The main message of Graham’s review is that The Brutalist is a monumental artistic achievement – a film that is both intellectually ambitious and emotionally gripping, proving that serious, epic cinema can still be made on a modest budget.

Graham communicates this message through several key strategies. First, he employs elevated, literary language that mirrors the film’s own ambitions. Phrases like “myth-making saga” and “allegorical foundation myth” frame the film not merely as entertainment but as a work of cultural significance. The comparison to “Dostoevsky’s doorstop novels” that “bristle with brio” aligns the film with high literary tradition.

Second, Graham uses concession and contrast to address potential criticisms pre-emptively. He acknowledges that the film is “self-consciously important” with its VistaVision format and chapter divisions, then counters with the colloquial assertion: “But homework it ain’t.” This shift in register reassures the reader that despite its intellectual weight, the film is compelling viewing.

Third, symbolism and visual language are used to reinforce key themes. The opening image of the Statue of Liberty appearing “upside down” from Tóth’s perspective serves as a visual metaphor for the immigrant experience – America as a land of dreams that proves “topsy-turvy” in reality.

The review’s final word – “Immense” – is a single-word evaluative conclusion that functions as both a description of the film’s scale and a definitive critical verdict. Its brevity, after paragraphs of detailed analysis, gives it rhetorical force – a confident assertion that needs no further elaboration.

The statistics in this report are stark, but what strikes me most is how poverty creates a cycle that becomes almost impossible to escape. The figures are not merely numbers – they describe 16 million lives constrained by circumstances that compound one another.

One of the most troubling findings is the connection between poverty and health. The report reveals that over a quarter of those in poverty live in families with poor physical health, and a third with poor mental health. This creates a vicious cycle: poverty causes stress, poor nutrition, and inadequate housing, which deteriorate health; poor health, in turn, limits the ability to work, pursue education, or improve one’s circumstances. When 75% of workless families are in poverty, the relationship between unemployment and deprivation becomes painfully clear.

The disproportionate impact on disabled people is equally significant. Over half of those in poverty live in a family that includes a disabled person. Disability already carries barriers to employment and social participation; combined with poverty, these barriers become walls. The additional costs associated with disability – mobility aids, adapted housing, care needs – mean that disabled individuals often need more income than average simply to achieve the same standard of living, yet they are more likely to have less.

Perhaps most concerning is the statistic about “deep poverty” – people living at least 50% below the poverty line. Nearly four in ten Londoners in poverty fall into this category. This is happening in one of the world’s wealthiest cities. The juxtaposition of the homeless people in the photograph, sitting opposite Victoria station – a gateway to wealth and opportunity for millions of commuters – makes this inequality visible in a way that statistics alone cannot.

These consequences of poverty are not inevitable; they are the result of policy choices. A society that tolerates such levels of deprivation in the sixth-largest economy in the world has, I believe, a moral obligation to do better.

More Than a Game: How Athletes Have Shaped Social Change

In October 1968, two American sprinters stood on the Olympic medal podium in Mexico City and raised their black-gloved fists during the national anthem. Tommie Smith, who had just won gold in the 200 metres, and John Carlos, the bronze medallist, were making a statement about racial injustice in America. Their protest lasted only a few seconds, but it became one of the most iconic images of the twentieth century – and it cost them dearly. Both were expelled from the Games and faced death threats upon returning home.

The tradition of athlete activism stretches back decades, and the World Economic Forum article by Simon Read demonstrates that it continues to evolve. What has changed is not the willingness of athletes to speak out, but the scope of the issues they address and the responses they receive.

The pioneers: risk and punishment

The earliest athlete activists paid a heavy price. Muhammad Ali was stripped of his heavyweight boxing title in 1967 for refusing to be drafted into the Vietnam War. Ali lost three years of his prime and faced widespread condemnation before history vindicated him. Similarly, Smith and Carlos were ostracised by the sporting establishment – and Peter Norman, the Australian silver medallist who wore a human rights badge in solidarity, was effectively blacklisted by Australian athletics.

The modern era: from punishment to partnership

When Colin Kaepernick began kneeling during the national anthem before NFL games in 2016 to protest police brutality against Black Americans, he was initially vilified and effectively blacklisted from the league. However, the gesture soon spread globally, particularly after the murder of George Floyd in 2020. Nike, rather than distancing itself from Kaepernick, made him the face of an advertising campaign with the slogan “Believe in something. Even if it means sacrificing everything.”

Megan Rapinoe’s fight for equal pay demonstrates how modern athlete activism can produce concrete policy change. After a six-year legal battle, the US Soccer Federation agreed to pay the women’s team $24 million and match the men’s bonuses. Rapinoe’s activism was not merely symbolic; it resulted in material improvement.

