It's a cop out to blame foreigners for our housing woes

From Russia with loadsamoney

Was the poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko just a cover for a nefarious plot to buy up London’s housing market? Well, no, writes Mark Cantrell, but isn’t it just as ridiculous to suggest super-rich Russians are also to blame for the housing crisis? Underneath the lurid details of plutocratic extravagance, lurks the bitter tongue of old-fashioned xenophobia

This article was originally published in a 2006 edition of Northern Housing magazine

Alexander Litvinenko

A spectre is haunting London’s booming property market – the spectre of communism. Or to be more precise, the spectacle of former communists turned plutocratic oligarch.

The men who once ruled the Soviet Union with an iron fist, until Gorbachev’s Glasnost and Perestroika lost them the Cold War, have come back in style and opulence – and they love to flaunt their wealth now that they have joined the international capitalist jet-set.

This might not be so bad, except for the old rivalries and faction fighting the former commissars have carried into their days as business Tsars. Whether a product of business or political rivalry – and the two are never distinct in Russia even by Western standards – the intrigue has led to a burgeoning émigré population in London since 2004.

So, what has this got to do with housing? Nothing at all, except some people are concerned about the effects wealthy Russians are having on the housing market. Media attention has been focused on the melodramatic soap opera that is the death of former KGB agent Alexander Litvinenko, which has opened up the exotic world of New Russia’s business elite. Behind these headlines, however, some media commentators have raised the spectre of wealthy foreigners pricing home-grown money out of the market. It’s just not cricket.

One might expect the former ruling elite of the Soviet Union to show nothing but disregard and disdain for the free market – but not by buying it outright. Anecdotes abound; of Russian oligarchs who don’t even ask the price of a property, but splash out on homes and opulent luxuries with the kind of abandon that would embarrass even a Romanov. Of a swathe of flats bought en masse and knocked into one plush pad, as a little something for the plutocrat about town. Other anecdotes speak of offers that exceed even the asking prices already inflated by today’s housing market, high-class estate agents displaying pages in Cyrillic and whole neighbourhoods alleged to be turning uptown Moskva.

The Russians are not only buying our companies and our football clubs, why they are even buying the roofs from over our heads. Aren’t we supposed to have won the Cold War? So, the word on the street is that the local established wealthy bourgeois in the plush places of Chelsea, Knightsbridge and others are clinging on by their fingertips. Meanwhile, a few rungs beneath the high-end of the property market, the affluent middles classes – not used to feeling the chill winds of stratospheric house prices – are feeling the squeeze. They are unimpressed, as staunch Brits are wont to be.

As the Observer columnist Cristina Odone noted: “For those of us looking for mortgages, a bullish housing market, if unchecked, spells the daunting prospect of a rise in interest rates. Astronomical debts and huge monthly repayments are just the kind of bad news we blame on the wave of wealthy Russian immigrants (just as back in the 70s, we could blame soaring house prices on the Arab influx and their petrodollars). It is the Russians’ wealth and their ever-growing numbers that inflate house prices beyond our means.”

The plutocrat, however, has always bought ‘palaces and purpled ease’, it kind of goes with the job. Some flaunt it more than others, of course, but in today’s gravity-defying, seemingly insane housing market, the activities of the super-rich are allegedly exerting pressure that is artificially levitating the lower market sectors even further. Everyone suffers in other words, not just good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon lucre.

It’s not just the wealthy Russians coming to town. In years to come, we are warned, we will witness an influx of Chinese and Indian plutocrats as those countries take off economically to rival the old centres of global commercial power in the West. Add to this fat bonuses paid to City executives and we see that the pressure on the high end of the housing market is set to increase.

As Yolande Barnes, director at Savills Research said in regard to the London and South East markets: “We have seen considerable growth in these sectors this year largely fuelled by the buoyant financial markets. With no sign of this weakening combined with the prospect of City bonuses amounting to £8.8 billion by the year-end, there will be plenty of cash for further investment in property. We estimate that £5.5 billion from City bonuses will go into housing at the top end of the market in 2007.”

So, it’s not all the foreign plutocrat’s fault, then? Well, no, but it is always tempting to blame the perennial outsider for intractable problems. The blame game is an age-old tactic. And while it might offer a short-term emotional palliative, it does nothing to make real problems go away. This takes us beyond the somewhat frivolous and voyeuristic commentary on the lifestyles of our Russian friends – to the dark heart of the mutterings over ‘unfair competition’ driving up prices. This is not the ‘politics of envy’, as some might call it, nor is it the ‘politics of social justice’ as still others might say – rather it masks the bitter pill of xenophobia in the saccharine of some good old-fashioned disdain for the wealthy.

This should quell any humour those of us on moderate incomes might feel, as we listen to the whines of the wealthy gazumped by the super-wealthy. For alongside the influx of rich Russians to scare the pinnacles of the housing market, the middle and lower ends also have their immigrant scare stories too. The latter can only be given a spurious legitimacy by the seeming respectability of the former.

The problems inherent in Britain’s housing market are deep-rooted and cause hardship for growing numbers of people. The sad truth is that however much the situation is worsened by the activities of the super-rich, regardless of their nationality, playing the blame game will solve none of the real underlying problems. At the end of the day, as many housing industry figures have said time and again in these pages, it comes down to building more homes: both social and private sector, for rent and for sale.

