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Garden of Eden – by TOONI ALABI

Tooni Alabi is a third-year English Literature student who has enjoyed her degree in the way it’s helped her explore different periods and a range of writings, thus shaping and re-shaping her perspective. Tooni is an avid reader of different genres and hopes to be an author one day. Her passion for reading has translated into a love for creative writing, and she desires to help others escape through her writing and bring them closer to God. 

Garden of Eden

Tonight, there was a shift in the heavens. The spirit of God felt the pangs of contemplation and sorrow growing wilder, causing the incense of nostalgia to rise and cloud the atmosphere. The memory becomes more potent, its voice amplifying, conjuring the essence of the Garden. The memory plied him with the fragrance of soil and flowers. It heightened the sound of the soft grass blowing in the cooling breeze. Then it brought him to his knees with the picture of his cherished creations living harmoniously in paradise. The call of the spirit moves the moon and the stars, causing them to discard their night watch, instantly becoming rigid sentinels at the creator’s service. They turn and are moved to compassion as they glimpse the first tears of God’s grief on display. Tonight, heaven’s sonorous worship is silenced. The spirit feels the beginnings of calm and allows nostalgia to appeal to the King.

Nostalgia knew what Eden meant to the creator, hence the intensity of the images it brought to the forefront of God’s mind. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought about Eden and visited it since the fall. Heavenly beings could never forget anything because that is how they’re wired, but wasn’t this an opportune time to revisit it? Eden needed to be evoked because the lost paradise would soon be restored, and not everyone would be a partaker of the gift. Things were rapidly changing on Earth, as the birthing pains grew stronger daily, signalling the glorious second coming. Darkness these days was ever present, a phantasmic monster that covered humanity, but there were people and places the darkness could not overcome the light, the light shining brighter and brighter. Nostalgia knew that these final days would be a violent war as heaven and hell jostled for souls. Nostalgia knew her manifesto rang loud and clear; there needed to be a renewal of strength for the final push to get as many people back to Eden. The past was just as important as the future, but she couldn’t decipher what God would do. Was he going to visit Eden? She only intended… well, to start something, but had she gone too far? Then he arose from his throne, and she bowed before him. As quickly as he had arisen, he was gone.

As I approach the gate of Eden, sadness and joy stir within me. The sadness reminds me of the fall of creation who were never meant to leave, yet I had to banish them for breaking the cardinal rule not to eat from the tree. When humans hear the story of the Garden, they believe I was cruel, ruthless and every other word under the sun because Satan was liberating them, whereas I chose to hide them in darkness. They think I hid them in the darkness because of my jealousy. I wasn’t truly a loving father otherwise, I wouldn’t have withheld the gift of knowledge of good and evil and clearly, I desired their lowly state. Yet in time, they would have had access to the tree, because the knowledge of good and evil was important for them, but it would have destroyed them without my guidance. However, that fairy tale was stolen because they allowed Satan to poison them, and they selfishly used their free will to acquire that knowledge. Do you think their disobedience was worth the detrimental consequences? Their actions unknowingly unleashed sickness, death, evil and more, causing the world’s deformity and giving Satan access to the world.

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Theatre Review: Richard II: dir. Nicholas Hynter, The Bridge Theatre.

Izzi is a Master’s student on the Shakespeare Studies MA at King’s and the Globe Theatre, having completed her undergraduate degree in Classics and English at the University of Oxford. As her MA suggests, she loves all things Shakespeare and early modern drama, and she regularly watches and reviews modern productions of Shakespeare plays. Although you wouldn’t know it from how much she loved Much Ado, Izzi’s research focuses on bodily violence on the early modern stage.

Richard II has never been a favourite of mine: I’m not a huge fan of the history plays in general as I can never keep track of all the historical Henrys and Richards constantly overthrowing each other. However, front row tickets to see Jonathan Bailey perform was too good an offer to refuse. Having thoroughly enjoyed his performances as self-involved and unlikeable figures in W1A and Crashing, I hoped that he would offer a compelling interpretation of Shakespeare’s flighty and narcissistic Richard, and he did not disappoint. Director Nicholas Hytner opted for modern dress and a largely modern setting for his production, creating a hyper-masculine boardroom aesthetic for the majority of the play: one scene where the King and his cronies sip whiskey and snort cocaine before Richard rashly decides to invade Ireland perfectly portrayed his suggestibility and performativity in a world of corporate sleazes. The staging of some scenes confused this timeframe a little, though, such as the use of an enormous artillery gun and an incongruous 80s-style kitchen. I personally found the scenes in this flashy corporate world to be much more effective than the clichéd greens and browns of the military scenes: I found myself wondering whether fully committing to the cutthroat corporate narrative might have been more cohesive and a fresher interpretation of the play.

