Álex de la Iglesia, initially championed by Pedro Almodóvar, and at one time the enfant terrible of Spanish film, still makes film critics nervous. The director of some of the most important films of the Post-Franco era – Acción mutante, El día de la bestia, Muertos de risa – de la Iglesia receives here a full-length study of his work. Breaking away from the pious tradition of acclaiming art-house auteurs, the book tackles a new sort of beast: the popular auteur, who brings the provocation of the avant-garde to popular genres such as horror and comedy. It brings together Anglo-American film theory, an exploration of the legal and economic history of Spanish audio-visual culture, and a comprehensive knowledge of Spanish cultural forms and traditions (esperpento, sainete costumbrista) with a detailed textual analysis of all of de la Iglesia's seven feature films.
This book examines the ways in which women were able to deploy ambiguous concepts such as the 'career woman' and the 'bachelor girl' to simultaneously indicate and mask a lesbian identity. Contemporary anxieties about female same-sex desire which attached to these figures offered the opportunity to deploy them as an indication of potential sexual deviance. But their very ambiguity simultaneously afforded a protection from censure which more explicit terms such as 'lesbian' did not. These cultural connections between 'deviant' and 'normative' models of sexual identity have become the focus of considerable attention by queer theorists and historians in recent years. Queer historians have sought to analyse the institutional practices and discourses which produce sexual knowledge, and the ways in which these organise social life. They have concentrated their research on the binary opposition of homosexuality and heterosexuality as the dominant epistemological framework of knowledge about sexuality. The book seeks to explore the connections between space and cultural practices in lesbian history and is therefore concerned with the material world of post-war Britain. Identities such as 'tomboy' were invested with specific meanings in particular spatial contexts. As a child in rural Essex in the early 1950s, Nina Jenkins could use the term 'tomboy' to explain and excuse her desire to climb trees and be part of a boys' street gang.
the expense of considerations of materiality. Identities are invested with
meaning and deployed in the material world and recent scholarship has
therefore drawn attention to the impact of space and the material environment on the construction and performance of cultural practices. In the
field of the history of sexuality, gay male subcultures have thus emerged
as the focus of considerable scholarly attention. Building on earlier histories, which linked the emergence of a male homosexual subculture with
the development of commercial leisure venues in a capitalist
that this was ‘nothing to do with punk’; that the
documentary bore no resemblance to their experience of either band or
It struck me at the time how important it seemed for both of these
journalists to remain in the position of gatekeepers to the public notion
of ‘authentic’ punk. I was also struck by the arrogance of this outburst,
that they believed theirs were the definitive memories of what punk was,
memories that they believed held more importance than those of the other
hangers-on and media friends. More importantly, however, I recall thinking
of the punk subculture in Northern Ireland is usually
traced to the visit of The Clash to Belfast in 1977.10 Notwithstanding the
actuality of this event as a point of origin, it’s clear that the visit had a
measurable impact on the local music-making scene, serving – in the
words of one contemporary observer – as a ‘catalyst’ that ‘ignited the
whole punk movement in Ulster’.11
The presence of The Clash in the city precipitated a raft of Northern
Irish punk acts whilst consolidating the efforts of others. A range of
socio-political factors have been cited to explain
Kerouac became disenchanted with the mass counterculture which the minority subculture of the Beats had inspired, Ginsberg
actually became a countercultural figurehead. Dylan, though he had
not known Kerouac personally, had been impressed by his writing.
Certainly, he was anxious to film this pilgrimage to the grave, for inclusion in his ambitious cinematic work, Renaldo and Clara (1977).
Ginsberg later reflected on the occasion, evoking its mood in his
own idiosyncratic syntax:
His [Kerouac’s] influence is world wide, not only in spirit, with
beat planetary youth
Conclusion: Diplomacy transformed?
In 1830, British diplomacy was still an occupational sub-culture of
genteel public service rather than anything resembling a professional
bureaucracy. Like other branches of the European foreign service, it
would remain the preserve of the landed and wealthy throughout the
nineteenth century.1 Having said this, the British corps had changed in
its mentalities over the second half of the eighteenth century in response
to new domestic expectations of public service and private identity.
What it meant to be British was thereby
The more things change,
the more (some) things
remain the same
y the mid-1980s Smith’s typology of pubs was already being modified, with
those upholding the traditional culture of drinking steadily contracting as
manufacturing jobs disappeared, service industries replaced them and more
women joined the labour market, often in part-time, low-paid jobs. Violence
still marked the subculture of rough working-class pubs, but bouncers now
acted as a deterrent, forcing aggression out of doors into the streets. Youths
with pride, as in Newcastle, perpetuated the
sensationalised narrative of sex, crime and violence which draws
uncritically on all the representational clichés of the banlieue and
suggests that the endemic violence of its male youth subculture can only be
addressed through further violence, including that of the grrrls.
This chapter was first published as ‘Grrrls in the
Banlieue: Philippe Faucon’s Samia and Fabrice
This is the first book about women’s advance into the man’s world of pub, club and beerhouse that examines drinking habits covering a century and more. Currently, historians view enduring changes in women’s drinking habits as a product of the last half of the twentieth century. Our present understanding of women’s drinking in the first half of the century is based on uncertain assumptions and limited statistical evidence. Scholars have ignored critical differences between pubs and beerhouses which shaped drinking habits. In estimating the proportion of women frequenting interwar licensed premises, scholars rely heavily on statistics from York, Bolton and London without scrutinizing their validity. Overlooking the lounge, a gender-neutral room introduced into interwar improved pubs, likewise creates misunderstanding. Women first began entering drink premises during World War I, and Progressive brewers protected and enlarged their numbers building or rebuilding reformed pubs with wider amenities, interiors without partitions and the lounge as a separate room. New drinking norms reinforced the image of middle-class restraint and respectability. Wine bars targeting professional women appeared from the mid-1970s, but women remained uninterested in drinking beer or frequenting pubs save for the decade from the mid-1980s to mid-1990s. Domestic drinking, already popular, soared from 1990 and reached nearly half of total sales. Women’s public drinking habits were revolutionized in the last quarter of the twentieth century. Female-friendly chains, style bars, clubs and wine bars gave women greater choices than traditional masculine boozers, which steadily contracted in numbers. Wine selections widened, notably from the New World, food became common and gay bars multiplied.