(left-right) Tom Sturridge,Rhys Darby, Will Adamsdale and Bill Nighy star in Richard Curtis’ rock and roll comedy Pirate Radio, a Focus Features release. Photo by Alex Bailey, courtesy of Focus Features.

Bottom line: This is a transitional piece by a veteran director, but this film fails to deliver as a satisfying work. (Insert your own sinking ship pun here).
Grade: B-

Pirate Radio (formerly The Boat that Rocked) is the newest film from writer/director Richard Curtis (of Four Weddings and a Funeral and Love Actually fame). The movie follows the eccentric crew of an off-shore vessel that roams the North Sea, broadcasting everything the Powers That Be deem too raunchy for the airwaves.

Young troublemaker Carl (Tom Sturridge) is sent among the zany counterculture-outcasts after being expelled from his posh boarding school. Curtis’s adorably quirky characters (and their charming English accents) have earned him a place in many moviegoers’ hearts, and the DJs huge egos and ridiculous costumes appear scientifically designed to please crowds. The selection of golden-age British rock which underscores the whole film doesn’t hurt, either. And, unsurprisingly, every frame is filled with pretty people.

The whole affair sounds very appealing. But one of the leaky holes in this ship is its unrepentant crowd pleasing. This is understandable in light of the filming process: Richard Curtis admitted — with no embarrassment, I’ll add — that his film’s original running time was five hours and thirty minutes. He seems to have boiled down his footage into its 113 most sensually stimulating minutes. Cuts are noticeably rushed, the film’s many narratives appear smashed together (unlike Love Actually’s delicately intertwined storylines), and the film literally fast-forwards through the dramatic pan that introduces us to the ship. This is all very disappointing from a director as well-refined as Curtis, and his wonderful characters and colorful dialog lose their value without a dramatic glue to hold the film together.

It is crucial to note, however, that Pirate Radio marks a major departure for Curtis both in subject matter and in filming style. Curtis, a writer by training, loosened control of his precious script with a more improvisational, free-form shooting process. The result was a five-hour and thirty-minute tailspin that had to be cut into something resembling a wide-release comedy. That considered, it’s surprising the result came out as well as it did.

Mostly, the film owes its successes to good music, pithy writing, and an ensemble of veteran comedians, like Bill Nighy, Rhys Darby and Nick Frost, along with the wonderful newcomer Tom Sturridge. This is a transitional piece for an experienced director, and I hope better things come from this experimentation in the future.

At Northwestern, I know two people who took a gap year. In London, it’s much less of an anomaly. One of my flatmates worked full-time at a grocery store for half a year to save up for spending half a year in India. Many others take at least half a year to travel Europe, or just save up for uni. It’s definitely a different perspective on career.

Every time a Northwestern friend tells me about his or her fabulous internship, it sounds like they’re taking one step closer to being a career person — and getting a job is what growing up is all about, right? The idea of going home to Ann Arbor, Mich. wasn’t an option for me this summer. I’d rather work three jobs so I could hold an internship because not having something related to my career seemed like a waste of time. Even my friends from my hippie-tastic home who took a gap year seem to do it out of necessity for money. And often times, they still took classes at a community college.

Having a gap year to find yourself or to see the world just doesn’t seem like an option, an archaic idea better left to the Beat Generation. In London, it’s not. I’ve met plenty of people who took the gap year not because they had to but because they want to. They want to do things like find themselves, see the world and things like that — not career things.

Perhaps it is because we attend Northwestern whose population is admittedly driven. Or perhaps it’s an English cultural difference. Perhaps you aren’t as defined here by your occupation as much as in the States. And if Willy Loman has taught Americans nothing, it’s that we really, really care about our jobs.

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My liver hurts. Fresher’s Week (Queen Mary’s version of New Student Week) just ended and the drinking can finally conclude.

It’s strange being in the dorms because my roommates are almost only first years (freshmen — it’s like Harry Potter!) who are starry-eyed and oozing with enthusiasm at being on their own and able to drink. The legal drinking age in England is 18, after all. I don’t want to pull the “back in my day” card, but I feel too old to be drinking until I get miserably intoxicated until 3 a.m. anymore. On Sunday, I cheered at the prospect of not having to drink since I could use class on Monday morning as an excuse.