Having never been to the Bridge Theatre before, I was a little nervous when I saw the small thrust stage devoid of scenery. However, it soon became clear I had no reason to worry. Designer Bob Crowley’s set was fantastic: with every change of scene a single element rose up on one of the stage’s many platforms, such as a hospital bed for John of Gaunt’s final moments, a cosy kitchen set-up for the revelation of Aumerle’s treason, and a lectern for the gripping courtroom/deposition scene. This lent coherence to a play that can sometimes come across as dense or muddled in its many changes of location.

Jonathan Bailey’s performance as Richard was show-stopping. He perfectly captured the King’s capriciousness and emotional volatility with an intensity that was exaggerated but never too much. This created a wonderful contrast between him and Royce Pierreson’s measured and stoic Bolingbroke, who had some truly standout moments during the deposition scene. Other notable performances included Michael Simkins’ Duke of York, whose attempt at loyalty to the divine King eventually cedes to world-weary acceptance of his nephew’s usurpation, and Christopher Osikanlu Colquhoun’s Earl of Northumberland, whose self-assured support of Bolinbroke enhanced the corporate backstabbing aesthetic of the play. Vinnie Heaven was also compelling as Aumerle, Richard’s swaggering and smirking accomplice whose character seemed remarkably out of place in the battlefield scenes, much like the King himself. Perhaps unsurprisingly given the boys-club setting, the Queen’s role was significantly reduced, including the cutting of the famous Garden Scene. It was difficult to tell whether Olivia Popica’s Queen was intended to be somewhat substanceless or whether she was simply underperforming, but her scenes felt a little stilted. Badria Timimi’s Bishop of Carlisle also felt underwhelming: one of the most beautifully written speeches in the play was delivered with little to no emotion, which was a real disappointment. A surprisingly impactful scene, though, was the revelation of Aumerle’s planned treason against Bolinbroke: Simkins, Heaven and Amanda Root (Green and the Duchess of York) were powerfully compelling in their portrayal of the fractured family dynamic.

Overall, Hytner’s Richard II is definitely worth a watch: it’s well-performed, clever, and witty, with beautiful stagecraft and lighting design. Jonathan Bailey truly shines as the mercurial King.

By Izzi Strevens.

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Theatre Review: Macbeth: dir. Max Webster, Harold Pinter Theatre

Izzi is a Master’s student on the Shakespeare Studies MA at King’s and the Globe Theatre, having completed her undergraduate degree in Classics and English at the University of Oxford. As her MA suggests, she loves all things Shakespeare and early modern drama, and she regularly watches and reviews modern productions of Shakespeare plays. Although you wouldn’t know it from how much she loved Much Ado, Izzi’s research focuses on bodily violence on the early modern stage.

Izzi has written the below review for the most recent production of Macbeth (2022/3): dir. Max Webster, Harold Pinter Theatre; also filmed (film dir. Tim Van Someren) for streaming in cinemas.

Verdict: 4 Stars

This production began its life in the Donmar Warehouse before transferring to the Harold Pinter Theatre for a very limited run. Since I couldn’t quite bring myself to part with one of my kidneys to fund a ticket for a live performance I watched the streamed version from the comfort of the Odeon Cinema. Audiences at the live performances experienced Gareth Fry’s intricate sound design through binaural headsets, lending the production a certain intense intimacy; the surround sound of the cinema setting allowed for a similar intensity (or so I’m telling myself!) by having voices and noises emanate from all around the room, creating an unsettling atmosphere and mirroring that of the Macbeths’ Scottish castle.

This focus on sound-scaping perhaps informed director Max Webster’s choice to have the Weird Sisters present in voice only, conspiratorially whispering their potion recipes and bewitching prophecies. Eleanor Rhode made a similar decision in her recent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the RSC, relegating Titania’s fairies to twinkly lights and twee disembodied voices: I found the fairies’ absence to be a real drawback in that play, but for the darkly psychological tone of Webster’s production it worked perfectly, making the relationship between Macbeth and the Weird Sisters almost schizophrenic.