The region’s average house price is forecast to rise to over £322, 000 in the next five years, according to Oxford Economic Forecasting information published in a report from the southern region of the National Housing Federation. Over 180,000 families are currently on housing waiting lists. In the next two decades, some 37,000 new households will require homes in the region, as economic growth brings in an influx of workers to add to the existing population. In this context, it might be tempting to blame foreigners whether wealthy or not for increasing the competition that pushes up prices even further. Yet, equally so in this context, migrants from English regions coming to work in London and the South East are just as much an immigrant as someone arriving from Eastern Europe.

The blame game of xenophobia can do nothing to address the fundamental problems, but it might distract us from tackling them head on.


This article was first published in Northern Housing magazine, circa November 2006. It was subsequently republished on the Housing Excellence website, 11 December 2006. 

Children bear the brunt of modern warfare

Suffer Not, The Children Do

Truth is said to be the first casualty of war, writes Mark Cantrell, but if that is so then it is a close run race against innocence

ALL too often in modern warfare, civilians pay the cost of modern conflict with a disproportionate burden falling on women - and children. Sometimes, it is a war in all but name.

Back in 1996, American journalist Leslie Stahl asked US Secretary of State Madelaine Albright if the costs of sanctions born by the Iraqi population were worth it to be rid of Saddam Hussein. Her response gained infamy among many opposed to war in general, and the burden it places on children in particular.

"Yes, we think the price is worth paying," she replied.

It is, of course, easy to foot the bill when someone else is reaching into the wallet. It is also true that more than half a million children had died preventable deaths in a country that once boasted a modern health care system. Prior to the first Gulf War, the diseases and ailments killing these children were virtually unheard of. The population enjoyed over 90 percent coverage, not only in health care but also in the provision of another important factor to health and well-being - access to clean water.

Distance, and the sheer scale of tragedy, doubtless desensitises those in high office to the full-scale impact of human tragedy. Perhaps that goes some way to explain Albright's cold statement of policy. On the other hand, perhaps she was merely giving a new take on the old adage about the 'banality of evil'.

Statistics can hide a multitude of horror stories, even while they seek to shed light upon them. As Stalin once chillingly observed: "One death is a tragedy but a million is just a statistic."

So with that in mind, here are a few numbers to mull over.

Sixty million people were killed in wars throughout the Twentieth Century. Over thirty wars are currently raging in the Twenty First Century. One in four children are affected by conflict world-wide. Since 1990 some 17 million children have been displaced by war. More than 2 million have been killed. More than 1 million are separated from parents or orphaned. More than six million have been disabled and over 10 million traumatised by conflict. Some 300, 000 children are conscripted as child soldiers in a combat or support role. Even when the fighting stops the carnage continues: every year between 8,000 and 10,000 children are maimed or killed by landmines and unexploded munitions.

This is the face of war and conflict in the modern age. Civilians face the harshest onslaught, either as victims caught in the crossfire or as specific targets. Civilian casualties now account for an estimated 90 per cent, with half of these being children. War touches everyone but it is statistically safer now to be a combatant than a non-combatant.

"The nature of war has changed dramatically," says Save The Children. "Its horrors are no longer experienced primarily by soldiers fighting on front lines. Today's conflicts happen where people live; in backyards and main streets and they take a brutal toll on women and children."

During armed conflict, girls and women are threatened with rape, domestic violence, sexual exploitation, trafficking, sexual humiliation and mutilation. The use of rape and other forms of violence against women often becomes a strategy in wars used by all sides. These are the added burdens above and beyond the dangers of military action.

The International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) says: "Most modern conflicts are internal. They mainly affect ethnic, racial and religious minorities within the borders of a single country, with the poorest members of society usually bearing the brunt. The state of terror so often inflicted by the combatants serves as a means of social control; it is a kind of total war permeating the entire fabric of society - its economic, political, social and cultural realms - in which the civilian population is increasingly targeted by the warring parties."

Children consequently witness the horrors of war first hand. They are caught in the crossfire, or else deliberately targeted. They are press-ganged into military service. They see the familiar in their life destroyed, family members vanish, abused or killed. They experience all the suffering and turmoil and pain of conflict first hand. Yet all too often, they are perceived as little adults, capable of taking it and standing firm with a stiff upper lip. As if adults themselves caught in conflict are capable of the same. For civilians, war has gone beyond hell.

"All too often children are helpless, first hand witnesses of atrocities committed against their parents or family members," the ICRC adds. "They are killed, mutilated, imprisoned or otherwise separated from their families. Cut off from an environment familiar to them, even those who manage to escape lack any certainty as to their future and that of their loved ones. They are often forced to flee, abandoned to their own devices and rejected without identity. These children suffer deep psychological wounds that seem incurable to them but from which well-targeted care can help them recover."

The plight of the world's war victims isn't entirely bleak, however, with various agencies such as Save The Children, Unicef, The Red Cross and others operating a variety of programmes to help alleviate the suffering. Together, they might not be able to stop the dogs of war from ravaging societies, but they work tirelessly to try and heal the hurts and ultimately muzzle the hounds. At least when it comes to children.

The 'war' they wage against war has many fronts. Campaigns seek to highlight the issues of the youngest and most helpless victims of man's oldest hobby. The propaganda war, backed up with people on the ground, providing more material tactics and strategies. The battle to save the child is an ongoing war, and while such actions might not be able to abolish war, the objective is keep it out of the kindergarten.

Unicef is currently [at the time this was written] waging a 'shock and awe' campaign with television viewers in Belgium, highlighting the issue with the help of the Smurfs. They obtained permission from the family of the cartoon character's creator 'Peyo' to carpet-bomb the message home. The devastation wrought was terrible, with many victims among the Smurf population. That it takes the deliberate slaughter of these peaceful cartoon characters to raise awareness of the plight of flesh and blood children is a tragedy in itself. Certainly, the Smurfs will never be the same again.