Not that there’s much to do aside from drink. For the first week, the only student union-organized events aside from orientations and a hideously crowded activities fair were on-campus parties until 2 a.m. at the campus bar, where the drinks were subsidized by the University and cheaper than in most of London. All my school wants me to do is get drunk.

It’s a strange view of drinking from a university. At least at the associate students’ orientation — which consisted of mostly study abroad students — drinking was referred to only as something not to get carried away with. There’s no hour-long skit about how drinking will lead to rape, STDs and eventually death while experiencing your first hangover. And yet, drinking is just as prevalent as in the States, but instead of it happening in a fraternity (which, let’s face it, is a freshman-infested shitshow), it happens at the campus pub (just as freshman-infested and just as shitty). Maybe drinking and coming of age will always be the same when they meet.

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I arrived in London at approximately 8:45 a.m. local time after a brief delay in the Detroit airport. There were individual screens in coach on the plane which were too neat to allow me to sleep through.

On my first night here, I did like the locals and went out at 7:30 for a drink. Unlike the States, pubs here are on every block, are relatively quiet (no pounding JT in the background) and function more as coffee shop than watering hole. In the residential, vastly middle-aged professional area near Euston Square where we were staying, there were plenty of men and women just enjoying a pint with a book by themselves. And at less than four pounds a pint (20 oz. vs. the average 12 oz. beer can), there’s a lot to be excited about.

A good deal later at night, let’s say at 11:30 p.m., I was at another bar talking to a British man in his 40s or 50s. After five minutes of standard conversation (Where are you from? What do you do? What are you studying?), he told a racist joke. I was surprised. I will be the first to admit that I’m not the most politically correct person in the world — there’s just a charm about the dead baby joke that hasn’t worn off — but I certainly won’t make jokes about all black people working at McDonalds. I genuinely do believe it was a joke; the man was certainly no different to little Asian me than the blondes from the South also on my program. He told me that was something I had to get used to, because everyone in England is pretty politically incorrect and nobody takes it personally.

“It’s not personal” actually has some weight here, and not in a bad way like when your friend says that nobody should ever wear yellow while you’re donning a bright new goldenrod coat.

While everything in America focuses on the personal — just think about the service industry with its silly and rather irrational phrases like “the customer is always right” (which is logically impossible) — it often isn’t that way in England. Not that people are rude; people are much more willing to stop and give directions or advice than in American cities like Chicago or New York. It’s just not personal. It’s being nice because that’s what you’re supposed to do, because it’s the nice thing to do and not because you’re supposed to feel special or someone has taken a special interest.

I was standing, not in line, for a bit while trying to get a SIM card for my cell phone. A man and a woman got in line ahead of me before I figured out where the line was, and I hurried in. The woman was already being helped but when the clerks called “next,” the man gestured for me to go ahead, and it wasn’t because he wanted to get in my pants (I tried to say “thanks” after I was through but he wouldn’t give me the time of day) but because it was fair, or something like that. It’s worth noting that cutting in line (or “queue” as they call it here) is highly frowned upon, but I think it is for similar reasons. It wasn’t personal. It was just what you did.

Of course, interpersonal relationships — friendships are often for life in the U.K. which at least for me has been rare in the U.S. — are still important. But just as important, it seems, are the relationships we have with people with whom we don’t have a personal connection.

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I have a lot of shit. This became much less of a problem when I moved out of a 4-bedroom, 5-person apartment and into my own one-bedroom early this summer. I had an entire room to clutter with my clothes and accessories and another to fill with other things I need — a vast collection of stationery, crafting supplies like ribbon and Swarovski crystal, and tea, lots and lots of tea. You know, the bare necessities of life.

Being faced with one big suitcase, a weekender bag and the command that I could only fill that much — getting a suitcase shipped to London and shipped back would be too much a wake-up call that I don’t need to keep t-shirts from my high school orchestra — was heartbreaking. I finally had to make a decision about what stuff was just that, stuff. A few American Apparel dresses got the “Sorry, you’re not nearly as versatile as the mannequins suggest. I can’t actually wear sheer white jersey to class and not accidentally enter wet T-shirt contests.” A few pairs of flats got the “Sorry, the hole in your sole is just too much to ignore. It’ll be wet and cold when I get there.” And the saddest part is that all this spring cleaning came too late for me to be able to sell my stuff to Crossroads.