Carson Pickett’s story represents yet another dimension: representation. As the first player with a limb difference to represent the US Women’s soccer team, Pickett uses her visibility to advocate for people with disabilities. The viral photograph of her arm-bumping a two-year-old fan with a similar limb difference illustrates the power of simply being visible.

Why athletes matter as activists

Read writes that athletes “wield levels of soft power politicians can only envy.” Athletes are admired for their talent, discipline, and achievement. When they speak on social issues, they bring a credibility that politicians and professional activists often lack. Moreover, the global reach of sports ensures that athletic protests are seen by audiences who might never encounter a political speech or academic article.

The limits and responsibilities of athlete activism

However, the growing expectation that athletes should be activists raises uncomfortable questions. Not every athlete has the knowledge or inclination to engage with complex social issues. As Mary Harvey of the Centre for Sport and Human Rights argues, sports governing bodies have a “difficult but critical role to play in supporting athletes who stand up for human rights.”

There is also the question of selectivity. Sports institutions that celebrate certain activism may simultaneously suppress political expression that challenges their commercial interests. If athlete activism is only tolerated when it aligns with market-friendly causes, it risks becoming brand management rather than genuine dissent.

Conclusion

From the raised fists in Mexico City to the knees taken before NFL games, athletes have consistently demonstrated that sport and politics are inseparable. The issues have evolved – from anti-war protests to gender pay equity and disability representation – but the underlying principle remains: those with platforms have a choice about how to use them. The athletes who have chosen to use theirs for social change have helped build a world where taking a stand is increasingly seen not as a betrayal of sport, but as an extension of its highest values.

Old Empires, New Ambitions: Reading MacKay’s Cartoon in the Age of Trump

Graeme MacKay’s cartoon from March 2025 depicts King Charles proudly showing President Trump what appear to be his pets – the nations of the Commonwealth. Charles beams with proprietary pride, while Trump responds with his characteristic style of effusive, superlative-laden praise. The cartoon is deceptively simple, but its implications are sharp and multilayered.

At its most basic level, the cartoon satirises the legacy of British imperialism. By depicting Commonwealth nations as “pets,” MacKay suggests that the organisation retains an uncomfortable echo of the colonial relationship it replaced. Charles’s possessive pride implies ownership rather than partnership, echoing the paternalistic language used to justify colonialism for centuries.

Trump’s response is equally revealing. MacKay captures the former president’s rhetorical style with precision – the superlatives, the informal endorsement. But the humour carries a darker edge. In early 2025, Trump expressed interest in acquiring Greenland, suggested the annexation of Canada as the “51st state,” and made claims about the Panama Canal. His “admiration” for the Commonwealth is not merely flattery – it is envy. The cartoon implies that Trump sees the Commonwealth as a blueprint for American expansion.

This reading is particularly relevant when considering the United States’ own history. The US has long positioned itself as an anti-imperial nation, yet American foreign policy has often been described as imperialist in practice. MacKay’s cartoon collapses the distinction between old European colonialism and new American ambition.

The cartoon also invites reflection on the “special relationship” between the UK and the US. By placing Charles and Trump together in mutual admiration, MacKay suggests they share a worldview in which smaller nations exist to serve larger ones. This is a pointed critique at a time when both the UK (post-Brexit) and the US (under “America First”) have pursued nationalist foreign policies.

MacKay, a Canadian cartoonist, brings the perspective of a nation caught between these two imperial traditions – historically tied to the British Crown, geographically and economically dependent on the United States. Trump’s public musings about absorbing Canada make this cartoon a reflection of genuine geopolitical anxiety.

In conclusion, MacKay’s cartoon satirises the post-colonial pretensions of the Commonwealth, parodies Trump’s rhetorical style, and draws an uncomfortable parallel between old and new forms of imperialism. Its message is a warning: empires may change their names and methods, but the impulse to control remains.

The Shape of Hope: From Feathers to Action

Hope is one of the most universal human experiences, yet it can be expressed in remarkably different ways. Emily Dickinson’s poem “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers” (1861) and Michelle Obama’s 2011 speech at the Young African Women Leaders Forum both explore the nature of hope, but they differ profoundly in how they conceptualise it – one as an internal, almost mystical presence, the other as an external force that demands action.

Dickinson’s hope: the quiet companion

Dickinson uses an extended metaphor to define hope as a bird that “perches in the soul.” This image immediately establishes hope as something internal and instinctive. The bird “sings the tune without the words” and “never stops – at all,” suggesting that hope persists even when it cannot be articulated or understood rationally.

One of the poem’s most striking qualities is its emphasis on hope’s resilience. Dickinson writes that hope is “sweetest – in the Gale,” implying it is most valuable precisely when circumstances are worst. The “storm” that could “abash the little Bird” would have to be extraordinarily severe.

Perhaps most remarkably, Dickinson’s hope is entirely selfless and undemanding. The closing lines – “Yet – never – in Extremity, / It asked a crumb – of me” – present hope as a gift that requires nothing in return.