Back in the frontline, material aid can cover anything from the basics of life such as food and clothing and shelter, to the provision of schooling and teaching materials, counselling and care, social support and systems to trace and find lost family members. The range of needs for war-damaged children is vast and complicated, and it can take many years to put the pieces of shattered lives back together.

War Child is a newcomer among the troop of organisation working to alleviate the suffering. It is a network of affiliated but independent organisations that grew out of the horrors of war in the former Yugoslavia. Film makers Bill Leeson and David Wilson visited the country in 1993 to make a documentary on the role of artists in war for the BBC's Arena programme. They were so struck by what they saw, that they were moved to try and make more than a film - but also a difference.

Today the War Child organisation has grown into a network of independent organisations working to help children affected by war. It applies a three-fold strategy to its mission: To act as an implementing agency; identifying, developing and staffing aid programmes. As a grant-making trust, providing funding and logistical support for other non-governmental organisations. And as a pressure group, forging links with the media and entertainment industries to promote awareness of the problems facing children in war zones, as well as to mobilise public support on their behalf.

The War Child organisation defines a war-zone not just as a current 'hot' conflict, but also places where the fighting has ceased but the children still suffer from the ongoing devastation of the aftermath, or else where their lives are in jeopardy due to poverty, violence and disease. On any one of these definitions, there is plenty to keep them - and other organisations working in this field - busy long after the wars are forgotten.

Lifting the burden of war from a child's shoulders doesn't end with the laying down of arms and the drafting of a peace settlement. The damage inflicted lingers long in the physical and mental environment of the post-war period. All too often the youngest victims are forgotten. Part of the fight for children's peace of mind is to gain recognition that they have a voice.

As War Child said in its 2005 report 'Your War Is Not With Me': "The specific needs of children need to be addressed in peace negotiations or plans for post-conflict reconstruction. Young people should not be seen just as the passive victims of war, but as a group that is vital to the future of their communities. Children are too often ignored in establishing the end to conflict and their voices go unheard in creating and defining peace."

Children are quite literally the future. But for too many young lives the future is now and forever - war.


This article was originally written for a planned culture and current affairs magazine that, in the end, never got off the ground, so it subsequently made its first appearance on one of the author's earlier blogsites.

Casting a glance at a bygone literary scene

Scrawling on the megalith

Mark Cantrell remembers a group of writers who placed themselves at the heart of a vibrant local literary scene

First published in the the Yorkshire Journal

Joe Ogden, Ruth Malkin, Howard Frost at the Priestley

"QUIET in the cheap seats," Howard Frost growls. He turns to glare at the motley collection of writers gathered around the table.

Eventually they pay attention, like a bunch of unruly school children, and settle down to listen to the words of a fellow scribe.

This ritual takes place every Tuesday in the downstairs bar at the Priestley Centre for Arts (formerly the Bradford Playhouse), when the members of the Interchange (Bradford Writers Network) gather for their workshops.

Don't let Frost's mock stern nature fool you, it's a friendly and informal group. Unusually, it deals with just about every form of the written word: poetry, short fiction, novels, theatre and film scripts, memoirs, journalism as well as catering for singer songwriters. The group is as eclectic as it is gregarious.

Interchange is one of several literary groups operating in the city. Members flit between them in an almost incestuous excursion that helps to feed the vibrancy of the city's literary scene.

Nick Toczek

"We believe that no matter who you are, if you write then your voice, your input, your words matter," says member Ian Reed.

Frost agrees and adds emphasis when he says: "Interchange has always been about helping people find their own voice, value that voice, and help it to grow stronger by having a wider audience."

An audience is important to any writer, regardless of whether their main purpose is to develop their work for the performance circuit. The typical image of a writer is of someone working in isolation, sweating blood over piles of paper in their garret. Sometimes that image can be true, but for those who step outside the musty room, they find a vibrant world of fellow scribes waiting to share their literary needs.

It provides an environment of support and positive criticism that helps the writer to develop. Even the process of reading work and gauging people's response can work wonders to develop a scribe's words as well as confidence.

Maintaining this kind of environment is of crucial importance to the group. It consequently has few rules; the main ones being that only constructive criticism is allowed and there is no self-deprecation. The onus is on the words and on honing them as close to perfection as is humanly possible.

At time, it seems anarchic and chaotic, but there is method operating within its lack of structure. Whatever the magic, it seems to work and has held the group together until it has become one of the longest established in the city.

Interchange was formed 15 years ago as the Bradford Writers' Workshop. It emerged from an event called 'Poetry Live' that was organised by Nick Toczek and 'Wild' Willi Becket. Using the event as a focal point for attracting writers, they assembled the first motley collection to form a permanent writers' organisation. To their delight, they discovered it worked.

Lynette Shaw McKone, Joe Ogden, Alex Krysinski

Writing under her married name of Mellor, Alex Krysinski wrote in the foreword to the group's first anthology, Flakattak (1993): "In no time at all [it] turned into the equivalent of AA. People could come and confess their addiction to pen and paper and hardcore word processor punters could offload their guilt, helping each other to take control of their mutual habit."

True to its aspirations of developing literature in the city, it has expanded beyond its weekly workshops to organise performance events at a number of venues.

Initially, it performed at the Love Apple Cafe, but in the Summer of 1998 the group moved to its current monthly venue at the Melborn. To mark this move, the group relaunched itself as Interchange.