The guides from my program, Arcadia University, don’t help. Neither does the rest of the Internet. The Internet which can teach me how to hack my neighbor’s WiFi can’t just give me a rundown of how many shirts, skirts, dresses, pants, etc. I need. It’s infuriating.

Their advice: bring jeans. Thanks, I was planning on bringing my large collection of rainbow sweatpants that cuff at the ankle to live in for the next four months. (Note: Nobody should ever wear sweatpants that cuff at the ankle, ever. There’s always a better substitute — for the gym, for going to bed, though not for a celibacy plan. Those sweatpants are a great aid to celibacy.)

Of course that’s an exaggeration. The Arcadia guide has helpful advice like limiting the amount of stuff you bring — you mean I don’t need my blow dryer which I’ve used once in my life? – and the oft-forgotten fact that Europe is a country with stores that sell things, normal things that won’t turn your skin green or make your hair fall out. It also offers interesting cultural tips. Did you know that it’s socially acceptable in Europe to wear the same outfit a few days in a row?

In the end, none of that is good enough. What I really want is someone to go into my closet, fold everything into perfect squares and provide me just enough outfits to look great while fitting into a manageable load. Someone who will notify all my friends that calling my phone in the next four months is dumb — no, I can’t hang out and you just charged me $1.20 for asking that — and really, just take care of all those details that come with traveling, leaving and being somewhere you’ve never been after you’ve carved out your beautiful Evanston nest.

But until the money train rolls in and I can pay someone to take care of that, I will pack, sit, zip, unpack and repeat until Sunday.

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As many Northwestern students know, journalism comes in many shapes and sizes. “Standards” and “relevance” are about as concrete as they were back in the days of Hearst himself! Interestingly enough, it was in those days of “yellow journalism” that the New York Times decided that they were just too cool for anything and everything that wasn’t “fit to print” — a direct reference to the sensationalist contortions of truth common to most reporting.

Nowadays, as many students of media history will tell you, this slogan just makes the Times sound like a bunch of butt holes. Last week, however, the Times challenged that reputation with an article about… butt holes.

Photo originally printed alongisde NY Times article "No Snickerng -- That Road Sign Means Something Else

The article, entitled “No Snickering — That Road Sign Means Something Else,” reveals the hardships of living in one of Great Britain’s many hilariously-named villages, roads and townships. Author Sarah Lyall explains:

Mr. Bailey, who grew up on Tumbledown Dick Road in Oxfordshire, and Mr. Hurst got the idea for the books when they read about a couple who bought a house on Butt Hole Road, in South Yorkshire.

The name most likely has to do with the spot’s historic function as a source of water, a water butt being a container for collecting water. But it proved to be prohibitively hilarious.

“If they ordered a pizza, the pizza company wouldn’t deliver it, because they thought it was a made-up name,” Mr. Hurst said. “People would stand in front of the sign, pull down their trousers and take pictures of each other’s naked buttocks.”

The couple moved away.

Yes, what she said indeed. Lyall goes on to document the people of Penistone, Crapstone and Spanker Lane, to name a few. If I were still in eighth grade, chances are this article would be printed, highlighted and taped on my wall.

But be careful not to enjoy it too much! The Times reminds you not to snicker and to enjoy the article responsibly. While one can’t help but be surprised to see this in the Times, it seems a safe bet to say that the paper’s target audience would at least get a chuckle out of the article. After all, even the staff of the New York Times can let down their gates and have a little fun, once in a while.

Full article is available here.

This decade hasn’t been kind to English rock. While the scene in America has grown into a diverse collection of bands pushing music in new directions from coast to coast, the British basically have settled for slapping the “next big band” tag on whatever rock outfit that sorta sounds like The Libertines, and calling it a day. As a result, the country finds itself in a sort of musical rut where bands come and go in the span of a single. British bands used to be great exports, with Americans clamoring to get their paws on the latest Smiths or Blur CD. But now, with the exception of Radiohead and Amy Winehouse, the only people who go beserk for new British rock bands are the British; while the English debated Arctic Monkey’s place in musical history, us Yanks just tried to figure out what was so great about them.