Obama’s hope: the call to action

Michelle Obama’s conception could hardly be more different. Where Dickinson’s hope is passive and self-sustaining, Obama’s is active, social, and demanding. She begins by acknowledging that life may not always be comfortable. This is realistic rather than reassuring. Instead, she frames hope as inseparable from courage and action, suggesting that both courage and hope spread between people and gain momentum of their own.

The word “contagious” is particularly significant. It transforms hope from a private experience into a social phenomenon. This is fundamentally different from Dickinson, in which hope exists independently of human agency. For Obama, hope is something we create and share; for Dickinson, it is something that creates itself.

Comparison: two faces of hope

The two texts offer complementary rather than contradictory visions. Dickinson’s poem speaks to the moments when hope is all we have – when we are alone, in the “chillest land,” and unable to act. Obama’s speech speaks to moments when action is possible and individuals may doubt their ability to make a difference.

Both texts share a conviction that hope is stronger than the forces that oppose it. For Dickinson, hope survives storms and extremity. For Obama, hope acquires independent momentum once shared. The difference lies in how hope endures: in Dickinson, through quiet persistence; in Obama, through human solidarity.

One might argue that the two visions correspond to different stages of life or different types of hardship. Dickinson, writing in solitude in the mid-nineteenth century, experienced hope as an interior companion. Obama, addressing aspiring leaders in the twenty-first century, experiences hope as a call to collective action. Neither is wrong; together, they offer a fuller understanding of what hope means – both the comfort it provides and the courage it demands.

In conclusion, Dickinson and Obama remind us that hope takes many forms. It can be the quiet bird that sings in the soul when all else is silent, and it can be the contagious courage that spreads between people when they refuse to give up. Both forms are necessary, and both are powerful.

Speaking Against Silence: Audre Lorde’s “A Litany for Survival”

Audre Lorde’s “A Litany for Survival” (1978) is a poem that refuses comfort. It does not promise that things will improve, that justice will prevail, or that courage will be rewarded. Instead, it offers something more radical: the argument that speaking is necessary precisely because safety is impossible.

The opening: life at the margins

The poem opens by addressing those who live in permanent precariousness at the boundary between worlds, always facing critical decisions alone. The shoreline metaphor is central – a shoreline is a place where land meets sea, stability meets flux. To live there is to exist in permanent precariousness, never fully belonging to either world. For Lorde, this describes the experience of marginalised people: Black Americans, queer individuals, women, the poor.

Lorde notes that for those at the shoreline, even the freedom to choose one's own path is a luxury beyond reach. This implication is devastating: choice itself becomes a privilege available only to the secure.

Historical and cultural context

The poem was written in 1978, a period of intense social upheaval in the United States. The Civil Rights Movement had achieved significant legal victories, but systemic racism persisted. The women’s liberation movement was criticised by Black feminists, including Lorde, for centring white, middle-class women while ignoring intersecting oppressions. Meanwhile, the early LGBTQ+ rights movement, galvanised by the 1969 Stonewall Riots, was gaining visibility but facing fierce resistance.

Lorde occupied a unique position within these movements. As a Black lesbian woman, she experienced discrimination on multiple fronts. Her concept of intersectionality predates Kimberlé Crenshaw’s coining of the term by over a decade.

The poem's central declaration on survival

The poem's most-cited line operates on two levels. Literally, it acknowledges that systems of power have been designed to eliminate or suppress marginalised communities – from slavery to segregation to anti-sodomy laws. But it also carries fierce defiance. To declare that one was never intended to survive while simultaneously surviving – writing, speaking, demanding recognition – is itself an act of resistance.

The litany of fear

The second stanza catalogues the pervasive nature of fear in pairs of opposites — fear at sunrise that day will not last, fear at sunset that morning will not return. No matter the situation, fear is present. The effect is claustrophobic – there is no safe position, no correct choice.

The genius of this section is its final pair: fear accompanies both speech and silence. Whether one talks or stays quiet, the underlying anxiety remains.

The poem's conclusion

The closing lines constitute the poem’s argument: speech is preferable to silence, precisely because survival was never guaranteed in the first place. The logic is unsparing. If fear is constant regardless of whether one speaks or remains silent, then silence offers no protection – it only serves those who benefit from the marginalised remaining invisible. Speaking, by contrast, creates the possibility of being heard, of connecting with others.

The word “better” is modest – Lorde does not promise that speaking will save anyone. She says only that it is better, the less bad option in a world where safety is unavailable.

Today, Lorde’s poem remains urgently relevant. In an era of renewed attacks on LGBTQ+ rights, persistent racial inequality, and political movements that seek to silence marginalised voices, the choice between speaking and silence is as fraught as ever. Lorde’s litany reminds us that survival itself is a form of resistance – and that the act of speaking, however frightening, is what transforms survival from endurance into defiance.