Today, this is one of the group's main performance events and it takes place on the last Wednesday of the month. The second main event takes place at the Monkey Cafe Bar in Wakefield (in conjunction with the Black Horse Poets), on the first Wednesday of the month.

Both are open mic events, where performers can come along and take the stage by storm. All they are asked to do is arrive from 8pm to sign up. Performances begin at 8.30pm. These have become regular and well-attended venues on the city's arts scene.

Along with the regulars, the group has organised a variety of one off events and taken part in festivals throughout the district - and further afield.

In 1999 six members of the group - calling themselves 'The Bradford Six' - self-published their work both in book and audio CD format. Not content with a UK audience, they took Release to the States to perform in cafes, bars and festivals.

Later in the same year, the group supported member Karl Dallas in a multi-media celebration of the Russian October Revolution.

Karl Dallas, Red October

Despite some misgivings about the 'political' nature of Red October (as it was called), the group was inspired to help stage the event by the selection of literature.

To music and a back-drop of computer-generated slides, the performance included works by Akhmatova, Bertholt Brecht, Hugh MacDiarmid, Mandelstam, Mayakovsky, Lenin, William Morris, Pasternak, Yevtushenko and J B Priestley's They Came To A City.

The centrepiece was a dramatised performance by Karl Dallas of Alexandr Bloc's controversial poem The 12 (1918); a warts and all depiction of a squad of Red Guard patrolling the streets of St Petersburg, who find themselves following the figure of Christ bearing the red flag of workers' revolution.

It was a challenging performance, for which the 'actors', particularly Dallas, benefited from the theatrical experience of director Howard Frost.

"It's always a challenge to do a one-man show," Frost said at the time of rehearsals. "The challenge has been to create something worth watching for its own sake without overtaxing the abilities of the actor. I think at the end of the day we'll both be able to say we achieved what we set out to do."

When the audience subsequently trooped out of the Priestley's Studio Theatre, both men, and the other performers, were indeed able to say just that.

With the turn of the century, the group decided to herald the New Millennium in verse with the Festival of 2000 Voices.

This was a year-long event, taking in a host of specially organised events, along with the regular gigs. The aim, by the end of 2000 was to have that number of poets and writers perform their works.

Each performer signed a 'performance book' to mark the event, along with a giant banner that was displayed on the last gig of the year.

As well as celebrating the Millennium, it was also intended to promote performance poetry as a distinct form, as well as find new voices.

Ruth Malkin, who organised the event, said: "I think of performance poetry as the popular form of the genre. Rather like the distinction between 'popular' and 'classical' music. The two can co-exist and just as in the music world there is some overlap. Funders of poetry and literary academics sneer at performance poetry, but they also reap the rewards of its popularisation of poetry in general."

Howard Frost, Monkey Bar Cafe

Alongside the Festival, the group was also working on its second anthology: Love, Sex, Death & Carrots. Published at the end of 2000, and formally launched at the first Monkey event of 2001, it presented a host of old hands alongside the new.

Highlights of a busy group. Along with these have been other one-off events as well as the activities of individual group members. Within this varied activity, the core of the group - its very heart and soul if you like - remains with the weekly workshop, where talent is nurtured and developed. Fifteen years on from its inception, the group still shifts, grows, evolves - just like the writers themselves. It's hard to imagine Bradford's already vibrant literary scene without Interchange.

"People have come and gone, some to extinction, some to glory," Krysinski added in Flakattak. "The workshop remains like a megalith, awesome and covered in graffiti."

Despite a change of name, the same can be said today.



First Published In The Yorkshire Journal #37, June 2002.


Footnote: That was then, this is now, and all good things come to an end. So it was with Interchange (Bradford Writers' Network), which finally dissolved several years after the initial publication of this article. Many of the 'old hands' remain active in the literary world, however, so you might say it lives on in spirit.

Photos copyright (c) Mark Cantrell

S26: In Prague for a velvet revolt of the anti-capitalist kind

McDonald's in military drag

When the anti-globalisation movement descended on Prague to protest against the IMF and World Bank on 26 September 2000, Mark Cantrell tagged along for the ride...

This article first appeared in Route newspaper

IT had not been a good day to be a McDonald's restaurant.

This one was draped in military camouflage netting, the kind used to hide tanks from the prying eyes of enemy aircraft, but here used to hide the establishment from the tender mercies of the more hands-on kind of anarcho-protestor.

We almost passed without noticing. Under the nets, the building blended into the night, but they hadn't done the job right. There was a glaring gap by the doors and the light pulled the eyes towards the 'McD' sign. A few cops stared warily from inside. They'd had a tough day. So had we.

Luckily for the police, we weren't that kind of protestor. Even if we were, the day had left us too tired to tear down a hated symbol of global capitalism.


NOT since the Velvet Revolution of 1989 had the streets of Prague witnessed such dramatic displays of People Power.

In those days, ordinary people joined the uprisings surging across Eastern Europe. They rose up to smash Soviet totalitarianism in a heroic bid for freedom, but for so many the victory was not quite what they expected.

"We hoped the end of Stalinism would mean not only the end of the Cold War, but the end of all wars, the end of poverty and exploitation," said Czech protestor Johana Ruzickova. "Everyone spoke about the victory of capitalism across the whole world and how this would make our lives better. Czech politicians told us that if we tightened our belts for ten years then everybody's standard of living would be as high as in Austria. But the situation is totally different. The standard of living is worse than before.

"People often say they were in the streets in 1989. They say they wanted the old regime to end, but they did not imagine the situation would end like this. Eastern Europe today is not what we fought for. But there is anger, there is resistance, there is hope."