David Tennant’s performance as Macbeth is a thing of beauty. A seasoned actor of Shakespeare’s troubled heroes with an impressive CV including performances of Richard II and Hamlet, his Macbeth resists the temptation to be too mad too early, instead retaining a threatening superciliousness throughout the play. His charisma with Cush Jumbo’s cold and calculated Lady Macbeth is palpable, particularly when they discuss their murderous plans in hushed tones as the ill-fated Duncan dines mere metres away from them.

Two tiny factors prevent this production from a five-star review. Firstly, while Jatinder Singh Randhawa delivers a good performance of the Porter’s speech in its own right, his comic audience participation with the house lights up felt like too large a disruption to the production’s otherwise tightly controlled and oppressive atmosphere. Secondly, Cush Jumbo’s Lady Macbeth wears bright white in stark contrast to the blacks and browns worn by all other characters; however, when Jumbo doubles as a minor role, no change is made to her distinctive costume, creating some confusion among the audience (as I gleaned from overhearing post-show chatter) as to why Lady Macbeth was acting so differently in one scene. A simple dark cloak would have allowed Lady Macbeth’s white outfit to retain its significance.

Overall, though, Max Webster’s Macbeth is incisive and powerful, with a particularly captivating performance from Tennant. The stripped-back and sleek monochrome visuals contrasted with the complex and intricate sound design make for a poignant and chilling watch.

By Izzi Strevens

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Life writing, Creative writing and Performance

Leaving Home: An Undergraduate Experience

Lily is an undergraduate student in English at King’s. She is particularly interested in prose literature that explores new beginnings. Through this work, she hopes to capture the universal experience of leaving home and the uncertainty that this can bring. 

When I first moved to London, I got a haircut. One of those ones with a name. That way, I would be the person with the ‘this-named-haircut’. I liked my hair because I looked familiar, like an image I’d seen before, reminded in the moment of the exact place and the exact time. Before, I looked too much like myself. This time, I could walk down the street and know, even for a short while, exactly who I was.

As the nights get longer and the mornings get shorter, I feel less of the day is my own. Today, I will leave behind the comforting monotony of my desk to get a coffee. I’ll go to one of those coffee chains with the bright lights and the over-enthusiastic staff. They will act like they haven’t just worked a six hour shift that mostly consisted of cleaning up other people’s used mugs. Somewhere I am familiar with, for fear of getting it wrong. Sometimes I think that everyone received a book on how to live their lives when they were younger and that mine got lost in the post. Sometimes I wish I could be old, 80 or something, and to have lived my life. To look back with regret at a life misspent but to know I don’t have to go through the agony of living it again. It’s raining and I don’t have a raincoat with me here. Isn’t it strange how the rain falls more slowly in the streetlight? Like it doesn’t wish to fall any further. It’s done it once and now it must do it again and again, for the rest of time.

I grew up in a place where there are no streetlights. There just aren’t enough people to justify the expense. I would like to know if there is a definitive number of people to justify the construction of a streetlight in an area. Sometimes I like to imagine there’s a man in a suit somewhere counting the residents of a town miles away from the comforting heat of his city office – comparing it to the calculated cost of installing a streetlight. He’ll use a physical calculator that he keeps in the top drawer of his desk and he’ll write the sums out on a little notepad that’s seen better days before typing the sums into a computer. Later, he will submit his findings to be reviewed by someone who has been there longer than he has. His spreadsheet will conclude that 199 is too few people to justify the expense but that 200 is just right, like some inhuman corporate game of Goldilocks. When I was at home, I would go out and hate the thought of seeing someone I knew. When I go out now, I know I never will. There will be nobody within the whole five minute journey that I will recognise. There will be nobody, in fact, that I will ever see again. They will go on living their lives just as I will go on living mine, and they won’t remember the brief window in which our lives crossed. Perhaps they will cross again some five years later – in a different place, a different time. Neither of us will notice or remember our first encounter.

I think that that’s the most important thing – not where I go, what will happen or even what I do – it’s what I remember. What I notice. What to do with a lifetime? What do I choose to take note of, to carry with me for the rest of my life? If it’s not this face, it will be this one. If it’s not this book, it will be that one. If it’s not this memory, then, perhaps, that one.

