient de l'illustrer en annonçant 7 milliards de dollars d'investissements en Guinée, quelques jours après le massacre de 150 manifestants de l'opposition. Avec l'Afrique, la Chine abandonne sa posture de grande puissance montante pour jouer sur le tableau d'un pays encore émergent. C'est ce qu'a exprimé récemment le chef de la diplomatie chinoise, Yang Jiechi, rappelant que «la Chine est le plus grand pays en développement, tandis que l'Afrique comprend le plus grand nombre de pays en développement».

Arnaud de la Grange, Le Figaro, 06.11.09

http://www.lefigaro.fr/international/2009/11/30/01003-20091130ARTFIG00025-la-chine-afrique-a-rendez-vous-en-egypte-.php

El Camp Nou pitó el sábado a Chigrinski y aplaudió a Pedro, una reacción que de alguna manera refleja el sentimiento de una parte de la afición, que cuestiona a veces la política de fichajes del club y en cambio le felicitan por su apuesta con la cantera. El central ucranio, en cualquier caso, respondió con elegancia a la crítica. Por vez primera compareció al final del partido en la zona mixta y se expresó en castellano: "Me parece normal que me silben porque me equivoqué". Aunque llegó a finales de agosto, Chigrinski ya se hace entender en inglés y en italiano y es capaz de articular unas cuantas respuestas en español. "Su integración es extraordinaria", subraya Pep Guardiola. "El público es soberano, pero si le pitan por darle el balón al portero cuando le presionan la gente debe saber que es justo lo que tiene que hacer".

A Chigrinski no le ha salido todavía un buen partido. Resuelto en el juego posicional y en la salida de la pelota, tiene dificultades en la marca, porque los delanteros le ganan en velocidad, más que nada porque su tendencia es la de jugar en línea, y a menudo es desbordado por la rapidez de su propio equipo.

Al lado opuesto del zaguero internacional por Ucrania se sitúa Pedro, un extremo que se ha ganado la afición por su facilidad para dar con la portería. "Va directo a gol", sintetiza Charly Rexach. Antes de que accediera a la titularidad con Guardiola en el Barça B, Pedro estuvo a punto de ser despedido del fútbol base porque los técnicos le consideraban "un delantero disperso, mejor en los entrenamientos que en los partidos" que no tenía ninguna de las virtudes que se le suponen a los jugadores azulgrana: apenas combina, difícilmente desborda, pocas veces asiste y, sin embargo, su productividad es extraordinaria. En un equipo a veces exageradamente retórico, Pedro es un muy concreto.

Luis Martín, El Pais, 09.11.09

http://www.elpais.com/articulo/deportes/Chigrinski/Pedro/elpepudep/20091109elpepidep_3/Tes

To Mr. Mandela’s left is a small table piled with newspapers in English and Afrikaans, the language of the whites who imprisoned him for 27 years. Family and old comrades sit to his right, where his hearing is better. His memory has weakened, but he still loves to reminisce, bringing out oft-told stories “like polished stones,” as one visitor put it.

“There’s a quietness about him,” said Barbara Masekela, his chief of staff after his release from prison in 1990. “I find myself trying to amuse him, and I feel joyous when he breaks out in laughter.”

Mr. Mandela, perhaps the world’s most beloved statesman and a natural showman, has repeatedly announced his retirement from public life only to appear at a pop concert in his honor or a political rally. But recently, as he canceled engagements, rumors that he was gravely ill swirled so persistently in South Africa that his foundation released a statement saying he was “as well as anyone can expect of someone who is 91 years old.”

Yet even as Mr. Mandela fades from view, he retains a vital place in the public consciousness here. To many, he is still the ideal of a leader — warm, magnanimous, willing to own up to his failings — against which his political successors are measured and often found wanting. He is the founding father whose values continue to shape the nation.

“It’s the idea of Nelson Mandela that remains the glue that binds South Africa together,” said Mondli Makhanya, editor in chief of The Sunday Times. “The older he grows, the more fragile he becomes, the closer the inevitable becomes, we all fear that moment. There’s the love of the man, but there’s also the question: Who will bind us?”

