Power to the crafts

What happens when craftivism meets spirituality?

Browsing and navigating my way through the colourful and diverse independent zines stalls showcased at the annual "Publish and Be Damned" event, I find myself drawn to a stall draped in handmade patchwork bunting. The stall is being manned by three women - one is wearing a huge knitted blue jumper with a grinning cat on it, one is in a studded denim jacket, and one is wearing a floral print hijab – and they are selling a small handcrafted zine called OOMK – One of My Kind. In tough economic circumstances, it’s inspirational enough that people are setting up very niche creative publications that they care about passionately, but these women are the only visibly ones from an ethnic minority in the hall - and happen to be muslim illustrators too.

Sofia Niazi, who is of Pakistani origin, tells me that she feels strongly about visual communication and that she founded the zine, alongside Rose Nordin and Sabba Khan, as she felt there was a noticeable gap in the market. “Articulating yourself visually is something that has been lacking in the muslim community,” she explains, “sometimes the arts isn’t encouraged, even though it influences us so much in the way we understand things and join the dots, and there aren't many muslims going to art schools. It’s frustrating when your voice isn’t heard, so we thought we’d do something about it, and create a friendly space where alternative talent can be appreciated and showcased.”

The zine has a folksy feel and is a highly eclectic visual feast, reflecting their mixed and interweaving heritage, with the aim to celebrate “the imaginations, creativity and spirituality of women.” I’m struck by the fact that it is inclusive, with 25 women contributors – writers and artists – all from different backgrounds, dipping into both ethereal and political realms in the issues they tackle. The theme of this issue is fabric, and explores the appreciation and struggle women have with material. Instead of finding glamorous Hollywood actresses that you’ll find in glossy magazines, there is a striking illustrated tribute to Malala Yousafzai, who was shot in the head by Taliban gunmen as she walked to school. Artist Ceri May writes about expression using wool and felt, there is a sketch of human rights lawyer Gareth Peirce, and a cut out poster of harem pants with the caption: “Elastic revolution. Escape the fat race. One size fits all.”

Underpinning this publication is the ethos of “craftivism”. I had never heard of this before, but it is a concept coined in 2003 by Betsy Greer, and she explains that it is a term that defines the intersection of “craft” and “activism”. It’s a movement that defies second-wave feminists by reclaiming traditionally feminised and domestic activities – sewing and knitting - that have historically been marginalised and undervalued, which is turned on its head and used instead as a means to make a stand and raise awareness of a cause. The juxtaposition of the comfort of craft with a bold political image is powerful, and far more accessible, and arguably, more effective than any political pamphlet could be. The artist Hannah Habibi writes in her essay in the magazine how she uses “stictching as a weapon of resistance” against gender constraints.

Of course, this isn’t something new. You can always spot a highly creative handmade banner at a demonstration, which guarantees a smile. Barbara Kruger in the 70s and 80s crocheted, sewed, painted and most famously juxtaposed photograph montages with bold text to criticise sexism and challenge concepts of power. Yet sometimes, there is the perception that art is exclusive and ethnocentric. The perception that that there is a monopoly over creative expression, or the negative notion that channeling your voice through art is worthless, need to be broken. Which is why I find publications like OOMK and projects by young women like Sofia, Rose and Sabba particularly exciting, and hopefully small efforts like this will inspire and make art more accessible and open to new audiences.  

Rose Nordin sells copies of the inaugural issue of OOMK (Photo: Aisha Gani)
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Will playing a farting corpse allow Daniel Radcliffe to finally shake off his Hogwarts associations?

Radcliffe is dead good in Swiss Army Man – meaning he is both good, and dead. Plus: Deepwater Horizon.

Actors who try to shake off a clean-cut ­image risk looking gimmicky or insincere – think of Julie Andrews going topless in SOB, or Christopher Reeve kissing Michael Caine in Deathtrap. Daniel Radcliffe has tried to put serious distance between himself and Hogwarts in his choice of adult roles, which have included Allen Ginsberg (in Kill Your Darlings) and an FBI agent going undercover as a white supremacist (Imperium), but it is with the macabre new comedy Swiss Army Man that he stands the best chance of success. He’s good in the film. Dead good. He has to be: he’s playing a flatulent corpse in a moderate state of putrefaction. If ever there was a film that you were glad wasn’t made in Odorama, this is it.

The body washes up on an island at the very moment a shipwrecked young man, Hank (Paul Dano), is attempting to hang himself. He scampers over to the corpse, which he nicknames Manny, and realises he could use its abundant gases to propel himself across the ocean. Once they reach another shore and hide out in the woods, Hank discovers all sorts of uses for his new friend. Cranked open, the mouth dispenses endless quantities of water. The teeth are sharp enough to shave with. A spear, pushed deep into Manny’s gullet, can be fired by pressing down on his back, thereby turning him into an effective hunting weapon.

On paper, this litany of weirdness reads like a transparent attempt to manufacture a cult film, if that term still has any currency now that every movie can claim to have a devoted online following. The surprising thing about Swiss Army Man is that it contains a robust emotional centre beneath the morbid tomfoolery. It’s really a buddy movie in which one of the buddies happens to have expired. That doesn’t stop Manny being a surprisingly lively companion. He talks back at his new friend (“Shall I just go back to being dead?” he huffs during an argument), though any bodily movements are controlled by Hank, using a pulley system that transforms Manny into a marionette.

The gist of the film is not hard to grasp. Only by teaching Manny all the things he has forgotten about life and love can the depressed Hank reconnect with his own hope and humanity. This tutelage is glorious: improbably ambitious DIY models, costumes and sets (including a bus constructed from branches and bracken) are put to use in play-acting scenes that recall Michel Gondry at his most inspired. If only the screenplay – by the directors, Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert – didn’t hammer home its meanings laboriously. Manny’s unembarrassed farting becomes a metaphor for all the flaws and failings we need to accept about one another: “Maybe we’re all just ugly and it takes just one person to be OK with that.” And maybe screenwriters could stop spelling out what audiences can understand perfectly well on their own.

What keeps the film focused is the tenderness of the acting. Dano is a daredevil prone to vanishing inside his own eccentricity, while Radcliffe has so few distinguishing features as an actor that he sometimes seems not to be there at all. In Swiss Army Man they meet halfway. Dano is gentler than ever, Radcliffe agreeably deranged. Like all good relationships, it’s a compromise. They make a lovely couple.

What to say about Deepwater Horizon? It’s no disaster as a disaster movie. Focusing on the hows and whys of the most catastrophic accident in US oil drilling history, when an explosion consumed an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010, it doesn’t stint on blaming BP. Yet it sticks so faithfully to the conventions of the genre – earthy blue-collar hero (Mark Wahlberg), worried wife fretting at home (Kate Hudson), negligent company man (John Malkovich) – that familiarity overrides suspense and outrage.

The effects are boringly spectacular, which is perhaps why the most chilling moment is a tiny detail: a crazed seagull, wings drenched in oil, flapping madly on the deck long before the fires start. As a harbinger of doom, it’s only mildly more disturbing than Malkovich’s strangulated accent. 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 29 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, May’s new Tories