Sometimes I think that I miss the memories of home more than the place itself. I miss the long summer mornings at liberal churches in the country when I was a child. I miss the days that felt like they would last a lifetime and, in a way, they always will. They will be the place I am constantly returning to, as if I never left. At home, people always say see you later, never goodbye. I miss waking up in a town where the buses never come and the sun stretches on like the yawn of a cat in the mid-morning sun. I miss the space underneath my bed that’s full to the brim with all of the stuff I’ve collected over the years, boxes bursting out, full of old memories and opportunities to create new ones. In my new room there is so much empty space. The opportunity to fill a space, to create a life from nothing.

When people back home ask how London is, I will always mention how it’s so busy and there are so many people. What I really want to say is that I hate how you feel like you’re never alone. I hate how there are hundreds of little supermarkets with nothing in them. I hate how I have to walk ten minutes in the rain to get a bus that will take me to not quite where I want to be. Most of all, I hate how when I look to the sky at night, I see absolutely nothing. Now my hair has grown out, I look in the mirror and I’m faced with the person I least wished to see.

By Lily

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The Power of a Narrative: The Menendez Brothers

Gurleen is a first year English student at Kings College London. Alongside academic work, she is passionate about the arts, including painting, playing the piano, reading, and video editing. She also enjoys playwriting and as of 2023, was listed as a nationally ranked playwright for the National Theatre. She is also dedicated to animal welfare and has recently rescued and adopted a stray kitten. Due to her interest in the legal system and criminal justice, she is also considering pursuing a career in law following her English degree.

The Power of a Narrative: The Menendez Brothers

True crime is a billion-dollar industry, from TV shows, podcasts and books. The darkest and most horrifying stories seem to compel and captivate public consciousness, from following along the narrative like a real-life mystery, to understanding why someone chose to commit the crimes they did. However, over the decades, as well as an increased interest in true crime, there has also simultaneously been an increase in the change of public perception of what constitutes as justice, consequently unravelling important social issues and resulting in social movements.

One of the most recent and largest calls from criminal justice which some of you may be familiar with, is that of The Menendez Brothers. Lyle and Erik Menendez are two brothers who, on the night of August 20th 1989, shot their parents, Jose and Kitty Menendez, to death in their Beverley Hills house and have been incarcerated since 1990. However, in recent years, there has been a growing social movement to free the brothers. Although their case is a well-known American true crime story, its impact has reached far beyond the United States, where increasingly growing numbers of people across the globe are learning about their story in an effort to recognise the truth. This blog post explores how Lyle and Erik’s story and case has been misrepresented in certain aspects of the media and the inconsistencies presented within the criminal justice system.

Back to the 90s

At the time of the murders, Joseph Lyle Menendez and Erik Galen Menendez were 21 and 18 respectively. They maintained the story that the murders were a mob hit, possibly by the mafia until their eventual arrest in March 1990. The media spun the narrative that both Lyle and Erik were ‘spoiled greedy rich kids’ until their trial in 1993 which uncovered a far different version of the truth than what was currently being portrayed. Both brothers proclaimed that they had suffered physical, emotional and psychological abuse at the hands of their parents for the entirety of their lives, as well as sexual abuse, Lyle from the ages of six to eight, and Erik, from the ages of six to a few weeks before the killings. The brothers were very reluctant to give up this information due to their embarrassment and to not wanting to tarnish their family name, as well as the stigma surrounding sexual abuse, both brothers feeling their story would not be believed.

On the days leading up to the murder and in the moments before, ominous threats and extreme tension lead to the brothers believing they were going to be killed by the parents, resulting in them acting first and killing them in self-defence.

In the first trial however, the prosecution instead claimed the boys killed to inherit their parents’ $14 million fortune. The trial ended in a hung jury where the jurors were unable to unanimously agree on a decision, which subsequently resulted in a much more restricted and bias second trial, where a limited amount of the vast evidence of sexual abuse the boys suffered, was allowed to be admitted, resulting in Lyle and Erik being convicted of first-degree murder in 1996, and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. Since then, Lyle and Erik have continued to state that they killed in self-defence and have been described as ‘model prisoners’, working to rehabilitate themselves, as well as being an asset to the prison community they live in.