There is a yearning for the exhilarating days when South Africa peacefully ended white racist rule, and a desire to understand the imperfect, big-hearted man who embodied that moment. Because of this, various historians and journalists are at work on a new round of books about Mr. Mandela.

The Nelson Mandela Foundation agreed last month to sell publishers in some 20 countries the rights to a book, “Conversations With Myself,” based on material from Mr. Mandela’s personal papers — jottings on envelopes, journals, desk calendars, drafts of intimate letters to relatives written in prison and documents from his years as South Africa’s first democratically chosen black president.

“He was and still is an obsessive record keeper,” said Verne Harris, who has been Mr. Mandela’s archivist since 2004 and will knit together the excerpts with Tim Couzens, a biographer. “The oldest records we have in that collection are his Methodist Church membership cards, the earliest one dated 1929. So he was 11 years old then.”

There are telling nuggets in unexpected places. In his prison years, the authorities gave him a South Africa tourist desk calendar each year. He typically recorded facts in it — his blood pressure, or whom he met that day — but occasionally he noted a dream, like one in which his daughter Zindzi, whom he was not allowed to see from when she was 3 years old until she was 15, “asks me to kiss her & remarks that I am not warm enough.”

The book will also draw on 71 hours of taped conversations that Mr. Mandela had with Richard Stengel, who collaborated with him on his autobiography, “Long Walk to Freedom,” and Ahmed Kathrada, Mr. Mandela’s prison comrade.

“One of the amazing, uncanny things was his memory,” said Mr. Stengel,who is writing a memoir of his time with Mr. Mandela, called “Mandela’s Way,” to be published in March.

“It was like he was watching a movie of his life and then narrating it,” Mr. Stengel, Time magazine’s managing editor, continued. “He would do voices of his father, of his teachers, of his prison guard.”

Eventually, after a team at the foundation has catalogued the entire archive, the foundation plans to digitize it and put it on the Internet. The vast bulk of it is not yet public.

Historians say they are not expecting major surprises about Mr. Mandela’s generally well-known views, but hope to find rare glimpses of the man.

Mr. Mandela is looked after by his wife, Graça Machel, 64, the widow of a former president of Mozambique and a humanitarian activist. “They behave like young lovers,” Mr. Bizos said. “They hold hands.”

Here in Johannesburg, it is not unusual for residents of his neighborhood, Houghton, to gossip about how he is doing. Mr. Harris, seeking to douse rumors that Mr. Mandela was deteriorating, said he was still healthy but tired of small talk with strangers.

“He can reminisce at great length about things that happened years and years ago,” Mr. Harris said. “But you know what old age is like. Short-term memory starts to malfunction and you have bad days.”

His oldest friends, stalwarts of the anti-apartheid struggle, still visit. Mr. Bizos, who went to law school with Mr. Mandela in the 1940s, said Ms. Machel worried that Mr. Mandela would be alone when she was out of town, and eat too little without company. So from time to time, Mr. Bizos gets a call from their housekeeper to come for lunch.

Mr. Mandela sits at the head of a large table, with Mr. Bizos to his right. They relish their favorite dish — oxtail in a rich sauce — and talk about old times. Mr. Mandela tells how he walked into a law school class and sat next to a white fellow with big ears, who promptly changed seats to avoid sitting next to a black man. Mr. Mandela had wanted to invite the man to their 50th reunion at the University of the Witwatersrand in 1999, but the man had already died.

“He repeats it from time to time,” Mr. Bizos said. “He regrets he did not have the opportunity to meet him. He would have said to him, ‘Do you remember what happened? But please don’t worry. I forgive you.’ ”

Like a grown child for whom each goodbye to an aged parent feels as if it may be the last, South Africa seems to be preparing itself for the final farewell to its epic hero. And Mr. Mandela seems to have readied himself, poking fun at his infirmity. Mr. Harris recounted a joke he had heard Mr. Mandela tell and retell.

“When I die, I’m going to get up to the gates of heaven, and they’re going to say to me, ‘Who are you?’ ” Mr. Mandela says. “And I’ll say, ‘I’m Madiba,’ ” he said, referring to his clan name.

