It’s December. You no longer have an excuse.
The class hierarchy in acting doesn’t exist in a vacuum: it’s reflective of the rigged opportunities shutting the working class out of most positions of status and wealth in this country.
Adaptations are often lamented for not living up to their source material, but the Young Vic production of Eimear McBride's novel brilliantly bucks the trend.
Commentators have been particularly surprised by the omission of British grime artists.
Because of All Saints, I bought my first pair of cargo pants and practised looking crestfallen. This entire aesthetic fit perfectly with my burgeoning lesbianism.
The conversation is moving away from the traumatic events at its centre.
The biggest winners, ironically, would be Ukip.
The winners were boring, but perfomances and acceptance speeches were not without their usual dose of spectacle.
I’m not sure what advanced technological displays I expected from the Madison Square Gardens livestream, but I was still surprised when Kanye simply pulled a laptop out of nowhere and plugged it in.
Inspirational artists don’t inspire the brave (they’re fine already): they inspire the timid. That's what David Bowie did for me.
The Master Builder at The Old Vic is even stranger than the original - especially when it tries to negotiate modern sensibilities.
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