Johana's sentiments found their echoes elsewhere, and they were manifested in the return of People Power. Thousands were gathered to walk in the footsteps of those earlier Velvet Revolutionaries. This time the Czech protestors did not chant alone, they were joined by the angry voices of Europe and beyond. It was a clash of two worlds, both with utterly incompatible visions of the future.

In the 'Blue Corner' was the 14,000 delegates from the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund (IMF). They believe the answer to the world's ills lies in the unbridled pursuit of corporate profit. In the 'Red Corner' were the 20,000 or so anti-capitalist protestors who believe the only solution is a world built on the basis of human need.

For these anti-capitalists, the delegates had gathered to plot world domination on behalf of a handful of powerful trans-national corporations. They were sowing the seeds of a new totalitarian system that would subvert democracy and human rights under the guise of the 'free market'. In this world, corporations would dominate every aspect of our lives from cradle to grave. Humans would become branded, pre-packaged products, built to dutifully consume or be consumed.

Against this, the anti-capitalists were making a stand, just as others had stood against the World Trade Organisation in Seattle nearly a year before: one more battle in the world's Velvet Revolution.

Facing the protestors were 11,000 Czech riot police, backed by military helicopters, armoured personnel carriers and water cannon. Each man stood as a defender of world capitalism; a living irony because so many had once stood in defence of 'world socialism', struggling to protect a dying empire from its subject people.

"THIS is an illegal march," the cop shouted through his megaphone in English, Czech and German. "If you do not disperse you risk injury from the response we will be forced to take."

He stood on top of the armoured car, an inhuman silhouette against the bright sky. Beneath him, lines of riot police stood behind steel barricades. They gazed, impassive behind their visors, at the sea of chanting people.

"After the third warning they charge," a voice yelled from the crowd. It was the only notice any of the protestors took. They linked arms, raised their banners and flags and chanted even louder to drown the robotic voice.

"This is what democracy looks like!"

"The workers united can never be defeated!"

About 6,000 protestors were in this group. From all the world's socialist organisations, it seemed. Predominantly young, they waved red flags, the hammer and sickle, the clenched fist of revolution. Many wore kerchiefs around their faces, drenched in vinegar as a crude defense against tear gas.

This was just one 'frontline' in the actions taking place across the city. Thousands more - doubtless the anarchists and environmentalists - had laid siege to the city's Soviet-era Conference Centre, where the delegates were trapped. Still more had occupied the nearby hotels, and were themselves besieged by police.

All of this action was taking place beyond the Vltava River, and these protestors were trying to reinforce their comrades. After a boisterous march through the streets of Prague, their voices adding to the echoes of historic revolt, they found the police waiting for them at the bridge. More than 200 blocked the way, standing like menacing robots.

Neither side was quite strong enough to clear the way, nor was either side prepared to back down. Still, the protestors made an effort to break through. They linked arms, flourished their banners and strode towards the police lines. Those in front received a face full of tear gas, forcing them to break rank and flee in search of water to sluice their eyes. Faced with the gas, the crowd would pull back, reform and surge forward once more.

Excitement and tension filled the air like the pervasive scent of vinegar and gas. The police looked agitated, like hunting dogs eager to be released. Thousands were squeezed into this bottle neck at the bridge, and nobody knew if the police would charge. If they did, it would be a 'massacre' with so many bodies packed tight.

Above all this drama, the Conference Centre stood as a brooding silhouette. The objective was frustratingly out of reach, but despite the stalemate, the protestors did not take their position as a defeat. As long as they stood firm, they weakened police resistance elsewhere.


AWAY from the barricades, people milled around or sat on the grass to bask in the sun. A multitude of voices talked about world issues and politics, while live music, dolls and people in outlandish costumes gave the scene a carnival atmosphere. Calm and relaxed, it seemed a thousands miles from the tension and the tear gas.

Resting on the grass was student Rene Torrenson from York. He expressed a common sentiment: "[This] shows that people aren't prepared to just sit back and accept the policies of the World Bank and IMF," he said. "People do have the power to organise and to fight back."

AT the frontline, the protestors finally turned and marched away. They had shouted themselves hoarse and sweated under the hot sun for more than three hours to make their point.

So they failed to reach their objective, but they did not see themselves as defeated. They had played their part. They had stood up and been counted on the stage of world history.

"I've been on a lot of demonstrations and protests, but not like this," said Kevin Stannard. "I've never been in an action where I've had to push myself into confrontation with the police. They built a fortress to protect the IMF and the World Bank. We had the rest of Prague. It says that ordinary people can do something to make a difference."

Mark Harrison from Burnley put it more succinctly: "We owned Prague for the day!"


AS for the McDonald's, it made for a fitting symbol of everything these protestors opposed, with its melding of fast food retailing and military drapery.

Thomas Friedman, a US journalist close to the State Department, once commented: "The hidden hand of the market will never work without the hidden fist. McDonald's cannot flourish without [aircraft and weapons manufacturer] McDonnell Douglas."

Inside the building, the not so hidden fist of the Czech state munched on its burgers. We left them to it, the echoes of dissent still echoing in our hearts and minds.


First published under the title 'Prague' in the December 2000 issue of Route Newspaper, a quarterly literary publication circulated in the North of England. "Put across the protestors' point of view and give us a sense of the atmosphere," the editor said, so I endeavoured to do just that.