“And they’ll say, ‘But where do you come from?’ And I’ll say, ‘South Africa.’ And they’ll say, ‘Oh, that Madiba. You’ve come to the wrong gates. You see the ones down there that are very warm? That’s where you have to go.’ ”

Mr. Mandela’s wish is to be buried alongside his ancestors in Qunu, on the eastern Cape, where he spent the happiest years of his boyhood. In his autobiography, he describes it as a place of small, beehive-shaped huts with grass roofs.

“It was in the fields,” he wrote, “that I learned how to knock birds out of the sky with a slingshot, to gather wild honey and fruits and edible roots, to drink warm, sweet milk from the udder of a cow, to swim in the clear, cold streams, and to catch fish with twine and sharpened bits of wire.”

Celia W. Dugger, The New York Times, 09.11.09

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/09/world/africa/09mandela.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&hp

Créée en 1984 par l’architecte et graphiste Richard Saul Wurman, la TED Conference, baptisée le « Davos des optimistes », qui se tient chaque février à Long Beach, au sud de Los Angeles, est la fusion, pendant quatre jours, de tout ce que les mondes de la technologie, de l’entertainment et du design comptent de plus brillant sur les thèmes les plus variés – la substance des choses que l’on ne peut pas voir, le génie créatif, la consommation postcrise, ou bien l’importance d’une boîte de tours de magie.

La première édition, il y a vingt-cinq ans, fut marquée par la présentation de produits futuristes : l’ordinateur Macintosh et le disque compact Sony. Le mathématicien franco-américain Benoît Mandelbrot y parla de fractales et de côtes maritimes. Marvin Minsky, le père de l’intelligence artificielle, emmena son audience en voyage au fin fond de l’esprit. Le rythme n’a jamais baissé. Au fil des années se sont succédé les gens les plus brillants, musiciens, rock-stars, chercheurs ou illustres inconnus. Chacun a dix-huit minutes pour présenter une idée susceptible de sauver la planète. Mais aussi enchanter un public particulièrement haut de gamme. Car les mille cinq cents participants, soigneusement sélectionnés sur dossier et parrainés par les habitués, doivent eux aussi prouver qu’ils sont remarquables et pas seulement fortunés.

UNE SURENCHÈRE DE PROJETS

« La conférence coûte 6 000 dollars, mais elle les vaut bien », assure Dominique Piotet, le patron de L’Atelier North America (cellule de veille de BNP Paribas), fan inconditionnel de TED. « En quatre jours, on vous présente ce que vous pouvez imaginer de mieux partout dans le monde. En dix-huit minutes chacun, les intervenants vous ouvrent l’esprit de manière absolument surprenante et cassent l’essentiel de vos idées reçues. Vous en ressortez bouleversé et avec le désir d’agir », explique-t-il. « Être dans la salle est encore plus enrichissant que de monter sur la scène de TED », raconte le rappeur Emmanuel Jal, ex-enfant soldat du Soudan, qui a rappé pour les TEDsters et a obtenu leur soutien pour l’aider à construire une école dans son pays.

LE TEMPLE DE L'ÉLOQUENCE

« Ce qui m’a fasciné chez TED », raconte Chris Anderson, ancien éditeur du magazine Business 2.0, qui a racheté TED en 2002 via sa fondation, « c’est la profondeur des conversations et la passion qui anime participants et intervenants. À TED, on parle de choses et d’idées qui méritent d’être propagées. Dans un paysage médiatique caractérisé par l’absence de passion, d’intelligence et de défis, TED est donc un événement exceptionnel. » « C’est aussi le seul endroit où je peux avoir une conversation avec une Cameron Diaz à l’aise et pas sur ses gardes », renchérit Steven Levy, journaliste au mensuel Wired.

Selon lui, le mélange des stars et des geeks marche à merveille, car TED, malgré son élitisme, a un côté égalitariste. La conférence met aussi l’accent sur le social. Créé en 2005, le prix TED récompense chaque année trois individus, qui reçoivent 100 000 dollars pour réaliser un vœu. Bono, le chanteur qui veut sauver l’Afrique, ou encore Dave Eggers, l’écrivain qui veut éduquer les enfants américains, comptent parmi les lauréats.