British rock may need to get itself together, but that doesn’t mean the latest NME darling should just be ignored. Enter Cajun Dance Party, the next band stepping into the flickering spotlight once occupied by The Kooks and Maximo Park. This London five-piece grabbed attention with their debut single “The Next Untouchable,” and now present their debut LP The Colourful Life. They certainly don’t signal any sea change in British rock but, like the bands before them, Cajun Dance Party does offer plenty of enjoyable songs with great hooks and choruses. Just don’t expect anything new.

Sonically, the group sounds like a slightly-more-dancey version of every band post-Arctic Monkeys (that is to say, catchy Britpop-evoking sounds combined with Libertines-esque vocals and shifts). Separating the best cuts from the weaker ones is surprisingly simple: The best tracks are the fast ones with singable choruses, while the rubbish songs are the slow ones that remove all the elements that make Cajun Dance Party enjoyable. Lets focus on the positive. The title track and “The Firework” skip along to sunny guitars and laid-back choruses that work great as AIM away messages. “The Next Untouchable” whirls all over the place, jumping from segment-to-segment all while staying consistently catchy. The group indulges in some American indie hallmarks on “Amylase,” including a sing-along worthy conclusion (”You are the catalyst that makes things faster/Amylase will dry out the plaster”) that become a whole lot pretentious when you hit up Wiki. The album’s best moment comes with “The Race,” a song combining surf rock aping verses with a classic Britpop chorus (”The sun will rise, even if you don’t happen to be there”) and an equally memorable outro. One of the catchiest songs of the year on any continent.

Britain still needs to find their musical innovators akin to Animal Collective or No Age, but until then, stuff like Cajun Dance Party serve as enjoyable and fun filler. Just because they don’t change anything in the English sonic landscape doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy them. Listen to them now before the next Futureheads album drops next week.

Bonus video for “The Race.”

I was on the Jubilee line with a few friends on our way for a night out to the theater. We were sitting quietly when my friend picked up a copy of the Daily Star, one of Britain’s many tabloids, and started flipping absent-mindedly through the pages. A moment later, I heard her yelp:

“Oh my God! Christina, you need to see this.”

“What?” I asked.

How subtle. Photo by gruntzooki, licensed under the Creative Commons.

“Just look,” she said. She handed me the copy with the page marked off. I opened it nonchalantly, expecting to see some lurid headline about a drugged-out pop star or anorexic supermodel. Instead, my eyes fell upon a busty blonde. Or, shall I say, a busty, topless blonde.

Incidents like those are a good descriptor of British media and sum up their character: the media here is brash, bold and brazen. It’s unafraid and unapologetic. And they always, always leave you wondering, sometimes out loud: How can they legally print this? What about the children?!

The majority of newspapers here are of the infamous tabloids of the ink-rubs-off-on-your-fingers, screaming-in-your-face-headlines variety. They are so ubiquitous that even to this journalism student, they all start to blend together after a while. The Daily Express could be the Daily Star which could be the Daily Mail (although I haven’t seen a pair of DD’s in the Daily Mail the few times I’ve read it).

The only broadsheet I’ve come across so far is the Guardian and I try to stick to that whenever possible. It’s partly because it’s the closest thing I’ve found to The New York Times and partly because I love that it devotes an entire section to media coverage on Mondays.

Most of the time, I don’t feel like paying 40 pence for The Guardian, so I pick up a free copy of thelondonpaper, the Metro or London Lite — all of which are handed out (or, better yet, shoved in your face) outside nearly every Tube station. They all remind me of a lengthier, more gossipy and fun amNY, the paper that I typically get outside Penn Station. They are colorful, funny and know what the 18-24 demographic wants to read. My only complaint is that, not surprisingly, they are light and not so in-depth on news that is deemed “important” by their more traditional, Fourth Estate counterparts. I prefer thelondonpaper for no particular reason and read it on the Tube with the hopes of passing myself off as a real, commuting Londoner.

This all took a little getting used to, despite the fact I’ve worked full-time for one of the brashest, most unapologetic American tabloids out there and have taken part in that culture and genuinely loved just about every minute of it. Even the boldness of The New York Post that I love so much pales in comparison to even the tamest of the tabs here. To be honest, I’m glad.

As for television, simply put, if you want to own one you must fork over 135.50 pounds annually (more than $270 for those of you who aren’t checking the ever-worsening exchange rate). This is just to get your basic, public-service broadcasting channels like the BBC (whose source of revenue is a licensing fee). From my understanding, this is done so that BBC can make their money without running loads of advertisements.