Photographs copyright Mark Cantrell

Enter stage left for a curious celebration of the Bolshevik Revolution

Taking Bradford by storm

Back in 1999, Bradford-based activist and poet Karl Dallas took to the stage with a literary and theatrical celebration of the Bolshevik Revolution. He told Mark Cantrell why he wanted to put on such a show, and how he found help from a local 'apolitical' writers' group

This article first appeared in the Morning Star newspaper 

Karl Dallas in Red October

EIGHTY-TWO years ago [at time of first publication], the Bolsheviks led the Russian workers and peasants into the limelight of history. They took the Winter Palace, Russia and the world by storm. This was an epic performance, and rehearsals were a luxury they could not afford.

For the two grey-bearded men plotting in a mildew-scented basement somewhere in Bradford, that's not such a problem. One is stern of face as he meticulously goes through the plan of action. He mercilessly drills the other man, who has an enthusiastic gleam in his eyes from contemplating their plan becoming reality. For them, rehearsals are an absolute necessity as they prepare to follow in the footsteps of the Bolsheviks and take the city by storm.

Fortunately, for the theatre-goers of Bradford, director Howard Frost and producer/performer Karl Dallas are not plotting insurrection, although the latter is a self-confessed revolutionary. Instead, they are putting together a stage performance to celebrate the anniversary of the Russian Revolution.

Some will undoubtedly ask why anybody would want to celebrate the Russian Revolution, particularly ten years after the symbolic demolition of the Berlin Wall, and the subsequent collapse of the Soviet Union. Yet, the world today would be horribly familiar to the Bolsheviks. Their battle-cry of 'Land, Bread and Peace' still carries a dreadful resonance for millions of people living in a world of unprecedented disparities between rich and poor.

The dust has settled on the bones of the Soviet age, but its builders in 1917 still speak to people today. The words of Lenin and Trotsky and Marx - voted Man of the Millennium - still inspire hope and struggle for a better world built from the bottom up.

And this is the reason for the celebration that is Red October. The show is a literary performance described as a multimedia experience. Computer generated slides and music by Stravinsky will play alongside performances and readings of poetry and prose. Featured authors include Akhmatova, Bertholt Brecht, Hugh MacDiarmid, Mandelstam, Mayakovsky, Lenin, William Morris, Pasternak and Yevtushenko. The performance is to be rounded off with a reading of J B Priestley's They Came To A City.

The centrepiece of the evening, however, will be a complete performance of the narrative poem The 12, written by Aleksandr Bloc in 1918, and translated from the original Russian by the producer. Its warts and all depiction of a bunch of Red Guard patrolling the streets of St Petersburg generated much controversy in its day - as did its depiction of Christ leading the way with the Red Flag held high.

A Christian sub-text, such as that depicted by Bloc's poem, is an important element in the show, which the more secular-minded might miss. This isn't simply an expression of the producer's personal religious convictions, they are also an expression of his politics.

Karl Dallas and Howard Frost in rehearsal

"Christianity, like communism, has been perverted for oppression, but in its true sense Christianity is a revolutionary movement. To me Christianity and communism are just two sides of the same coin," Karl says.

In preparing for his stage debut, Karl is benefiting from the acting experience of his director Howard Frost, a poet, actor and opera singer with experience of over 250 dramatic productions. He agreed to work in the role because of its challenging nature.

"It's always a challenge to do a one person show," Howard says. "Karl won't mind me saying that acting is new to him. The challenge has been to create something worth watching for its own sake without overtaxing the abilities of the actor, at the same time as giving someone who lacks previous experience of acting an idea of how to approach his subject. It's working. I think at the end of the day we'll both be able to say that we've achieved what we set out to do."

When he shuffles out before the lights and the audience at the Priestley Centre for Arts on Saturday, Karl will have realised a ten year old ambition. "I've been wanting to put on this show since I first came to Bradford in 1989," he says, "but it was met by a lack of interest from the local communists when I suggested we do something to celebrate October. Then I mentioned it to this group of 'non-political' poets and they agreed to do it."

The group of poets in question is the Bradford Interchange Writers' Network, of which both Karl and Howard are members. Several of its regular participants have agreed to perform work, though some have misgivings about the subject matter of October, or indeed its secondary aims of raising funds in support of the Morning Star newspaper. Such misgivings haven't dampened their enthusiasm for the project, however, and several admit to finding the project thought-provoking and informative.

"The poem I am reading is very much about the relationship between poets and the way that poets are shaped by their society," says performer Bruce Barnes. "Also, it's about what happens to poets when they confront the system. It's made me want to read a lot more Russian poetry. I think it was some of the finest work that was being written in Europe at that time."

In the main, as might be expected from a group of writers, it's a love of literature that is firing up the performers. From the selected works and the rehearsals it is clear that a tantalising selection of literature has been chosen, promising a good night of enthralling entertainment. But, and this probably won't embarrass him in the slightest, the willingness to help with Red October is a testament to Karl's popularity at the regular Interchange meetings.

A celebration in literature is certainly unusual, at least for those not overly-familiar with life in the Soviet Union. Poetry was taken immensely seriously during its 75 years of existence. Ideological battles raged through the rhythm of poetic thought and action.

"The audience is in for something different," Howard adds about The 12. "It's a different presentation of the subject matter from what I've usually come across. Previously the October Revolution has been done either through out and out drama, or purely in documentary terms. This is more a dramatised presentation of a poem rather than a full blown drama."

The assemblage of poets and writers selected for Red October were chosen not just for the celebration of a political event but also for a celebration of the literature. Indeed, many of the works show that the two go hand in hand. Like the aspirations and the dreams of ordinary people that lay at the heart of October, the writing has a contemporary feel and a modern resonance.