Lorsque Chris Anderson et son équipe choisissent les intervenants, ils ne leur demandent qu’une seule chose : qu’ils donnent la meilleure présentation de leur vie. Le philosophe Alain de Botton, invité à parler en juillet dernier, lors de la conférence TED Global, à Oxford, sur le thème du succès et de l’échec, raconte qu’il a répété sa présentation des centaines de fois. « Je me suis entraîné devant mes amis, ma famille, les miroirs et les murs », raconte-t-il.

À TED, l’audience est non seulement l’élite présente dans la salle, mais aussi le monde de la Toile. Car TED, c’est également TED.com, où les discours sont disponibles gratuitement. « Ma prestation n’a pas été seulement vue par le millier de personnes présentes à Oxford, mais aussi par un million d’internautes », précise le philosophe.

AFFAIRE D'INTELLIGENCE

TED l’élitiste cherche donc à se démocratiser. Chacun peut aujourd’hui prétendre au statut envié de TEDster. « Toutes les quatre minutes, mille personnes visionnent un de nos discours sur TED.com », affirme Chris Anderson. TED Translation, projet en « open source » lancé il y a un an, qui consiste à encourager les volontaires de la Toile à traduire les discours de leur choix, contribue à propager la bonne parole.

À TED, on est toujours surpris. Quoi de plus étonnant que de voir John Doerr, l’un des associés du plus grand fonds d’investissement de la Silicon Valley, verser une larme en expliquant pourquoi sa génération a contribué à détruire la planète ? Ou d’être assis à quelques mètres de Bill Gates, peu connu pour faire des farces, lâchant un bataillon de moustiques sur un public médusé, sous prétexte qu’il est injuste que les pauvres soient les seules victimes du paludisme. L’enjeu est de sauver l’humanité, et plus de refaire le monde.

À TED, il y a des règles et des principes sacrés, comme celui de ne jamais parler de business. Se vendre y est considéré comme vulgaire, même si la majorité des TEDsters avoue s’y rendre en partie pour tisser des réseaux dans les couloirs et lors des repas formels et informels. « On va à TED pour inspirer les autres et non pas pour parler de soi. Il s’agit de quelque chose de très intellectuel et presque spirituel », assure Dominique Piotet. « Les gens de TED sont par définition une élite, puisqu’il s’agit d’un petit groupe. Mais c’est une élite qui n’est pas choisie en fonction de critères comme la richesse, la beauté ou le pouvoir », souligne Alain de Botton. À TED règne l’intelligence.

Clara Dufour, Le Figaro, 07.11.09

http://madame.lefigaro.fr/societe/en-kiosque/2399-le-monde-selon-ted/1

Trabaja desde hace un año en Tolo, la cadena más popular del país. Allí son cinco las mujeres en un mundo de hombres. Tres presentan noticias y dos son reporteras. Anese pisa la calle cada día acompañada de un camarógrafo para filmar lo que es noticia. "Sólo me muevo por Kabul porque en las provincias es imposible. No podría salir con el micrófono. Nunca aparezco en la pantalla. Sólo pongo mi voz. A mi familia no le gusta que sea periodista. Mi padre es muy estricto y me prohibiría trabajar. Sentiría una gran vergüenza si todos me pudieran ver".

Viste un chador negro y se cubre parte del cabello con un pañuelo verde. Tiene unas manos grandes que no se corresponden a la dulzura de sus facciones. Mientras responde a las preguntas juguetea con un bolígrafo y garabatea en una libreta de notas. Parecen su burladero. La entrevista se realiza casi en la clandestinidad, en los jardines de un hostal, lejos de las miradas curiosas.

"Cuando estoy en la calle grabando una entrevista los hombres me dicen cosas, algunas son insultos; otras, frases de mal gusto que no puedo repetir. (...) La situación de la mujer no ha mejorado, en las aldeas sufren malos tratos. Es una cuestión cultural: la mujer siempre ha sido un elemento secundario".