Considering American access to the network channels at home, this concept seems like a rip-off. More significantly, though, is that it is limiting an entire segment of the population — namely, the poor — from free and unrestricted access to the press. The truly destitute aren’t going to spend that money on television when they are struggling to put food on the kitchen table for their children, but that’s just the bleeding-heart liberal in me.

I have, admittedly, less knowledge about British television, but there is a reason. I rarely watch the “telly” here. I don’t have one in my room. Why, do you ask? Well, it didn’t fit in my suitcase, silly. I didn’t want to buy one that I would use for only three months. Of course, there’s the nudity factor I’d like to avoid — topless women and men’s tushes abound on some Channel 4 dating show I stumbled upon last week. Coming from the States where the FCC would be all over this, I’m still trying to figure out what this is all about.

Medill junior Christina Amoroso is currently studying abroad in London. Read about her day-to-day experiences in her New York Post blog.

Gone are the days when America hated England for overtaxing the colonies and England hated America for hating England. No, now we all get along and trade, form international organizations together and split custody of Hugh Laurie. We’ve even set up some sort of bizarre exchange program where we get David Beckham for some Prince concerts.

But perhaps the biggest sign of the trans-Atlantic love is Tony Blair and his unlikely friendship with George W. Bush. The two leaders have become good buddies and close allies. But Blair recently announced that he will be stepping down in late June, a move that has repercussions in the United States.

Blair came to power as the head of the New Labour (Labor in America) Party and quickly got the public behind him. He billed himself as a cool guy, a young alternative to the stodgy old politicians that roamed Parliament’s halls. He prioritized education, but also proposed fresh economic policies. The British elected him in a landslide in 1997.

His “cool guy” image continued when he took office. Anyone who saw The Queen will remember that he totally talked about Queen Elizabeth behind her back and mocked her formalities. The women who were elected to Parliament along with him were cheekily referred to as “Blair’s Babes,” a less-cool version of Grady’s Ladies. And Blair even took time out of office to lend his voice to an episode of The Simpsons.

Still, his huge popularity (it almost reached 70 percent at times) was mostly due to his strong policies. He introduced and upped the minimum wage and helped London’s economy boom. He revealed himself a strong leader and unifier of the people (see: that whole “people’s princess” thing after Princess Diana died).

He also made close friends with Presidents Clinton and Bush. Britain and the U.S. became close allies, especially in the foreign policy realm. Blair has particularly latched onto America following September 11, when he delivered yet another stirring speech and got the people behind him. He and Bush became the best of friends, despite the fact that their political affiliations (Blair aligns himself with the Left) and speaking styles (Blair is able to speak in public without embarrassing himself) could hardly be more different. The two made such good companions that reporters would even say Blair could explain Bush’s plans better than Bush could.

With the public rallying behind him and Bush at his side, Blair was able to join the U.S. in the Iraq war, becoming America’s biggest ally in the war. However, Blair, like Bush, hasn’t managed the war particularly well and refuses to match the public cries and withdraw all British troops, although he did draft a plan to withdraw a third of them. Under Blair, the British have continued sending troops, including a squadron with Prince Harry.

The war is about as popular in Britain as it is here, and Blair has suffered for it. His once-high approval ratings have dipped to 23 percent. Pundits both in and out of Britain are saying he is Bush’s poodle. Nelson Mandela even called him the “U.S. foreign minister,” and when Nelson Mandela is making fun of you, you know it’s bad.

And so it is with this criticism that Blair is stepping down. The likely successor to the post is Finance Minister Gordon Brown, Blair’s political ally. The new prime minister will probably bring a new attitude toward the U.S. Brown has already stated the likelihood that he will have a cooler relationship with Bush and has publicly acknowledged that mistakes had been made in Iraq. It’s probable that Brown will withdraw British forces from Iraq altogether to bring the public support back to the Labour Party.

That spells trouble for the U.S. We’re already undermanned and overworked in Iraq, so without the British there to help, it’s a lost cause. The cries for troop withdrawal will only grow stronger and Bush may have no choice but to concede to them soon. In losing Blair, the U.S. also loses a strong ally and friend in a world that has become increasingly hostile to us. Without Blair, the U.S. will have a tougher time abroad, which can only mean more turmoil at home.