It would give too much away to provide even a cursory run-down of the works that the Interchange performers are to bring into life on Saturday. Suffice to say the show promises to be entertaining and thought-provoking.

It explores both the human and the inhuman faces of the Soviet age, its successes and its mistakes, its contradictions and, of course, its creator's vision of its importance to the history of this century and beyond.


Postscript: Red October played on Saturday 13th November in the studio theatre at the Priestley Centre for Arts, Chapel Street, Little Germany, Bradford. Proceeds were shared equally between the venue and the Morning Star.


This article was first published in the Morning Star newspaper, 12 November 1999.

Photos: Copyright (C) Mark Cantrell 

Review: Last Temptation of Christ - Criterion Collection

Pillars of the faith

A warm portrayal of Christ is enhanced by this movie's humane treatment of Judas. Both depictions should encourage Christians to question their faith -- in a positive way, writes Mark Cantrell

Last Temptation of Christ - Criterion Collection

Starring Willem Dafoe, Harvey Keitel

Directed by Martin Scorsese, 1988

 

WHEN it was originally released, Scorsese's masterful Last Temptation of Christ stirred up a storm of controversy. The reasoning - if such it can be called - for this furore can only be attributed to the triumph of dogma over reason.

The film, based faithfully on the book by Nikos Kazantzakis, is a wonderfully sympathetic and human portrayal of the man Christ. What is refreshing is the treatment of Judas, stoically portrayed by Harvey Keitel.

Between these two men is a powerful rapport. So unlike, their relationship is the central focus of the movie. Far from being the cringing 'Jew' of Catholic propaganda, Judas is here portrayed as the strong man, the sword-wielding revolutionary firebrand who initially rejects Christ's teachings of peace.

Both are revolutionaries in their own way. Willem Dafoe's Christ is the sympathetic, thoughtful flip-side to Keitel's tough determination. And both their traits are needed to fulfil Christ's destiny of dying for mankind.

When it comes to that time, only his own strength and his love for Christ allows Judas to outwardly betray Christ.

It is this revision of the Judas myth and the relationship between the two men that brings the film to life. Perhaps this is one source of the controversy. The next is certainly the final temptation.

On the cross, nagged by all too human doubts, he is tricked by the devil. He succumbs and lives out a normal life as a family man.

Finally, it is Judas who penetrates the trickery and reveals to Christ that he has been fooled. Once more, his strength and anger, along with his relationship to Christ that lifts the veil from the latter man's eyes.

In so doing, it reveals the strength of the Christ character. For now his choice is far tougher; to fulfil the plan, to die for all mankind, he must not only face the pain of the cross, but sacrifice the family and the life he has since known.

Scorsese has taken a novel, itself based on revisions of the Gospel, and woven these strands into a startling human story. Forget the controversy, enjoy the film and a refreshing tale of human endurance and spirit that does no disfavour to Christianity.

MC

First published on the Internet of Film, 2001

Review: Independence Day Special Edition

Gung-ho alien invasion romp won't be going quietly into the night

Emmerich served up a fun and visually engaging take on the tried-and-tested alien invasion trope, writes Mark Cantrell

Independence Day Special Edition

Directed by Roland Emmerich, 1996

Starring Jeff Goldblum, Will Smith, Bill Pullman, Robert Loggia, Mary McDonnell

ALIEN invasion is such a well-worn theme in science fiction that it's difficult to develop a new twist on these human David versus alien Goliath stories. So, Independence Day compensates by going for the throat with its exuberant special effects and rapid pace.

Neither aspect disappoints. The effects are stunning, whether it is the alien ships entering the Earth's atmosphere, the devastation of the cities or the aerial combat scenes. The movie's pace is equally breathtaking as it takes the viewer to the film's rather gooey denouement with the message that we're all in it together.

The movie harks back to the Golden Age of the 1950s sci-fi B movie, but without the subtext of the evil 'communist' menace. This time, the aliens have an aim that is as outrageous as the colossal size of their ships; these are intergalactic ethnic cleansers cum ecological wreckers. Enough to raise the bile of a planet-load of eco-protestors.

Critics have spoken of the movie's shallow characterisations and somewhat stilted plot. Convenient contrivances abound; from the way Will Smith's fiancée just happens to discover the wreckage of the First Lady's helicopter (out of all of the ruins in all of the world, you just have to drop into mine) to the way Jeff Goldblum's laptop so conveniently interfaces with the alien mothership's computer. All true enough. More thought could have avoided such contrivances, perhaps by using the alien ship as a plot device in this latter respect.

As for the characters, they are indeed on the shallow level, but overall the actors make an excellent role of limited material. Jeff Goldblum makes good work of his role as a kooky techno-boffin, though it lacks the depth of his earlier and similar character portrayed in the Fly.

Bill Pullman plays the ex-pilot-cum-president, lost on the political battleground, he comes into his own once the aliens attack. Outrageously silly is the notion of the US president leading pilots into battle; a lament on the calibre of latterday presidential material if ever there was one.

Will Smith's role is probably the least developed, as the fighter pilot who accompanies Goldblum to the final showdown with the alien mothership. Like the rest, he does his best with the limited scope offered by the script.

The lack of depth to the characters doesn't lie with the actors or their abilities, but with the script. The fast pace and the emphasis on action leaves little room to develop the characters. We see them adapting to rapid circumstances, but see little of their lives beyond the crisis. A longer film would have allowed time to deal with greater character development, but this would have slowed the pace down considerably. It's a trade off, pace and thrills rather than depth, to provide entertainment and a quick-fix escapism rather than something that works at a more cerebral level.