En el autoescuela Usmani, cerca del teatro nacional de Kabul, son tan modernos que enseñan a conducir a las mujeres que lo desean y pagan por ello. No muchas se atreven a romper el tabú. El volante es cosa de tipos rudos que mascan palillos, se hurgan la nariz sin esperar al semáforo que nunca funciona y meten el capó porque cada cruce es un campo de batalla. En Uslami los machos peatonalizados no se conforman con su rol de mirones y vagabundean por los alrededores para llamar putas a las aspirantes. Lo mismo le sucede a Anese en sus reportajes. Puta es toda aquella mujer que cree en la libertad.

Anese dice que es un trabajo duro y recuerda a las dos periodistas asesinadas, Zakia Zaki de Peace Radio y Shakiba Sanga Amaj, popular presentadora de televisión. "Siempre quise hacer este trabajo. Desde que tengo 12 años". Pese a su coraje reconoce que si su padre le prohibiera seguir en televisión tendría que dejarlo. "Soy musulmana y debo obedecerle". El padrem que mucho refunfuña hacia fuera, más para combatir el qué dirán, debe guardar en su interior algún sentimiento de satisfacción y orgullo por lo que hace su hija. Eso o quizá sean los 500 dólares que Anese gana al mes lo que ablanda la jerarquía de valores, que cuando más estrictos parecen los padres más histrionismo llevan encima.

Preguntada qué haría si su futuro marido le pidiera dejar el empleo, Anese sonríe desde un hilo de travesura: "Tendría que negociarlo con él antes y establecer las condiciones para evitar sorpresas, pero además de hacer televisión sé escribir y podría dar clases".

Para las mujeres como ella, que escaparon del analfabetismo que lastra al 84% de las afganas, todo es diferente: saben que existe la posibilidad de elegir y eligen. "La educación es la única arma, un derecho esencial, pero sólo es posible ejercerlo cuando hay paz".

Ramón Lobo, El Pais, 08.11.09

http://www.elpais.com/articulo/internacional/ser/mujer/problema/elpepuint/20091108elpepuint_7/Tes

Having established fairly thoroughly that they weren't gay, the Beatles went on to make Yellow Submarine instead: not bad, but, no insurrectionist transvestite humping-and-murder-fest. Up Against It joined the pantheon of tantalising rock what-ifs, alongside the Rolling Stones' film version of A Clockwork Orange, the acid house album Shane McGowan lobbied the Pogues to make, and Paddy MacAloon's concept album about Michael Jackson.

To that illustrious list, we can now add the improbable name of Robbie Williams. In 2007, he apparently recorded an album he later described as "career suicide" and "Robbie's gone mad music", presumably a sonic expression of the period in which he grew a beard, put on weight, searched the California desert for aliens and helpfully began dressing as a pop star who'd gone crackers. It sounds fascinating, but instead, Williams opted to make his comeback with Reality Killed the Video Star, a Trevor Horn-produced album that, he notes, "ticks all the boxes".

It certainly does. Williams and his songwriting team have recovered their ability to write ruthlessly effective radio-friendly songs. The album bulges with fantastic melodies and undemanding pop references: the opening Morning Sun nods to I Am the Walrus, You Know Me boasts a string arrangement based on John Barry's Theme From Midnight Cowboy. Alas, Williams's less lovable traits are also present and correct, among them his apparently irrepressible desire to release jokey novelty tracks – here represented by an entirely ghastly bit of cod cock-rock called Do You Mind? – and his penchant for groan-inducing wordplay, most of which doesn't even count as punning, because puns are supposed to make sense. You listen to him singing "you would never be my trouble and strife, if I made you my Swiss army wife", groan, then think: what's that actually supposed to mean? Perhaps she's good at getting stones out of horses' hooves.

You might expect an album this musically surefooted to be triumphalist in tone, but Reality Killed the Video Star is more complicated and interesting than that. The lyrics tremble with uncertainty about Williams's return. Morning Sun worries about reviews and star ratings. "Don't call it a comeback," pleads Last Days of Disco. A lovely, languid sigh of a song called Deceptacons touches on the beardy UFO-hunting years – it carries a definite hint of Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft – and their effect on perceptions of his sanity: "Well, he's never been right." On Starstruck and the brilliant electro-wriggle Difficult for Weirdoes, he aligns himself with society's outsiders, including make-up-wearing teenage boys and, a little bafflingly, the Futurists.

You might reasonably suggest that the precise similarity between Robbie Williams and Filippo Marinetti is a trifle difficult to work out. You might also reasonably suggest that pop music has come to a pretty pass when Robbie Williams can present himself as some kind of leftfield artist. Nevertheless, he has a point. The pop stars that have emerged during his absence have tended to cleave to the US model: bland, orthodontically perfect, deprived of their personality via the complex surgical process known as media training. By contrast, Williams belongs to a grand, possibly dying, British tradition of flawed, wonky pop stars, people whose appeal rests at least partially on the fact that they appear to have ended up at the top of the charts almost despite themselves. In that light, Reality Killed the Video Star's neurotic self-obsession seems not merely like honesty, but a rather canny move. Anyone can hire Trevor Horn and some crack writers and knock out an album of polished pop-rock, but perhaps only Robbie Williams would release an album of polished pop-rock consumed with angst, self-doubt and songs justifying his interest in extraterrestrial life forms. If it's not as daring and confounding as the tantalising what-if of his abandoned career-suicide comeback album, it's still a pretty unusual ploy given the current climate. Under the circumstances, it would seem churlish not to welcome him back.

Alexis Petridis, The Guardian, 05.11.09

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2009/nov/05/robbie-williams-reality-killed-the-video-star

Au départ, il y a une nouvelle de Richard Matheson, écrite en 1970, où un couple de petits-bourgeois se voit proposer un étrange marché par un inconnu. Il suffit d'appuyer sur un bouton fixé sur une mystérieuse boîte, ce qui provoquera la mort d'un inconnu, pour recevoir une somme de 1 million de dollars. On voit immédiatement que l'enjeu d'un tel récit est avant tout philosophique. Que faire d'une liberté totale, celle qui donne le droit de vie et de mort, celle qui exclut pour son acte toute perspective de punition ? L'égoïsme peut-il être plus fort qu'une morale que l'on croit évidente ?

En s'emparant de la nouvelle de Matheson, Richard Kelly, qui est aussi l'auteur du scénario, tente de lui donner un développement inattendu. A cette interrogation morale vient en effet se greffer un scénario du complot et de la conspiration. Quel rapport l'inconnu, interprété par Frank Langella, défiguré grâce aux prouesses numériques, entretient-il avec la CIA, la NASA et l'hypothèse d'une vie extraterrestre ? Kelly n'hésite pas à doper le mince prétexte de départ par une série de spéculations, qui, tout en tenant en haleine le spectateur, en le perdant aussi dans un labyrinthe, font intervenir diverses possibilités d'explications parfois un peu trop rassurantes.

La tentation d'Eve

Mais n'est-ce pas le rôle fondamental de toutes les théories du complot de donner une explication de l'histoire rassurante à force d'être faussement logique ? Car l'essentiel n'est pas dans l'explication du complot mais davantage dans la métaphore politique et éthique que contient l'idée de départ. En cédant, plus volontairement que son mari velléitaire, la jeune femme, incarnée par Cameron Diaz, rejoue l'archétype de la tentation d'Eve mais plongée ici dans un monde qui, à force de se croire à l'abri des turbulences de l'histoire (les Etats-Unis du milieu des années 1970), peut aussi se sentir délivrée de toute responsabilité, voire de tout rapport avec un réel cruel.

Le geste atroce qui accepte la mise à mort d'un homme est ici répété par des familles petites- bourgeoises à l'égoïsme confit dans l'émolliente ambiance des fêtes de Noël.

Las medidas de austeridad puestas en marcha por el Gobierno socialista el año pasado para reducir el déficit público han generado protestas y huelgas: bomberos, trabajadores de ferrocarril... son muchos los que salen a la calle a diario contra los recortes. Los que viven del mercado negro, como Laszlo Kenderes -se calcula que son unos 300.000 en todo el país-, ni siquiera saben dónde quejarse. Cuenta que, desde que se divorció, vive en una habitación subalquilada y que come gratis en un local de beneficencia cercano a la plaza.