Those who favour the latter may therefore find Independence Day to be less than satisfying. But this isn't really a fault with the film as it makes no pretence at being anything more than what it is - a piece of SF entertainment pure and simple.

As a tribute to the '50s movie, The War of the World's (based on the novel by H G Wells), Independence Day works well at updating the theme for the 90s. The film cannot compete with the earlier version's depth and classic status, but it captured the pre-millennial angst with its fears of catastrophe. At the same time, it manages to inject a more positive aspect that does set it apart from its predecessor.

In The War of the Worlds, there is a hopeless sense of man's inability to cope with outrageous odds and a seemingly all-powerful adversary. Man's might, represented by the nuclear bomb fails to halt the alien horde. As the terrified heroes huddle hopelessly and helplessly in church, with the city blown apart around their ears, it is bugs that save the day. Humanity plays no part in its own salvation. The inference is that the Hand of God saves the day.

Independence Day, on the other hand, plays on the notion that God helps those who help themselves, to reverse this. Sure the macho might of America's nuclear arsenal fails to stop the enemy, but instead of showing people helpless, it is human ingenuity and audacity in the face of adverse circumstance that finds the chink in the alien's armour. And the bugs themselves are similarly updated - from microbes to computer viruses. The computer hook up may be a contrivance, but at least it is uplifting in its depiction of humanity struggling on to the bitter end and coming up with a solution. No quitters here.

On the whole, Independence Day is an entertaining movie. Perhaps it will never be a classic, and it is certainly no work of movie art. But it would be unfair to expect the movie to be anymore than what it is - a thrilling piece of sci-fi hokum determined to entertain.

That is as valid an aim in movie making as anything expressed by the auteur school of direction. And at the very least, it's disturbingly satisfying to watch the White House blown sky high.

MC

First published on the Internet Review of Film, 2001

Review: Sergei Eisenstein Autobiography (1996)

Arthouse Bolshevik celebrated in medium he pioneered

It's one of the coincidences of history that cinema and one of its greatest pioneers were born simultaneously, writes Mark Cantrell

Sergei Eisenstein circa 1935. Public domain image

SERGEI Eisenstein is long dead now, but the art form he helped to shape continues - and this Autobiography was made in 1996 to commemorate the 100^th anniversary of both.

The DVD is the first autobiography on film for Sir Gay (as he was known in his cartoonist days). It includes clips from his movies, as well as those of his contemporaries. Rare archive footage of the man himself is included, along with his personal reminiscences to provide a fascinating insight into the man behind the moving image.

Eisenstein, of course, stands as one of the most outstanding filmmakers of the last century. Not only was he a revolutionary in the political sense, he was a revolutionary in his approach to the movie art and his films express both these aspects beautifully.

Were it not for the cataclysmic events of 1917, Eisenstein would be destined to follow in his father's footsteps as an engineer. Instead, the possibilities in his life exploded in this social upheaval, and after a time working in the fledgling Soviet theatre he turned his attention to the new art of film.

Many of his theories for film were developed from his stage experiences. In a sense, the man had thought the moving image virtually all his life. So steeped in film culture was he that he wrote towards the end of his life: "My first childhood impression was… a close up."

His movies of this period, such as October and Battleship Potemkin, were not just stories but propaganda. They were part of the revolutionary battlefront, espousing the Bolshevik cause. Yet it would be wrong to see Eisenstein as a died-in-the-wool Bolshevik.

He was greatly affected by the events of his time, and he supported the aims of the revolution because, as he saw, it was opening up vast opportunities for creative expression and the development of new and experimental forms of art. He took up the cudgel of experimental art with a vengeance and was bitterly opposed to the Proletkult movement that wished to impose a pure 'proletarian' art.

In a time of fierce arguments over every aspect of life, there were those who suggested that art should be subordinated to politics. They were opposed by those who said art should be left free and unfettered, untouched by the reality around it. Art was the 'higher' cause, yet Eisenstein bridged the two sides and synthesised both in his films and his artistic insights.

Such arguments still hold resonance today, not just in political terms, but in the arguments of commercial constraints too. The aftermath of such debates, and Eisenstein's contribution to the '20th Century artform' have left behind a resonance of contemporary relevance, despite today's demanding technological prowess.

His artistic and revolutionary fervour were distilled into his films; each of which was planned in meticulous detail - all drawing from his background in engineering. In a sense, movies such as October were works of celluloid engineering as much as art.

The films still hold their own today. These silent classics worked the medium of film hard. In the days before colour and especially sound, filmmakers needed to work the image hard. The camera technique, angles, lighting all had to make up for the missing dimensions of colour and sound. In a real sense, movie-making was much closer to the art of suggestion that was stage than would ever be true today.

The technique of 'montage' pre-saged post-modernism and its use of contradictory and disconnected images to create visual metaphors to inspire meaning. Only later did post-modernism come to mean fragmentation and the inherent meaningless of the world. Eisenstein would have none of this.

As Ronald Bergen wrote in his biography of Eisenstein, 'A Life in Conflict': "[His] theory of montage is one of collision, conflict and contrast, with the emphasis on a dynamic juxtaposition of individual shots that forces the audience to consciously come to conclusions about the interplay of images while they are also emotionally and psychologically affected."

Considering Eisenstein's importance to world cinema, it's remarkable that his work has not been pulled together into a singular collection. Perhaps someone is working to correct this oversight, if so the resulting Eisenstein Collection would be a must-have for any film buff's library. As it is, this Autobiography adds essential detail to the man behind the movie classics.

MC

First published on the Internet Review of Film in 2001.