La situación no es fácil. El PIB volverá a caer (un 0,9%) en 2010 y se recuperará, con suerte, en 2011. El paro supera ya el 10%, la cifra más alta desde 1996. El elevado déficit y deuda públicos han engullido la economía del país, que además se ha visto afectado por la crisis financiera internacional. El Fondo Monetario Internacional, el Banco Mundial y la UE tuvieron que concederle en 2008 una línea de crédito de 20.000 millones de euros.

"Hubo días, antes de que nos dieran estos créditos, que en el mercado de deuda pública no se vendía ni un bono", recuerda Attila Mesterhazy, jefe del grupo parlamentario socialista, que asegura que la economía está en la senda de la recuperación. "En 2006, el déficit estaba en el 9,5% y lo hemos reducido al 3,9% este año", dice. Para conseguirlo, han subido los impuestos y recortado el gasto público, lo que se ha traducido en reducciones presupuestarias en muchos servicios públicos. "El Gobierno ha perdido apoyo por estas medidas", reconoce.

Si las elecciones se celebraran ahora, el Partido Socialista, en el poder desde 2002, obtendría un 8% de los votos. El principal partido de la oposición, Fidesz (derecha moderada), reuniría un 45%. Sentado en su despacho, Peter Szijjarto explica que no tiene dudas sobre el porqué de la caída de los socialistas. "Estamos al borde de la situación de emergencia; desde enero han cerrado más empresas que en todo 2008", afirma el portavoz de Fidesz. "Hay que bajar los impuestos para reactivar el consumo y la actividad".

La transición económica no ha salido bien. Las pequeñas y medianas empresas húngaras emplean a dos tercios de la población, pero sólo producen un tercio del PIB y son incapaces de pagar salarios competitivos. "Y las empresas extranjeras producen dos tercios del PIB, pero no son capaces de impulsar la industria doméstica", opina Zoltan Kiszelly. El analista enumera más problemas que explican la crisis: "No se redujeron a tiempo las ayudas sociales, la corrupción absorbe entre el 20% y el 30% de los contratos del Estado, y los grandes proyectos, como las carreteras, se financian básicamente con créditos extranjeros que, con la crisis internacional, no son tan fáciles de obtener".

Los perdedores del cambio a la economía de mercado, la clase baja, sobre todo en el noreste del país, son el principal nicho de votantes de Jobbik, un partido de extrema derecha que en las pasadas elecciones europeas consiguió tres diputados. Los sondeos le dan ahora un 7% de los votos, lo que significaría que entraría en el Parlamento nacional en las elecciones de 2010. "Se trata de un partido nacionalista y antigitano, que tiene como modelo el estilo de democracia rusa", explica Mark Szabo, del Instituto Perspectiva.

Jobbik -ninguno de sus representantes ha querido entrevistarse con este periódico- roba votantes a los socialistas. "Los más necesitados apoyaban a la izquierda y ahora se sienten traicionados", añade Szabo. Este partido está vinculado a la Guardia Húngara, un grupo de jóvenes de ultraderecha vestidos con uniformes de estética fascista y que fue ilegalizado en julio. Pese a todo, siguen saliendo a la calle para, según ellos, imponer el orden.

"Cuando el muro de Berlín cayó, pensábamos que lo difícil ya estaba hecho, que se sucederían los milagros, pero no fue así", comenta Agnes Koroncz, que fue durante años la mano derecha de Gyula Horn, político clave en la apertura democrática del país.

Según una encuesta reciente de Gallup, los húngaros se encuentran entre los más pesimistas del mundo, sólo superados por los habitantes de Zimbabue, Haití y Burundi. La crisis hace mella en el ánimo.

Cristina Galindo, El Pais, 09.11.09

http://www.elpais.com/articulo/internacional/crisis/ahoga/esperanzas/elpepiint/20091109elpepiint_4/Tes

When political violence erupts in the very first chapter, as a group of armed Nepalese nationalists invade the hilltop home of a retired judge, it is teatime. The judge, a brooding old man who worked for a lifetime in the British-run Indian Civil Service, is crossly demanding "a cake or scones, macaroons or cheese straws", while "the boys" creep across his lawn. "Something sweet and something salty." The judge, who has "worked at being English with the passion of hatred", has tastes inescapably formed by his colonial training.

In the local Gymkhana dining hall he demands "roast mutton with mint sauce" and almost begs for tomato soup. When he first employs his cook, he tells him to learn a brown sauce and a white sauce: "shove the bloody white sauce on the fish and shove the bloody brown sauce on the mutton".

His most important companion is his dog, for whom the cook must concoct elaborate recipes when political unrest ends the supply of meat. "It was her stew time and the cook had boiled soy Nutrinuggets with pumpkin and a Maggi soup cube. It worried the judge that she should have to eat like this".

Meanwhile, in a parallel narrative, Biju, the son of his cook, is working illegally in the kitchens of cheap New York restaurants. His letters to his father tell of their bewildering variety. "He worked at Don Pollo – or was it The Hot Tomato? Or Ali Baba's Fried Chicken?" He knows only that if his son is cooking "English food" he must have "a higher position than if he were cooking Indian food".

The sheer ethnic confusion of New York food is beyond his ken: Biju moves from one advertised cuisine (French, Italian, Chinese, "authentic colonial") to another, though the kitchens are "Mexican, Indian, Pakistani", or "Colombian, Tunisian, Ecuadorian, Gambian". Even when he encounters supposedly Indian food it is fitted to some "fusion trend": "the goat cheese and basil samosa, the mango margarita".

What would feature in newspaper guides as a delightful, multi-cultural variety is, for Biju, a kind of gastronomic cacophony. His fellow exile Saeed cheers himself up with a reminder of East Africa: "cow peas and kingfish from the Price Chopper . . . and plantains in sugar and coconut milk". "This goo mixture smelling of hope so ripe he slathered on French bread and offered to the others".

It is appropriate that the judge lives with "the cook" (he does not get a name). Though disappointed to be working for a fellow Indian ("his father had served white men only") he has qualified with an unstoppable list of all the English puddings he can produce. ". . . applecharlotteapplebettybreadandbutterjamtartcaramelcustardtipsypuddingrumtumpuddingjamrolypolygingersteamdatepuddinglemonpancake-eggcustardorangecustard . . ."

The judge's orphaned teenage grand-daughter Sai joins the household and begins a surreptitious romance with her tutor, Gyan. When Gyan and the judge speak to each other it is with the awkwardness that only a mealtime (with the eaters stuck in their places) can dramatise. The young Nepalese teacher, with his disdain for all colonial allegiances, has to join in a repast of lamb chops with peas, potatoes and gravy.

We see the occasion through the judge's eyes, as he quizzes Gyan about his literary tastes and aggressively spears and chews his favoured grub. It is an exercise in crumbling authority. "He could tell Gyan had never eaten such food in such a manner".

Food travels strangely. The judge (his name is Jemubhai, but this is only ever used of his younger self) recalls how, as a student in chilly Cambridge, he read about the British in India, with their mock turtle soup and Yarmouth herrings shipped thousands of miles to reassure them. A century later, as winter closes in in the hills, Lola and Noni, the two beleaguered Anglophile sisters, take refuge in food.

"Oh, beautiful soup in the copper Gyako pot . . . mutton steam in their hair, rollicking shimmer of golden fat, dried mushrooms growing so slippery they'd slither down scalding before you could chomp open their muscle". Comfort is gastric.

As the Nepalese independence movement grows in strength, and the ethnic fissures in Kalimpong become clear, Lola and Noni – proud connoisseurs of Trollope and Agatha Christie and afternoon tea – become awkwardly aware of their tastes. "It did matter, buying tinned ham roll in a rice and dal country." Food focuses cultural unease. Eating makes you feel you belong, and makes you know when you do not.

John Mullan, The Guardian, 07.11.09

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/nov/07/inheritance-loss-desai-book-club